Charles's fingers curl around the steering wheel, tightening his grip on it. His body is boiling under the immense heat of the car. He can see the red bull in front of him, the last car he needs to overtake to lead.
It's the last lap of the Monaco Grand Prix.
It's his chance to lead the championship.
The weekend had gone pretty trash for them, placing P5 in qualifying with Carlos behind him in P6.
His foot presses harder on the throttle, this corner is his only hope at overtaking Max. His entire body radiates as he steers towards the inside of the apex, but the red bull flicks towards him. He's going too fast to be able to slow down, he has to steer clear. He jogs his steering wheel to the left, attempting to match the level of the Red Bull. He succeeds in doing so as he steers towards the inside, trying to overtake again. The Red Bull next to him steers to the left, making contact with his tires. Its dark blue livery speeds further down the straight.
He hears something pop.
No, no, no.
He was doing so well.
He can feel the punctured tire beneath him.
"Bring the car in Leclerc," says the man into his radio, hints of disappointment leaking through.
He does as told, steering his car into the pit stop. Which just to his luck, was a bit far.
By the time he got out, 5 cars had already gotten through.
Shitty pit stop, it's too late to be able to overtake them all now.
The chequered flag waves in front, Max had won yet another Grand Prix.
He ended up coming 7th, Carlos coming fourth.
Fuck.
He goes to park his car in the parc ferme. His hands keep a firm grip on the steering wheel, his way to disperse his anger.
He swallows the lump in his throat, finally relaxing his grip on the wheel. He gets out before taking off his helmet, going to his driver's room. Not bothering to talk to anyone. He felt the anger radiating throughout his entire body, muscles still tense.
Everybody knew not to disturb Charles in this mood.
Except Carlos, apparently.
He closes the door behind him with a slam, going over to sit at the massage table. He could still hear the muffled voices of talking outside, not really able to focus on anything. His disappointment too overshadowing.
His head is tilted upwards, sweat trickling down his face. He runs a couple of fingers through his hair, trying to alleviate his stress.
He hears a knock in the door.
Brought back to the present, he raises a brow at who could be knocking, now.
"Come in," he says, a tone of curiosity lingering.
The door creaked open slowly, a couple of hairs peaking through. Face coming in slowly, the Spaniard's face bore an expression of concern.
Of course it was Carlos.
He slowly entered, taking cautious steps as to not startle Charles, as if he's a cat about to run away.
The door behind him slowly closes as he leans against it.
"Are you okay?" He said, breaking Charles from his train of thoughts. It was quite a useless question, really, as he knew Charles was far from fine.
"Hm, yeah totally fine," Charles replied, sarcasm, a ton of it, leaking through, as well as hints of anger. He saw Carlos's expression change to a sadder one. He wondered if he was too harsh on his teammate. He sighed before looking down at the floor, he didn't want to talk to anyone right now. He'd rather focus on dealing with his anger by himself.
Carlos's gaze softened, removing his hands from the door. He walked over to sit next to Charles at the massage table, Charles making room for him. His lips parted to speak.
"Charles," he began, gaze shifting towards Charles's eyes, "you have to understand, that whatever happened out there, wasn't your fault mate."
Charles opened his mouth to interrupt, but Carlos continued before he could do so.
"Look Charles, you can't keep putting the blame on yourself for everything that goes wrong. You are an amazing driver, you shouldn't let other people's mistakes interfere with how much you think of yourself. But if you keep doing so, you will start to perform badly."
Charles let his words sink in for a moment. He was right, it wasn't Charles's fault, but he couldn't come to accept that. Because in his eyes, if he isn't perfect, he's useless. If he makes a mistake, he's the worst driver to ever live. He has to perform every move with immense accuracy, or else it's worth nothing. He has to know every solution to every problem, or else he's a complete idiot who knows nothing. He has to be the best. Always.
They stay quiet for a moment, the tranquility accompanying their thoughts.
He could feel Carlos's gaze piercing through him, as if his thoughts were exposed to him.
He felt a hand slowly wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. His fingers wrapped gently around Charles's hip, thumb slowly grazing over the fabric.
Charles flopped his head to the side, cheek caressing Carlos's shoulder.
He felt his tense muscles relax. His once tightened fists slowly opening.
They didn't say anything, staying silent.
It was a comfortable silence.
He felt his eyes slowly shut, the tiredness of the Grand Prix sinking in.
Before drifting off, he heard one last faint voice, "Never let other people's mistakes affect you Charles, never."
YOU ARE READING
A Little Flirting Hurt No One
Fanfiction"I have a plan." "Please don't be stupid," Carlos pleaded, as Charles's plan were usually chaotic Charles smiled smugly, "Fake boyfriends." ____________________________ OR: Carlos is hopelessly in love with Lando, but isn't sure how to break it to...
