national treasures| Charles Leclerc

twelve

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

The roar of the engine drowns out everything else—the cheers of the crowd, the pounding of my heart, even the voice in my head telling me to stay calm. 

It's just another race, I tell myself. 

But it isn't. 

Not today.

Charles is ahead of me, his Ferrari a flash of red and silver through the turns. 

Every move he makes is precise, calculated, almost maddening in its perfection. 

But I know him. 

I know the risks he'll take and the moments he'll hesitate.

Because I used to be the one who raced beside him, the one who pushed him to take those risks. 

And now, I'm the one trying to beat him.

We're halfway through the race, and the gap between us has shrunk to nothing. 

I'm right on his tail, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. 

Sector two is my strength—tight corners where I can take a more aggressive line. 

Charles knows this. 

He always has.

I can almost see his face in my mind, the way he used to grin whenever I'd catch him off guard on the track. 

He loved the challenge then, and part of me wonders if he loves it now.

We dive into the chicane, side by side. 

For a moment, it feels like we're back in karting, two kids with nothing to lose and everything to prove. 

The thrill of it is electric, the kind of adrenaline rush I live for.

He edges ahead on the exit, but I stay with him, refusing to back down.

I can hear Bono in my ear, urging me to stay focused, to pick my moment. 

But my heart is racing too fast to think clearly.

On the next straight, I pull alongside him, our cars separated by mere inches. 

The crowd is deafening, and I know the cameras are eating this up. 

Two rivals with a shared past, battling it out for position. 

The media is going to have a field day with this, but right now, I can't bring myself to care.

In the final sector, Charles defends fiercely, cutting off every opening I try to create. 

It's frustrating and exhilarating all at once, like he's challenging me to push even harder, to find a way past him.

And then, in the last corner, I see my chance. 

He's gone slightly wide, just enough for me to slip through on the inside. 

It's risky, but I go for it, my car brushing dangerously close to his as I make the move stick.

I cross the line ahead of him, my chest heaving as the realization hits me. 

I did it. 

I beat him.

But as I slow down on the cooldown lap, the adrenaline fades, replaced by something heavier. 

The weight of what just happened, of what it means—not just for the championship, but for us.