Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Charles Leclerc always felt like the Monaco Grand Prix was the best race of the year, granted he could be a bit biased, but all the others seemed to agree as well. He always enjoyed the views and the atmosphere and overall the whole feeling of being in his own home country.

Yesterday, the streets of Monte Carlo had buzzed with energy when they saw Charles cross the line quickest, hoping maybe this year would be the year that the Monaco-born driver would finally win. That excitement and anticipation definitely hadn’t vanished today, if anything it had increased. Red was covering the whole country top to bottom and Charles didn’t think he could see a single person who wasn’t cheering for him in some way. Yep, Monaco was definitely the best.

“Looks like they really want me to win today. I have never seen this many Ferrari flags outside of Italy before..” Carlos teased, slinging his arm around Charles’ shoulders.

Charles smiled at his teammates antics, “You wish mate, all these people… they’re mine. All mine…”

“Nah… there’s got to be at least one person in this tiny country that doesn’t want you to win. You can spare one fan for your good friend Carlos here!”

Charles leant against his Ferrari, looking over at the packed crowd in disbelief, he would never get tired of this. Never.

“Honestly Carlos, I don’t think a single person here doesn’t want me to win… even the marshals are wearing Ferrari shirts. You can have me as a fan, I’ll cheer for you mate.” Charles smiled at Carlos, making the Spaniard grin.

Nothing could stop him from having an amazing race today at this rate, everything was going too great.

Until it didn’t…

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Lined up at the front of the grid, Charles could feel all his emotions running wild. He knew how much a win here would mean not only to himself but also to the whole of Monaco and he wasn’t going to give in without a fight. He would have to be forcibly removed from the track before he let anyone pass him today.

He looked in his mirrors, his anxiousness quelled seeing the twin Ferrari just next to him. It was comforting, knowing his teammate was there, one position behind, to try help him win this race. Carlos had already promised him that it was his race to win and that he would do everything to hold off the cars behind.

All the unease came rushing straight back though, when he spotted the dark blue of a red bull positioned directly behind him. Max. He already knew that the dutchman had qualified p3 and so it shouldn’t have surprised him to see that big number 1 staring back at him. However, it was still unnerving to see the reigning world champion hot on his heels. Max had won every other race this year, what was stopping him from winning this one too..

“Focus Charles, this is Monaco, its too hard to overtake, he’s not going to steal this win from you..” Charles reassured himself under his breath, pulling his visor down ready for the race to start.

Charles heard the familiar voice of his race engineer, “The last car is approaching the back of the grid now. Be ready for the lights.”

Charles looked up and watched the red lights like his life depended on it. He was going to get this win, he just needed a good start.

As the lights went out, Charles surged forward, his tyres gripping the asphalt perfectly. He felt a surge of relief wash over him as he maintained his lead into the first corner, the roar of the crowd drowning out the sound of his engine. Carlos held his position in second, just as he had promised, while Max was right behind, raring for any opportunity to overtake.

Laps racked up, as Charles drove perfectly around the track, his focus unparalleled and unwavering. Every cross of the finish line was one step closer to him achieving gold in his home race.

“Ok Charles, box. Box confirm.” Charles could not lie to himself, he was nervous about the pit stop, last year he had lost out on a podium finish because of this very moment. He said a short prayer in his head and drove into the pit lane. When it came time for the team to change his tyres, he was pleasantly surprised to find that not only had everything had gone smoothly but he would also be ahead of Max coming out of the pits. For the first time in what felt like forever, Ferrari had actually managed to have a decent strategy and on the most important weekend.

Charles could feel the victory, the thought of crossing the finish line in first place sent chills through him. He’d be the first ever monegasque driver to win in Monaco, the whole country would be in celebration. He would see the tears of joy in all eyes, as he raises the trophy proudly above his head. The smell of the champagne, when he sprays it over his friends and family below. He would feel the heat of the sun shining down on him, the chosen one, Monaco’s pride and joy. Charles Leclerc. It finally felt so real, he was really warm, the sun doing its job of lighting his path to victory…

The smell of smoke overtook his senses, invading him until he was coughing. That wasn’t right, he shouldn’t be smelling smoke unless there was something wrong with his car and there definitely wasn’t something wrong with his car, he was about to win the race.

Suddenly, a massive bang was heard, his car slowed and thick, black smoke billowed out from the rear. Panic set in as Charles realised what was happening.

“No! No, not now! No, no, please nooo…” He yelled out loud, desperately trying to nurse his car back to the pits. But it was too late, his chance to win destroyed, as he saw the second Ferrari trailed by a Red Bull, zoom past him. The car ground to a halt on the side of the track, with Charles just sat inside, wishing it was just a dream and he’d wake up still leading the race.

Only the feeling of heat and pain snapped Charles out of his stupor, as he realised that getting out of the burning vehicle was probably more important than his moping. He quickly unbuckled his harness and climbed out, his frustration evident as he tried to wave to the crowd.

He needed to escape. He needed to be out of the public eye, which in Monaco was quite difficult, especially if you were called Charles Leclerc.

He started the long trek back to the paddock, keeping to the side to try hide from as many fans and cameras as possible. Charles usually loved interacting with fans, however right now it felt like he had just let everybody down. In the back of his mind, he knew it wasn’t his fault and that once again Ferrari were to blame, but he still couldn’t stop feeling so guilty.

He could hear distant cheers and the lyrics of the Italian national anthem being soulfully sung. At least Carlos won it for him, he would have been destroyed if somehow Max had still managed to win. Still, it stung. It should have been him up on that podium. Him celebrating with his country, but instead, in a place full of support, he’d never felt so alone.

Charles arrived back to the paddock, the roar of the crowd now a quiet hum and his shoulders drooped under the weight of disappointment. As he rounded the corner, he was immediately met with frantic faces. Alex, Lando, and George rushed towards him, their eyes wide with panic and concern for their boyfriend.

