𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘴 || 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯

𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡

It was starting to become too much for Charles.

Bad luck followed him like the ghosts that had slowly killed the people that were dear to him.

There were moments in which he wished he was next.

Whether it was a failure on the track, a social setback, or anything else for that matter, he slowly began to realize that he was alone in his negativity and self hatred.

What was once insecurity had now become a destructive force, slowly overcoming his personality with each passing day. He was losing himself in the expectations, the pressures, the fears, the doubts, and most of all looking in the mirror and not receiving anything in return.

Not even the highs of podiums, even the occasional win, could do anything to ease the havoc that had been wreaking itself, eating away at him for months.

He had been led to believe that the victories were luck, that they weren't deserved. With the mounting hate, the imminent pressure from every Italian for him to finally be the predestined, he found himself spiraling in frustration since he was still in the dark as to who he was predestined to be.

He wanted to race, to breathe, to feel the freedom of having possession and control over the beast that was designed to propel him to stardom. He wanted to be able to stand on the top step of the podium and hold his head high with his hand on his heart as the anthem of Monaco would resound across the paddock.

He didn't want this.

The hatred from both the world and himself, the pressure, the doubt, the way in which he was absolutely broken, like the sport he dreamed of since childhood now stepping all over him and shattering every barrier he held up in defense. It was slowly killing him, tearing him apart.

And the worst part? He was alone. The people who surrounded him felt so far away, they would never even begin to understand the torture that was getting out of bed and facing the million voices that would constantly tell him that he wasn't deserving of anything.

This was his breaking point.

One more thing and he thought he would lose his mind.

Yet another race weekend. The season seemed to drag on endlessly, each weekend a torturous process of interactions, failures, and pressure from everyone who surrounded him. He wished he could be like Max, carefree and not listening to any opinions that he didn't want to hear.

He was a world champion. He had the privilege of walking around knowing that trophy was in his cabinet at home. He had nothing left to prove.

Charles had everything to prove.

Max could have been, and he was.

Charles could have been, and yet despite his efforts, maybe he was never bound to be.

Predestined. The ultimate curse.

He stood in the pit lane, merely observing. The mechanics of the teams preparing for the race, the culmination of their efforts from the last three days. The ambience, the sounds of wheel guns and team orders and the occasional car engine breaking the peace.

"Are you alright?" Charles heard a familiar voice behind him. Max Verstappen, who had practically sealed his fourth championship and now just had to finish the deal.

"Fine," Charles hummed monotonously. "All good."

"You know I don't believe you, right?"

"Sorry, what?" Charles said, turning around to face the Dutch driver. "And why exactly do you think you know anything about me?"