Hate to race lestappen

Interlagos' Crimson Veil

Charles had gotten used to the pain.

The dull, sharp thing under his ribs wasn't screaming anymore. It just lived with him now—followed him through the paddock, into the car, into bed when he managed to sleep. It didn't slow him down.

Singapore hadn't been his. That one belonged to Carlos, clean and calm from start to finish. Charles had crossed the line in fourth—behind Lewis, behind Lando. The media spun it into a dream podium.

Charles didn't care much for the dream.

Monza was fuzzier. He remembered drinking. He remembered not caring who saw. He remembered not feeling anything at all, and that had felt like a win in itself. Someone had gotten him home from the bar, he was sure of that. He didn't know who. Daniel, maybe. It didn't matter. He hoped he hadn't embarrassed himself too much, but he probably had. That was how those nights went.

And then came Brazil.

The rhythm of the season didn't stop for heartbreak, or whatever this was. There wasn't time to sit with anything for long—not the losses, not the wins, not the things you never got to say. You just kept moving, kept racing.

Charles liked that. The constant motion. The lack of stillness.

He stepped into São Paulo with a clean face and practiced smile. No one asked about Monza. No one brought up the girl from Singapore. She had her own hotel room, and she was long gone now anyway.

It was just him again.

Him and the noise of the paddock, the hum of the engine, the endless turning of the championship clock.

It was media day in Brazil, and thank god most of it was about Lewis. The crowd buzzed louder when he walked by, half the paddock was dressed like it was Sunday already, and everyone seemed content to let the spotlight follow him like a second shadow.

Every second person had something to say about him—his legacy, the crowd, the championship he wasn't fighting for but somehow still owned.

Charles didn't mind. Lewis deserved it. Brazil loved him. The paddock felt warmer when the spotlight wasn't directly on Charles' skin.

But it wouldn't be a proper media day without one fucked-up pairing, and whoever organized the seating clearly didn't get the memo. Though it wasn't like there was a memo. Nothing had ever been official.

Max was already seated across the couch, nodding absently to something a journalist was saying, fingers tapping lightly against the redbull in front of him. He didn't look up when Charles entered, but Charles knew he felt it. The shift in air, the way gravity tilted when they were in the same room.

It was just like old times—except it wasn't.

They'd sat across from each other plenty of times before. In press rooms, briefings, long-ass sponsor shoots that lasted forever.

Yet, they hadn't been put together like this since—well, since before. Back when they really hated each other.

Because that was what Brazil had been once, wasn't it? The battlefield. Interlagos with the rain pouring and two cars willing to crash if it meant proving a point. They hadn't cared. Not about winning. Not about surviving. Just about destroying the other.

Now they still didn't speak—but it wasn't the same. It wasn't about pure rage anymore. This silence wasn't sharp, it was heavy.

Like hate, but backwards. Hate for what wasn't. For what couldn't be.

For what had burned up in the fire they both had set and now neither could put out.

"Charles, Max—there's talk of rain this Sunday," the reporter started, smiling like it was all lighthearted. "People still talk about your last battle here—proper edge-of-the-seat stuff. Do you think we'll see another fight like that between you two this weekend?"