“Charlie! Oh my God, are you okay?” The urgency in George's voice was prominent as he grabbed the monegasque by the shoulders, his eyes scanning for any sign of injury. Charles could feel the tremor in George’s hands, the fear that had gripped him moments before still lingering.

Alex’s face was pale, his usual composure shattered. “Baby, we were so worried, we thought you were stuck in the car. It took you ages to get out,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. The worry etched in his features spoke volumes.

Lando, usually the more exuberant of the group, was silent. He pulled Charles into a tight hug, his relief evident in the way his body trembled. After a moment, he pulled back, his expression serious. “We need to get you checked at the medical tent,” he said firmly, leaving no room for argument.

Charles, still feeling numb from the events, nodded slowly. “Sorry, I’m fine, really. Just a bit shaken up.”

But Alex wasn't having it. “No, baby. We’re taking you to the medical centre, and that’s final,” he insisted, guiding Charles towards the medical facilities with a gentle but firm grip.

The examination was thorough. The medical staff meticulously checked him for any injuries from the incident. The doctor’s words echoed in his mind: “You’re lucky. Besides the first-degree burn marks on your arms and back, you’re physically fine.” She said if he’d stayed in the car any longer it would have been second or third degree burns and that he was lucky to be wearing a fireproof suit.

Lucky? The word twisted in Charles’s mind. He only just resisted the maniacal laughter that threatened to burst forth. Lucky? He had just DNF'd on the penultimate lap of his home Grand Prix, one he had been leading. Charles wasn't lucky; he felt like the unluckiest person alive.

His boyfriends stayed by his side throughout the check-up, their presence a comforting anchor. As the doctor finished her assessment, Charles saw the relief wash over their faces, but the concern lingered.

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Later, at the after-party celebrating Carlos’s victory, the noise and excitement were overwhelming. Charles found a quiet corner, needing some space to process everything. The party was a blur of lights and sounds, but in this secluded spot, he could finally breathe.

His boyfriends once again joined him, their expressions softening with concern. They settled around him, their presence a silent support.

“Hey love, how are you holding up?” Lando asked softly, sitting next to Charles and running a hand through his hair in a comforting gesture.

Charles sighed, leaning close to Lando’s shoulder. “I don’t know. I just feel… empty. I had it, Lan. I was so close.”

Charles stared out at the shimmering lights of the harbour, the night air cool against his skin. He felt Alex’s hand rest on his shoulder, a warm, grounding touch. Lando leaned back against him, his head resting lightly on Charles’, while George sat close by, his eyes watching Charles with a mixture of worry and love.

The words they had shared earlier echoed in his mind, the panic and relief in their voices a testament to their love and fear for him. They didn't need to speak now; their presence said everything. They were here for him, through every high and every devastating low.

He closed his eyes, allowing the warmth of their closeness to seep into him, easing the raw edges of his disappointment. The pain of the race was still there, a dull ache in his chest, but it was bearable with them by his side

“Thanks. It just… it hurts, you know? This race means so much to me. I would have loved to win…”

“We know,” Alex said gently, leaving a gentle kiss on Charles’ forehead. “But you’ve got nothing to prove. You’re an incredible driver, and everyone saw that today. This setback doesn’t change that.”

George squeezed Charles’ hand, a reassuring smile on his face. “Today was tough, but there will be other races, other victories. We’ll be there for all of them.”

Charles felt a warmth spread through him, melting away the last remnants of his disappointment. With his boyfriends by his side, he knew he could face whatever challenges lay ahead. The race hadn’t gone as planned, but it was just one race. There would be others, and he would be ready for them.

For now, he allowed himself to simply enjoy the moment, surrounded by the boys he loved, in the place he called home.

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The Italian Grand Prix had always held a special place in the hearts of Ferrari fans, and for Charles Leclerc, it was no different. Yes, Monaco was his official home Grand Prix, but Monza always had that same feeling, that feeling where everyone wanted him to win.

The anticipation was palpable, the air in Monza thick with excitement and tension, the roar of engines and the fervent cheers of the crowd created a symphony of adrenaline and passion. The sea of tifosi, clad in their iconic red, filled the grandstands with an intensity that was almost electric, each fan's heartbeat synced with the roar of the engines. Ferrari’s home race was always a grand spectacle, but this year, the pressure on them was immense. This was more than just a race; it was a battle for honour and redemption on their sacred home turf. Ferrari had been struggling all season, their performance marred by mechanical failures and strategic missteps. The team had faced criticism from all corners, and their confidence was at an all-time low.

Yet, within the paddock, there was a steely resolve. The engineers had worked tirelessly, tweaking every component of the car, the drivers, their faces set with determination, knew they had to summon every ounce of skill and courage. They could feel the history of Monza, the echoes of past glories urging them on. For Charles Leclerc, this was more than just another race; more than just a second home race, it was a chance to lift the spirits of his team and the tifosi, to reclaim the glory that Ferrari so desperately sought.

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The days leading up to the race were a whirlwind of preparation and anticipation. The Ferrari garage buzzed with activity, engineers and mechanics working tirelessly to perfect the car. Charles, however, couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. During practice sessions, he pushed the car to its limits, but it felt unstable, unpredictable. Each lap was a battle against the machine, and despite his best efforts, he couldn't find the rhythm he needed. His mind replayed the laps over and over, searching for any mistake, any sign of a weakness. The thought of another failure, another disappointment for the team and the fans, was unbearable.

Carlos noticed his teammate’s unease and tried to lift his spirits.

“It’s just practice, mate. We’ll sort it out,” he said, giving Charles a reassuring pat on the back. But Charles could only manage a weak smile in return.

Later, seeing that Charles was still troubled, Carlos decided to sit down with him after the debrief.

“Hey, let’s grab a coffee and talk. You look stressed…”

Charles nodded, appreciating the offer. They found a quiet corner in the hospitality area, away from the hustle and bustle of the garage. Carlos handed Charles a cup of coffee and leaned back, giving him a questioning look.

