Forever

Another year, and another fucking failure at Monaco. Charles kicked the tyre of his car as he climbed out the top of the steaming wreck that had once been his Ferrari.

The worst part was how well he'd been doing. He hadn't so much as put a foot wrong all race— a brilliant quali that won him pole position, no last minute gear box issues to fuck it up, a swift start, and a good pit stop. Through his Herculean efforts, he was in front of Max by four tenths, and the rest of the grid was much farther behind them.

And then his tyre blew. They'd need to review the data later to confirm it, but Charles knew. He hadn't driven over any debris to cause a puncture. There was no other reason for it to have failed. And it sent him spiralling into the wall at the exit of La Rascasse, just three laps from finishing (and likely winning) his home Grand Prix.

Charles leaned over to replace his steering wheel and cursed under his breath. He was lucky that the crash hadn't done more than wind him. He might end up a bit bruised, but compared to how he could have been after a crash like that... Charles didn't want to think about it. The race had been red-flagged immediately, of course, but Charles was lucky Max had the reaction times to avoid hitting him in the debris of his car.

The medical car pulled up, and Charles got in the back. He closed the door and took his helmet off before leaning his head against the window. He wanted to cry. He was so close this time. He knew he could have won. He would have won. But no, fucking Pirelli had to let him down. And here, of all places? His own home race, poised to win, where he had never even finished before— stolen away in the blink of an eye.

They reached the paddock quickly, and Charles was ushered to the medical centre. They did some quick checks, mostly for concussion, before deciding he was totally fine. In the meantime, his car had been taken off the track, and the race had resumed.

Charles made his way back to the Ferrari garage. Max was now in the lead (as Charles had expected), and due to the restart Carlos was now running solidly in second. Well, good for him , Charles thought, more bitterly than he intended. He took a seat in a folding chair near the back of the garage and put his head in his hands.

He was happy for Carlos, he really was. He did truly want Carlos to do well. They got along splendidly, plus it was good for Ferrari in the Constructors Championship. And yet... Charles was a competitive man. He knew he was going to be measured directly against Carlos, and he was going to make sure to beat him. Carlos getting free points that he should have had for himself hurt. At least Binotto would understand that the crash and subsequent failure to finish wasn't his fault.

Hopefully.

The race finished pretty soon after that. The order stayed the same as it had been, with Perez rounding out the podium, and Charles stood up to congratulate his teammate on his second.

"Fantastic race, mate!" he said, plastering a smile on his face. He gave Carlos a small hug.

"Thanks," Carlos replied, beaming. "You did great, too. Sorry for the crash. That's just bad luck; nothing you could do."

"I know," Charles said back. "But hey, there's always next year. Maybe then I'll finish my home race, right?"

"Yeah, next year," Carlos agreed.

He left to his festivities, and Charles let him go. He didn't feel like celebrating a podium that should have been his. Instead, he headed back to his flat. Ferrari would save the briefings for tomorrow, and now he just needed to be alone.

As soon as he got home he kicked off his shoes and flopped onto his couch. Pierre was already texting him asking if he wanted to party later. Not tonight , Charles answered. It was hardly six in the afternoon, but he just felt exhausted. So he went to bed.