𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘴 || 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯

𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐮𝐦

Charles so desperately wanted to believe that this time would actually be his.

It wasn't as if, objectively, his season was actually that bad. He was fourth in the driver's standings, certainly nothing to scoff at.

But to him, it was first or nothing. Either you won or you didn't, either you stood on the podium or you didn't.

Champions went down in history. Fourth places didn't.

And who did he truly have a loyalty to? Who did he owe it to to go down in history? What compelled him so deeply to never just be happy in what he was doing, rather than everything he wasn't?

Ferrari. The team that had put so much faith in him since the start, recruiting him in only his second year of Formula One to drive alongside one of the greatest ever, Sebastian Vettel. And he kept up, he made Italy proud as he won races, as he showed he was worthy of the position at undoubtedly the most prestigious team in the sport. The team had kept him close to their chests, allowing him the opportunity to slowly evolve into the next prince of the team in scarlet.

His country. Monaco was a principality, a place of royalty for Formula One. There was prestige that accompanied racing through the streets of such a historic place. Many of the greats asserted that the two races they dreamed of winning most were their home race, and Monaco. For Charles, those were the same thing, and yet the circuit seemed to elude his capacity every year. Predestined to never be the hometown hero.

His late father. Herve was the most supportive parent Charles could have dreamed of having, when forced to pick between funding Charles' career versus his younger brother Arthur's, Charles was older and more accomplished at the time so the family placed their faith into his capabilities. He was there, regardless of whether Charles finished first or if he didn't finish at all, Herve was his rock, both the foundation and pinnacle of his support system. The day his time ended, Charles vowed that he would not let his father's efforts, his mission to see his son shine, go to waste.

Jules Bianchi. Jules was regarded as a driver with extraordinary amounts of potential. he was widely loved, ever the sportsman and the competitor. Whether this was attributed to the two of them having the tightest bond or not, it was unclear, but Charles seemed to be the reincarnation of Bianchi. The same demeanor, the same driving style, the same shortcomings. But unlike Jules, Charles had been given the chance to live, to have a real shot at a racing career. He believed he ought to make the most of it.

But Ferrari loved him. They were already seeking to extend his contact. Monaco adored him too. He was so widely revered, they picked him back up whenever he stumbled and fell. Even the admonition that he had received in recent times never stemmed from his home roots, every citizen of Monaco knew his name and smiled when they considered all that he had accomplished.

And he knew, he knew so damn well that his father and Jules were watching down on him and proud of him as well. He knew they smiled from their places in heaven when they watched him succeed, they too each took one of his hands and brought him back to his feet when he fell. He knew that they would never tell him that he wasn't enough, in fact they would reassure him that he was nothing short of incredible.

But what about himself?

He owed it to himself, when all the dust had settled and it was just him and his own thoughts. It was the truth that he believed he could, that drove him to utter insanity when he didn't. It would be one thing if he knew he was working at his maximum capacity and the occasional positive result was the best he could do.

But it wasn't.

He knew there was so much more fire inside of him than the tiny flame that flickered. He truly thought he was one of the best, the boy in him that had always dreamed to race constantly screamed at him that he was incredible, despite the negativity that clouded the forefront of his mind that did everything it could to bring him down.