Charles sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Carlos. The car just doesn’t feel right. It’s like it has a mind of its own. I can’t predict how it’s going to react, and that’s making me nervous. This race is so important. Not just for me, but for the whole team, for the tifosi. I don’t want to let them down”

Carlos leaned forward, his expression serious. “You won’t. Look, I know how easily you get inside your own head, but remember you’re an amazing driver. If anyone could win with this car, it would be you.”

Charles took a sip of his coffee, the warmth a small comfort. “Thanks, mate. That means a lot. I guess I just need to trust Ferrari and keep pushing.”

Carlos grinned, giving him a reassuring pat on the back. “Exactly. And hey, if all else fails, just remember that you’re Charles Leclerc. You’ve got the whole of Monaco and Italy rooting for you, honestly, probably even the rest of the world at this rate. Everyone loves you, you’ve got this.”

Charles chuckled, the tension easing a bit more. “Yeah, you’re right, everyone does love me. Carlos, let’s go out there and give them a show.”

The world seemed to shrink to the stretch of asphalt ahead and the deafening roar of the crowd. Charles fixed his gaze on the lights, each second ticking by as he waited for them to go out. His heart thundered in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins. As the lights finally extinguished, Charles’s car surged forward, its tires gripping the track with precision. The roar of the crowd reached a peak, and he felt a surge of determination. He was going to give them everything he had.

The race was on.

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Charles knew something had been wrong. He knew that his lack of confidence wasn’t due to nerves or stress, but due to an issue with his car. It felt like a death trap more than an f1 car.

“Xavi! I need to box. There’s something wrong with the car!” Charles’s voice crackled over the radio, a mix of urgency and desperation evident.

“Okay, Charles, we are checking, but stay out. Stay out,” Xavi replied, his tone measured but lacking urgency.

“No, I need to pit. There’s something wrong with the brakes. The pedal feels stiff,” Charles insisted, his voice rising with anxiety.

“Do not pit. We are not ready,” Xavi’s voice remained monotone, almost indifferent to the gravity of the situation.

“Xavi, I’m pittin-” Charles started, his voice edged with frustration.

“No! You are not to pit, Charles!” The voice of Mattia Binotto cut through, sharp and authoritative, interrupting Charles’s exclamation. “You will stay out and we will fix it while you are driving!”

Charles gritted his teeth, his frustration mounting as his team seemed to disregard his warnings. He focused on keeping the car on the track, the urgency of the situation sharpening his senses.

In his mirrors, Charles saw the looming silhouette of a relentless Max Verstappen closing in. He was taken aback; despite his car’s issues, Max was still only just gaining on him. Realising he was now out of DRS range, Charles turned his attention back to the track. The start/finish straight was his favourite part, a place where he could unleash the full power of his car, feeling the exhilarating speeds only F1 drivers experience. But all straights eventually end, forcing him to slow and navigate the tricky corners.

He pushed hard on the brake pedal, expecting the car to respond, but the pedal was unyielding. Before he could process the issue, the brakes ignited, and failure hit him like a freight train.

The car hurtled forward, the tires screeching in a deafening wail. It continued its relentless charge, faster and faster, until it collided with something solid. The impact was violent, and Charles’s vision dimmed as the world went black for a moment.

When he finally blinked his eyes open, the car was laid out on its side, its frame twisted and exposed.

“Ahhh! Fuck,” he groaned, the pain spreading through his body like wildfire. Something wet smeared across his visor, and Charles struggled to comprehend his situation.

He realised with a sickening clarity that the car was sprawled across the middle of the track. If anyone rounded the corner now, there would be no time to stop.

In the seconds it took for this realisation to settle in, a navy blue blur swept around the corner, just seconds behind him.

All Charles could do was close his eyes and hope for the best.

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Max's weekend hadn’t started with the high note he was used to. The qualifying session hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped, with a DRS issue that had cost him precious seconds. Still, Max being Max, he managed to secure a decent position, starting just behind Charles, in p2. The race was set, and Max was determined to make the most of it.

His hopes were high, despite the lingering frustration over the car's issues. The early laps had gone well enough, and he was just behind Charles, waiting for the right moment to overtake. His engineer's voice crackled in his ear, grounding him back to the immediate task.

“Red flag. Red flag, Max. Keep your delta positive and get back to the pits.” GP informed him, always the calm and collected person he was..

“Copy. What’s happe-“ Max didn’t even get time to finish his question, before it answered itself, his eyes widening, as he saw the twisted wreck of the Ferrari sprawled across the track. He immediately swerved to the left to try avoid the wrecked vehicle, managing to narrowly avoid T-boning the cockpit, but still clipping the front end.

The impact sent Max’s car careening into the barriers at over 200km/h. He braced himself and closed his eyes as the car hit, the world spinning around him.

“Max? Max, are you ok? Are you ok?” His race engineer’s voice crackled through his earpiece, bringing him back to reality. Shit! He just hit a car.

“Yeah, I’m good. All good,” Max responded, his voice shaky but determined.

Max pulled himself out of the car, his achy body fighting against the movement. He knew the rules, knew he wasn't supposed to leave his car and go towards the wreck. He glanced back at his own car, knowing he should stay put, wait for the marshals and medical team.

But he was involved in this crash, saw how big it really was. He couldn’t just wait to see if Charles was alright…

Then he saw it. Charles’ Ferrari was engulfed in flames, a horrific sight that sent a chill down his spine. It reminded him of Monaco, where Charles had been stuck in a burning car. But this time, the fire was fiercer, the situation more deadly. If he made it out of this, it would be because someone dragged him out. Max knew in his gut that Charles wouldn’t get out on his own. Not this time.

He didn’t think twice.

