Formula one sickfics/oneshots

Charles - weight of the world

People: Charles, Carlos

Ages: Charles (24), Carlos (27)

TW: descriptions of panic attacks/anxiety

- POV Charles -

"Fucking hell Charles. Get it together", I cursed at myself. I had accidentally run into the back of Carlos' car. "Box Charles, box", Xavier told me and my heart sank. "I'm so sorry guys. So sorry. Is Carlos okay?", I asked, hoping I hadn't ruined my teammates race. "Carlos had a puncture, but he can continue the race". I drove into the pit-lane, Carlos' bright red car just leaving, a fresh set of full-wet tires on.

I noticed the pit-crew waiting for me, the same tire compound they had just put on Carlos' car ready to replace my worn-out ones. Both rear tires went on smoothly, as did the front left tire, but the engineers operating at the right front side of my car shook their heads, signaling for the rest of the crew that I was going to need to retire. I hit the steering wheel in exasperation and mumbled a dozen French and Italian swear words under my breath. "Charles, we will retire the car, we will retire the car". "For fucks sake, I cannot believe myself. *Mi dispiace molto per questo".

I pulled myself up on the halo and walked past all the engineers, guilt settling itself into the pit of my stomach. All these people and all of the people at the factory have been working so hard for me to have a good race and here I am, throwing away an opportunity in mere seconds, damaging the car of my teammate, who now was the only one responsible for bringing in at least some points for our team. I couldn't believe I had fucked up like- "Charles", an all too familiar voice interrupted the train of thoughts. "I'm so sorry Mattia, I couldn't see him because of the rain", I apologized, trying to explain my mistake, knowing it wasn't a valid excuse. "We can't afford this, Charles", he continued, towering above me. I reluctantly looked up and met with the disappointed eyes of my team-boss. "All the work everyone had put in leading up to this race and you just throw everything away like that. You need to step up. Massively".

Mattia gave me one last disapproving look before walking back towards the pit-wall, taking a seat on his assigned chair, the camera's showing him sighing deeply and running a hand over his face, shaking his head ever so slightly before returning back to work. I gulped, trying to get rid of the lump in my throat. I had disappointed him so much and he was right. After everything that had already happened this season, we really couldn't afford this.

I slipped into my drivers room, where Andrea handed me a bottle of water and a towel, patting me on the back consolingly. "This is not your fault Charles, please know that. The race should never even have started in these conditions. Especially on a track like Suzuka", he reasoned, but I knew he was just doing it because he felt sorry for me. "It was my fault and I ruined Carlos' race as well. I'm a terrible person", I sighed, but against my expectations, talking about my feelings didn't feel like the relief everyone always claimed it would. It only made me feel worse, my heart rate picking up slightly as I escaped the tight walls of my drivers room, reluctantly making my way towards the dreaded media pen way earlier than expected.

"Charles, an early end to this race for you. What exactly happened?", a middle aged female interview asked. "Yeah, erm, well, visibility was very poor and, uh, I couldn't see my teammates car was that close and I just kind of, drove into the back of him". "We saw you talking with Mattia after the crash. What did he say?". "Basically, he just said I needed to step up", I played it down, the conversation still running in my head like a song on replay. "Well, let's hope for a better result in the upcoming races". "Yeah, let's hope so". I felt a slight tap on my shoulder and I trodded over to the next interviewer, preparing myself for yet another set of humiliating questions.

After 20 minutes, I realized I was almost done. I had just one interview to go. A man with dirty blonde hair, seemingly in his thirties, greeted me, asking the usual questions in regards to the crash and the further trajectory of the team. "And Charles, lastly. How does it feel letting the team down once again? You've done that a lot this season, haven't you?". I could feel an odd feeling in my chest. I expected it to be anger, frustration or something like that, because this wasn't just any question, this was an insult. But this feeling felt different. It was a pressure. It felt as if a heavy weight lay on my chest, making it feel extremely tight.