ʟօʋɛ ʏօʊ ȶɛռɖɛʀʟʏ

THE FINISH LINE

THE FINISH LINE.
hi guys !! really happy to write something again, it was a really late night when i decided to write this, i have no idea why but i always have the darkest thoughts about carlos's mental health and this year has given me so many elements to use ! i hope you'll like this (you won't).

trigger warning : suicide

It had been a year. A year since Carlos hadn't won anything in Formula one. Not a pole position, not a sprint race, not a race, not even a first place in practice.
Carlos was at his lowest. He was wearing red with his face tainted with the same color. The shame was evident on his expression walking with the Ferrari logo on his shirt.

Carlos was obviously ashamed, and embarrassed of his lack of results and performance, especially when his teammate, Charles, was doing so good.

He had won three races already this season and was taking almost every pole position of every race. Carlos was watching his success from afar, hoping he would get his turn. He didn't understand what he was doing wrong.

It just seemed like his body and the car couldn't work together, as if the spark was gone. He couldn't figure it out. He had gained a few pounds at the beginning of the year, probably muscles from the cycling he had been doing. Carlos blamed his weight and lost it all.

Then he realized that it probably wasn't the problem, and he looked for something else. He focused on the settings, compared his set to Charles's and took a few engineering classes to make sure he was able to understand his car.

But no. Nothing explained the situation.

The journalists started to talk in his back, wondering if he actually deserved that red t shirt. And Carlos felt the pressure.

Everyone needs results, Carlos needs results. He spends his nights dreaming of winning, remembering the feeling like an old memory, the smell of champagne, the crowd singing the italian anthem.

It's the italian grand prix today, Carlos hasn't felt good about his performance in a while but he was fourth at practice yesterday, which is definitely better than what he was used to.

He is eating his lunch, PierLuigi watching him from across the table, he looks concerned, kicking his feet quickly on the floor. The noise annoyed Carlos and he narrows his eyes.

– What's wrong Pier ? He asks, his big brown eyes digging in Pier's.

– You're not eating, the bodyguard says slowly, worried but with a very calm voice.

– Yeah i'm not hungry... Carlos admits in a scoff. I'm nervous about quali.

– You did great this morning, you'll do the same this afternoon. Don't be nervous and eat you need energy, Pier insists calmly and Carlos nods.

When the spaniard gets in the car, his head hurts, his stomach hurts, his hands are shaking and he feels weakness in his legs. He should've eaten. He is so nervous he could just throw up in his helmet.

The pressure was harsh on his shoulders and it didn't leave until Q3. Carlos knew he could get the pole position, his times were great, he could catch Norris or even Verstappen.

– Fast Lap Carlos.

He hears Ricky's voice fade away in the radio and he starts his fast lap, focused like he had never been. He immediately grabs the fastest sector 1 and with his confidence, his stress lowers.

Suddenly, he enters a turn, dark spots wash his view and his grip around the steering wheel weakens. He doesn't have the time to realize how big this moment was that the wall hits him and smoke blinds him.