The heat was overwhelming as he sprinted towards the wreckage, each step feeling like a battle against an invisible force. The flames roared, and the heatwave was so intense it felt like it was burning his skin. He hesitated, the inferno in front of him an almost insurmountable barrier. But he couldn’t stop now; Charles’ life probably depended on him. Gritting his teeth, Max pushed forward, shielding his face with one arm. He could see Charles slumped in the cockpit, unconscious, the flames dangerously close. Every second counted. He reached the car, but the heat was so fierce it was like standing in front of an open furnace. Sweat poured down his face, and his race suit felt like it was melting onto his skin.

"Come on, you idiot,” Max muttered, forcing his hands to work despite the scorching heat. He gripped the cockpit’s edge, yanking at the safety harness. It was jammed. Panic surged through him as he tugged desperately at the straps, his fingers clumsy from adrenaline and searing heat.

"No, no, no," he growled, refusing to give in.

He tried again, using all his strength. The harness finally gave way, and Max reached in, grabbing the straps on Charles’ shoulders and pulled as hard as he could. The weight was immense, and the flames were closing in. Max staggered back, pulling Charles with him, step by agonising step, until they were clear of the immediate danger. Max collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, his heart racing. He shook Charles, his voice hoarse.

"Charles, wake up! Come on, man, wake up!"

But there was no response.

Charles’ head lolled to the side, his eyes closed, his face pale. The distant sound of the safety car and paramedics grew louder, a beacon of hope in the chaos. Max waved frantically, shouting for help. Within moments, the paramedics arrived, rushing to Charles’ side. They worked quickly, their movements a blur as they checked his vitals and tried to stabilise him. Max sat back, his body trembling. The shock of what had just happened hit him like a tidal wave. He watched as one of the paramedics came over to him, checking him for injuries, but his focus was entirely on Charles. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Then he saw it.

One of the paramedics was performing CPR on Charles. Max's breath caught in his throat.

"No, please no,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. He felt a surge of helplessness. He had done everything he could, but it wasn’t enough.

They lifted Charles onto a stretcher and rushed him towards the waiting ambulance. Max tried to follow, but another paramedic gently held him back.

"You need to come with us. We need to check you over," they said, guiding him towards a medical vehicle. As Max was taken back to the pit lane, he felt numb. The adrenaline was wearing off, replaced by a heavy, sinking feeling. He replayed the moments over and over in his head, the fear, the heat, the desperate struggle to save Charles.

Back at the pit lane, the reality of what had happened began to set in. The noise, the people, everything felt distant. Max sat down, his hands shaking, his mind still in the flames. All he could think about was Charles, lying unconscious, and the paramedics' frantic efforts to revive him.

He looked up, seeing the concerned faces of his team, the other drivers, medics, but he couldn't find the words. The image of Charles, so still and pale, haunted him. Max knew that even if Charles survived, things would never be the same. This Monza disaster had changed everything.

Today, he had seen the true peril of their sport. The raw, unfiltered danger and the risks that were no longer a distant possibility. Today, he had seen a close friend on the brink of death. This sport they all loved, the one that made him who he was today, could take everything away in a heartbeat. It was a reminder of how fragile they were because, no matter how much they tried, F1 would always be a dangerous sport. And no one knew that better than Charles.

A driver died today...

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Max Verstappen stood in the pit lane, surrounded by the chaotic noise of the Grand Prix, yet everything around him felt strangely muted. The thundering engines, the panic of team members, the clatter of tools - all of it seemed distant, as if he were hearing it through a thick fog. His world had narrowed to a single point: the image of Charles Leclerc’s disfigured body, the scorched remains of his beloved Ferrari, and the desperate, frantic moments that followed.

His hands, still trembling, were stained with blood - a deep, vivid Ferrari-red that clung to his skin like a haunting reminder of what had just happened. Max stared down at them, almost disbelieving, as if he couldn’t reconcile the sight with the reality of it. The blood wasn’t his, and that made it worse. It was Charles’. The weight of that realisation pressed down on his chest, making it hard to breathe.

The media had already spotted him, their eyes nearly gleaming as they sensed their next big story. They swarmed around him like vultures, shoving microphones in his face and bombarding him with questions, their intensity bordering on aggression, almost violence.

“Max, what happened out there?”

“Is Charles okay? The crash looked awful!”

“Can you describe what you saw?”

The voices were loud, insistent, and suffocating. They blurred together, a torrent of sound that only served to deepen the sense of unreality that had settled over him. Max’s vision swam, the edges darkening as he struggled to focus, to understand what they were asking of him. But the words wouldn’t come. His mouth was dry, his throat tight, and all he could think about was the terrible stillness of Charles as he’d pulled him from the wreckage.

“Max!”

The voice that cut through the static was familiar, grounding. Max turned to see Carlos Sainz, his eyes wide with concern, pushing through the pack of reporters. There was something reassuring in Carlos’ presence, the way he moved with purpose, not letting anyone stand in his way.

“Come on, mate, let's get you away from these idiots,” Carlos called out, shooting a fierce look at the swarming reporters as he reached Max's side. Without waiting for a reply, he wrapped a protective arm around Max's shoulders and steered him away from the chaotic crowd. Max stumbled a bit as they moved, his legs suddenly feeling weak, the extreme adrenaline that had driven his actions earlier now drained, leaving him empty and exhausted. Behind them, many of the other F1 drivers clustered together, forming a tight, protective circle around Max and Carlos, like a family shielding one of their own from harm.

The path to the Red Bull garage felt impossibly long, each step dragging Max further away from the crash site, but the echoes of it still roared in his ears. Every flash of light, every raised voice brought him back to Charles’ car colliding with the barrier, the sickening crunch of metal, the fire that followed. He could still feel the heat on his skin, still hear the way the world seemed to hold its breath as he ran towards the wreckage, fear pounding in his chest.

As they moved through the paddock, Max barely registered the recognisable faces. Many of the Ferrari engineers and personnel were standing off to the side, their usual competitive intensity replaced by a shared, somber fear. Their faces were grim, etched with the same fear that gripped Max’s heart, but they kept their distance, refraining from asking about the crash, sensing the fragility of the moment. The usual buzz of race day had transformed into a low hum of anxiety and speculation. Everyone in the paddock knew something terrible had happened, and the sight of Max - usually so composed and confident - being herded away like a frightened child, only heightened the unease that rippled through the teams.

Finally, they reached the sanctuary of the Red Bull garage. The crew had no time to react as the 19 drivers swept in, filling the space with a silent determination. There was no question of rejection; the solidarity among the drivers left the Red Bull team with no choice but to embrace the group, their concern for Max and Charles only deepening as they took in the scene. The familiar surroundings should have been comforting, but Max still felt disconnected, as if the world around him wasn’t quite real. The chaos of the pit lane was reduced to a dull static as the door closed behind them, cutting them off from the prying eyes and unwanted attention.

Max’s legs gave out as soon as they were inside, and he sank onto a bench, his head dropping in exhaustion. The trembling that had started in his fingers now took hold of his entire body, shaking him to the core. The drivers hovered around him, their concern palpable as they exchanged worried glances. They were all familiar with the dangers of racing, the constant shadow of disaster that lurked on every track, but this... this was different. This was Charles - one of the nicest people in the paddock, always ready with a smile despite the sadness that seemed to follow him. He was more than just a driver; he was a friend, a teammate, someone they all cared deeply about. Why did this happen to him?

Daniel knelt beside Max, his hand resting reassuringly on his shoulder. “Maxie, it’s okay, you’re safe now,” he said softly, his voice steady despite the petrified look in his eyes. “Take a deep breath, mate. Just breathe.”

Max tried to follow Daniel’s advice, but every breath felt shallow, as if the weight of the day’s events was pressing down on his chest. He could still feel it on his hands, sticky and warm, and the memory of Charles’ limp body haunted him with every panicked breath.

Behind them, Lando’s face was deathly pale, his usual playful demeanour replaced by a tight-lipped, trembling anxiety. He couldn’t stop staring at Max’s hands, stained with Charles’s blood. His eyes, usually so full of mischief, were wide and glassy with fear, darting between Max and the door as if willing someone - anyone - to burst in with news, desperate for reassurance. George and Alex stood a little apart, their expressions hollow, almost vacant, as they tried to process the horror of what had just happened. The bond they shared with Charles was more than just a friendship - it was love, deep and unwavering - and the thought of losing him was unbearable, tearing at their hearts with relentless force.

Pierre Gasly was among them, his usual calm completely shattered. His face was etched with fear, his eyes locked onto Max’s pained ones. The sight of it seemed to anchor Pierre in a nightmare he couldn’t wake from, his breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts. He forced himself to take a step forward, closer to Max, as if proximity might offer some kind of reassurance, though it felt like a futile effort.

“Max…” Pierre’s voice cracked, his usual confidence gone. He had been best friends with Charles since their karting days, and the idea of losing his friend - no, his brother - was too painful to fully comprehend.

“What happened out there?”

Max’s silence was agonising. His mind replayed the crash over and over again, each time it was sharper, more vivid, and more terrifying. The weight of everyone’s eyes on him only deepened his sense of helplessness, the pressure to explain what had happened crushing him. He looked at Pierre, then at the others, seeing their fear, their need for answers. But how could he put into words the horror he’d just witnessed?

Outside, the media continued to clamour for answers, their frustration growing as they were kept at bay by security and Red Bull team personnel. The relentless shouts and the persistent hammering on the garage door echoed inside, amplifying the tension that hung thick in the air. The drivers could feel it closing in, suffocating them as they grappled with their fear in different ways.

Carlos stood a little apart from the others, the anger coursing through him was like a living thing, raw and all-consuming. He couldn’t bear to see Max like this - so vulnerable, so shaken - and the thought of Charles being in such a state, helpless and injured, made him feel sick. But more than that, Carlos was furious with himself. He should have been there. He should have done something to prevent this. Instead, he’d been powerless, and now one of his closest friends, one of the people he cared about most in the world, was fighting for his life.

“I’m so sorry…”

Pierre, sensing the turmoil in Max, moved closer, his hand trembled slightly as he reached out to touch Max’s shoulder - a gesture of comfort and solidarity that attempted to mask his own fear.

“Max, it’s okay,” Pierre whispered, though his voice wavered, betraying his attempts to stay calm. “Please… just tell us what happened. Tell me what happened, please… He’s my best friend… I need to know.”

The atmosphere in the garage was thick with tension, a suffocating silence that pressed down on everyone as they waited. Max could see the way Pierre’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, he saw the raw, unfiltered fear of losing someone irreplaceable. It was a fear he also shared. He felt how Pierre’s grip on his shoulder tightened slightly, as if he was holding on to the last thread of hope.

It was that last thread of hope that gave Max the strength to speak. Even if the words were painful, even if they felt like they were being wrenched from him, he knew he owed it to Pierre and the others to explain what had happened. Pierre clung to the hope that Charles might still be alive, a hope that Max had become the embodiment of - because Max was the one who had seen him, who had saved him. Max was the one who kept that hope alive, the only thread that held Pierre’s belief that Charles was still with them.

“The car…” Max whispered, his voice barely audible, hoarse from the strain. “It hit the barrier so hard. The impact… it was like nothing I’ve ever seen. I… I got to the car, and it was on fire. The flames were everywhere, and… and Charles wasn’t moving. I pulled him out, but…”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Each driver absorbed them in silence, their faces reflecting their own internal battles with the fear that gnawed at them. Lando’s breath hitched as he fought back tears, his usually bright eyes dull with worry. Alex, unable to hold back any longer, let out a choked sob, his hands flying to his face as the weight of Max’s words crushed him. George’s stoic facade cracked, his eyes filling with tears as he processed what Max was saying. The idea of Charles lying there, unmoving, covered in blood, was too much to bear.

The silence was unbearable, stretching on as all of them tried to find something to say that might offer comfort or clarity. Surprisingly, it was Esteban who broke it, his voice trembling with the effort to hold back his tears.

“Max, please,” he begged, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “We need to know what happened. Is he still alive..?”

Max looked up, his eyes glassy and filled with unshed tears. He could see the desperation in Esteban’s face, the same desperation that was mirrored in the eyes of every single driver. They were all terrified, and they needed him to make sense of what had happened, to give them something to hold onto in the midst of the chaos.

Max’s voice cracked as he continued, his words coming out in halting fragments. “W-when I got to him, he wasn’t moving… He was just… lying there.… but there was so much blood. I didn’t know what to do… The medics had to perform… CPR to bring him back…”

Daniel stepped closer, his own fear taking a backseat to the need to support his friend. “You did what you could, Max," he said softly, trying to inject some steadiness into his voice. "You saved him. You got him out of the car - gave him a chance.”

But Max shook his head, he couldn’t stop seeing Charles’s car smashing into the barrier, couldn’t stop hearing the deafening silence that followed before the flames erupted. He couldn’t stop feeling the helplessness that had consumed him as he pulled Charles from the wreckage, blood soaking through his gloves, praying that his friend was still alive.

“I don’t know if it was enough,” he whispered, the weight of that uncertainty crushing him.

The tension in the garage was thick, each of them grappling with the weight of Max’s honesty.

Fernando and Lewis stepped forward, their faces set with grim determination. They understood the weight of the situation. As the more seasoned drivers, they knew the media outside would be relentless. Max was in no condition to face them, and Charles needed all the support he could get from those closest to him. The air in the garage was thick with anxiety, each driver’s breath heavy with the unspoken fear that hung between them. Fernando, always the leader in such moments, spoke first. His voice, though low, carried the weight of his resolve.

“We need to handle the media,” he said. “Lewis and I will go to the media pen and ask for a conference so we can all explain what’s going on. Those who want to go to the hospital to be with Charles, take care of each other, and keep us informed…”

Lewis nodded in agreement, his sharp eyes scanning the room, assessing the mood. “We’ll make sure the FIA knows the situation and that the race isn’t continuing. You guys focus on what’s important right now. We’ll tell the media what they need to know, and make sure they give you space.”

Kevin placed a reassuring hand on Pierre’s shoulder, his grip firm but comforting. "Focus on Charles. We’ll deal with everything else."

Max, overwhelmed but grateful for the support of his fellow drivers, could only nod. His usual confidence was nowhere to be found; the weight of the moment had stripped him down to raw emotion. As most of the drivers exited the garage, ready to face the throng of reporters waiting outside, the door closed behind them with a finality that sent a shiver through those who remained. A heavy silence settled once again, broken only by the deep breaths and weak sobs of Max.

“I hit him…” He looked down, his hands trembling uncontrollably, unable to meet the eyes of those around him. “I’m so sorry,” he continued, his voice cracking under the pressure of his own emotions. “I was going around the blind bend… and he was just there. I—I tried to swerve out of the way, but…”

He hesitated, the memory of that split second replaying in his mind, over and over again. He had seen Charles’ car too late, his reactions not fast enough, his instincts betraying him in the most critical moment. Max had been holding onto the secret, the truth that he had played a part in the crash. And now, the guilt was crushing him, making it hard to breathe. He couldn’t bear the thought of anyone knowing, of anyone blaming him as much as he blamed himself.

His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible as he continued, “I didn’t say anything… I didn’t want everyone to know it was me. I—I didn’t want everyone to blame me… I-”

The usually unshakeable Max Verstappen felt like a shell of himself, his mind trapped in an endless loop of what-ifs and regrets.

“Max! Stop!” Carlos’ voice cut through Max’s spiralling thoughts, firm and unyielding. The sharpness in his tone was enough to snap Max out of his daze, if only for a moment. Carlos’ eyes, usually warm and full of life, were dark with frustration and self-reproach. “It was not your fault, do you understand me? The only ones who could be at fault today are us at Ferrari. We built the car, we made the decisions, and Charles… Charles is the one who crashed. It’s not on you Max. You need to let that go, because right now, we all need to get to the hospital so we can be with Charles.”

Carlos’ words were meant to be comforting, but beneath them was a torrent of his own guilt, a deep-seated anger that was aimed squarely at himself. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he, too, was responsible. As much as he wanted to console Max, he was battling his own demons - the knowledge that the car they had worked so hard to perfect had failed them, had failed Charles. He wanted to scream, to punch something, anything, to release the frustration that was boiling inside him. But he couldn’t, not now. He had to be strong, for Max, for Charles, for everyone.

Max looked up, his eyes glistening with tears he could no longer hold back. “But I should have… I should have seen him, done something different…” His voice broke, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him like a vice.

Carlos stepped closer, his expression softening as he placed a hand on Max’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly. “There was nothing you could do, Max. Nothing. Don’t carry this with you. Charles wouldn’t want that.”

Max could see the tension in Carlos’ jaw, the way his hands trembled slightly as he tried to hold it together. It was clear that Carlos was grappling with his own turmoil, but he was doing everything he could to keep it buried, to be the support Max needed in that moment.

Before Max could respond, Daniel stepped forward, his usual playful attitude replaced with a rare seriousness. “Come on, guys. We need to get to the hospital. Charles needs us there, and we need to be there for him.”

Daniel’s voice was steady, but there was an urgency in it that spurred them all into action. He turned, grabbing his keys, and nodded toward the exit. “I’ll drive. You’ll have to squeeze in but we’ll all fit.”

The group moved quickly, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken fears and anxieties. Daniel led the way to the parking lot, where his car was waiting. The ride to the hospital was tense, the silence in the car only broken by the occasional sniffle or murmur of reassurance. Max sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, his mind still replaying the crash, but Carlos’ words lingered in his ears, offering a small, fragile sense of solace.

Lando, Alex, and George huddled together, their usual playful banter replaced by tense, anxious silence. Lando sat in the middle, gripping Alex’s hand tightly, his thumb gently tracing soothing circles on the back of his boyfriend’s hand. Alex leant into Lando’s side, his gaze fixed on the floor as he tried to keep his emotions in check. On the other side, George also leant in close, his hand softly stroking Alex’s messy hair, offering quiet comfort. The three of them exchanged worried glances, but said nothing, each lost in their own thoughts.

Carlos sat in the back with Pierre, his head leaned against the window, his thoughts a chaotic mix of anger and worry. He wanted to believe what he had told Max, but the guilt gnawed at him, a constant reminder of what had happened.

Daniel drove with a steady hand, his eyes fixed on the road, but his mind was with Charles, praying silently that they wouldn’t be too late.

Chapter Text

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The hospital was a frenzy of activity as the trauma team prepared for the arrival of Charles Leclerc. The call had come in just minutes before, but the gravity of the situation was already apparent. The paramedics had reported severe trauma - multiple high-speed impacts, possible internal injuries, and the ominous words, “cardiac arrest on scene.” The F1 driver had been pulled from the wreckage by a fellow driver, unconscious, with his heart having stopped after the crash.

As the ambulance screeched to a halt, its doors flew open, and paramedics rushed to wheel Charles’ gurney into the emergency room. His body lay still, his racing suit slashed open to reveal scorched skin underneath. His helmet, stained with blood, bore testament to the violent impact he’d endured.

“He’s unresponsive - cardiac arrest likely due to Commotio cordis,” one of the paramedics reported urgently as they pushed the gurney through the ER doors. “We managed to restart his heart with CPR, but his condition remains critical. The impact was severe - about 300 km/h into the barrier, then a secondary collision that sent him skidding across the track. He was trapped in the fire for approximately thirty seconds before he was pulled out.”

The trauma team sprang into action, wheeling Charles into the resuscitation room. The attending physician, Dr. Paola Binetti, quickly assessed the situation. She had seen racing accidents before, but this… this was severe.

“Get him on oxygen, now!” Dr. Binetti ordered as a nurse swiftly placed a mask over Charles’ face, the hiss of the oxygen barely audible over the chaos in the room. “We need to stabilise his vitals before we can even think about the internal injuries.”

With practiced efficiency, the team began their work. A nurse inserted an IV line into Charles’ arm, administering fluids and medications to support his faltering blood pressure. Another nurse connected him to a heart monitor, the erratic beeps underscoring the precarious state of his heart. His breathing was laboured and irregular, each breath a struggle.

“Check for burns and assess the extent of the internal injuries,” Dr. Binetti directed, her voice calm but firm as she examined the dark bruising spreading across Charles’s chest and abdomen. The burns from the fire were superficial, but the internal damage could be catastrophic, the impact of the crash, combined with the cardiac arrest, had pushed his body to its absolute limits. The initial bruising from the crash was evident, but there were additional, severe bruises that seemed contradictory with the typical trauma from a high-speed accident.

“Pupils are non-reactive,” a nurse reported, her tone grim as she shone a light into Charles’ eyes. “We need to get a CT scan, see what we’re dealing with.”

Dr. Binetti nodded, her focus sharp as she looked over the readings. “Let’s stabilise him for transport. We need to know if there’s any brain injury, but first, we’ve got to make sure his heart doesn’t stop again.”

The heart monitor suddenly let out a piercing alarm as Charles’ pulse flatlined. The team froze for a split second before Dr. Binetti barked, “Get the defibrillator! Now!”

The defibrillator was swiftly brought to the bedside, and the paddles were positioned on Charles’ chest. “Clear!” Dr. Binetti called out as a surge of electricity jolted through his body. His chest heaved, but the monitor’s line remained flat, unyielding.

“Charge again,” she ordered, her jaw tight as she prepared to deliver another shock. The room was thick with tension, every second stretching into an eternity.

“Clear!” Another shock. This time, after an agonising pause, a blip appeared on the monitor, followed by another. Charles’ heart had resumed its weak, tenuous beat, but the team knew they were walking close to the edge.

“He’s back, but we need to act fast,” Dr. Binetti said, her voice steady despite the chaos. “Let’s get him to CT. We need to assess the full extent of his injuries and stabilise him in the ICU.”

As they rushed Charles down the hallway to the imaging suite, Dr. Binetti couldn’t ignore the pattern of bruising across his chest. It was a clear sign of Commotio cordis, the impact to his chest so strong that it caused his heart to stop. The first collision had been brutal, but it was the second hit combined with being trapped in the flames, that had done the most damage.

The CT scan revealed multiple rib fractures, a collapsed lung, and significant internal bleeding. However, as the scan results were reviewed, the team’s attention was drawn to an additional concern. Dr. Binetti’s brow furrowed as she observed the bruises on Charles’s body. The severity and distribution suggested a history of trauma beyond what could be attributed to the crash alone. The patterns were concerning, hinting at potential abuse.

“We need to carefully document these bruises,” Dr. Binetti said to her team. “The patterns are inconsistent with typical crash injuries and suggest possible abuse. We should proceed with a thorough investigation once Charles is stable.”

The ICU team began preparing Charles for a medically induced coma. Given the severity of his injuries and the risk of further complications, it was crucial to minimise stress on his body. Medications were administered to induce the coma, and a ventilator was attached to ensure he was breathing properly while unconscious.

Meanwhile, a surgical team readied itself for emergency surgery to address the internal bleeding and repair the damaged organs. As Charles was wheeled into the operating room, the lead surgeon took one last look at the monitors. “We’re going to do everything we can,” he said, not just to himself, but to the unconscious figure on the table.

And with that, the doors closed, leaving the medical team to battle for Charles’ life, clinging to hope as they faced the grim reality of his condition.

———————————————————————

The drive to the hospital felt interminable, each minute stretching into what seemed like an eternity. Daniel kept his focus on the road, trying to maintain a semblance of calm despite the storm raging inside him. The others were largely silent, their minds occupied with the gravity of the situation.

When they finally arrived at the hospital, they moved quickly through the entrance, but their steps were hesitant, weighed down by the gravity of what awaited them. The sterile air inside was chilling, amplifying the anxiety that churned in their stomachs. As they approached the front desk, the nurse on duty looked up, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in their anxious faces.

“We’re here for Charles Leclerc,” Carlos asked in shaky Italian, his voice steady but with a noticeable edge of desperation. “Can you tell us how he’s doing?”

The nurse’s gaze lingered on them for a moment longer, a flicker of suspicion crossing her features before she checked the computer. “He’s in the emergency room. I’ll let the staff know you’re here.” Her tone was polite, but there was an underlying wariness, as if she was trying to gauge the nature of their concern. It wasn’t lost on Carlos, and it only served to deepen the tension. They were directed to a waiting area, where they sat, each lost in their own thoughts, the minutes ticking by with agonising slowness.

Carlos paced back and forth, his hands clenched into fists as he struggled with the gnawing guilt that had settled in his chest. Max sat in a corner, his head resting in his hands, his thoughts a jumbled mess of regret and fear. Daniel tried to keep the group organised, occasionally glancing at his watch and trying to keep everyone’s spirits up with small, encouraging words.

Lando, Alex, and George formed a tight-knit trio. Lando kept a protective arm around Alex, while George alternated between rubbing Alex’s back and casting worried glances at the clock.

Pierre, sitting near to Carlos, didn’t say much, but the tension in his posture mirrored Carlos’s. Both were dealing with their own internal struggles, their faces betraying the stress they felt.

Suddenly, the doors to the waiting area swung open, and a doctor in scrubs stepped in. Her expression was serious, her face a mask of professionalism that did little to calm the tension in the room. Instantly, everyone rose to their feet, their hearts pounding in anticipation and dread.

“I’m Dr. Leoni,” the doctor said, her voice steady but carrying the gravity of the situation. “I’ve been overseeing Charles’ care since he arrived. I need to be upfront with you: his injuries are severe.”

Carlos stepped forward, his voice edged with desperation, he felt his heart pounding in his ears, and the others were visibly trembling. “How is he? What’s wrong with him?”

Dr. Leoni paused, glancing at the anxious faces around her. “Charles is stable, but his injuries are significant. We had to place him in a medically induced coma to reduce the swelling in his brain caused by a severe concussion. The impact led to some swelling, and this is the best way to manage it.”

“A coma?” Alex gasped, his face going pale as he clutched Lando’s arm. His voice wavered, barely holding back the rising panic. “Is he going to wake up? What does that mean?”

“It’s medically induced,” Dr. Leoni continued, her tone calm but firm, trying to anchor the room’s spiralling panic. “This gives his brain the best chance to heal. We’ll monitor him closely, but we don’t know how long it will last. The next 24 to 48 hours are critical.”

George’s reaction was almost immediate; his face drained of colour, and he shook his head as if trying to reject the words. The thought of Charles being in a coma, however controlled, sent a wave of panic through them all. “But…he has to wake up. You can’t just-” He looked at Dr. Leoni, his eyes wide with panic. “What if he doesn’t wake up?”

Dr. Leoni maintained her calm presence, though her eyes softened with empathy. “I know it’s frightening, but this is his best chance. We’re doing everything we can. He also suffered other injuries - multiple broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a fractured leg in two places. We’ve inserted a chest tube to assist his breathing, and his oxygen levels are stable. But again, the next day or two will be crucial.”

“Oh God,” Pierre whimpered, burying his face in his hands, his body trembling uncontrollably. “This can’t be real.”

Max’s breath hitched as he tried to process the information, he reached out, grasping Daniel’s arm as if he needed to hold on to something solid. The thought of Charles lying there, unconscious and vulnerable, was too much. He could feel the panic rising, threatening to overwhelm him. “This can’t be happening,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

Dr. Binetti, who had been quietly observing from the doorway, couldn’t help but feel a flicker of suspicion as she watched the group’s reactions. There was genuine concern in their eyes, yes, but her mind kept returning to the protocols they followed in cases of trauma patients with concerned visitors. Her expression remained neutral, but her thoughts were racing - was there something more here? But she quickly pushed it aside, focusing on her duty to care for her patient.

Alex was trembling now, his eyes wide with fear. “Is there anything we can do? Anything at all?” His voice broke on the last word, the hopelessness in it cutting through the room like a knife.

Dr. Leoni gave a slight shake of her head, her expression sympathetic. “Right now, the best thing you can do is be here for him. He’s sedated, and he won’t be aware of your presence, but it could still help him to know you’re close.”

The group exchanged looks of helplessness, their emotions raw and overwhelming. Carlos, usually the one to stay composed, was barely holding it together, his fists clenching and unclenching as he tried to process the news. Max, too, was visibly shaken, his usual stoic attitude cracking under the weight of his worry.

“Can we see him?” Carlos finally managed to ask, his voice rough with barely restrained emotion.

Dr. Leoni nodded. “Yes, you can see him now. I’ll take you to his room.”

As she turned to lead them, George, Lando and Alex were already moving, their fear propelling them forward. Max and Daniel stayed close, trying to offer what little comfort they could, though their own hearts were heavy with dread.

The group followed Dr. Leoni down the sterile corridors, their minds racing with the fear of the unknown, the haunting possibility that Charles might not come back to them. The medical details were overwhelming, but all they could focus on was getting to his side, hoping against hope that their presence could somehow make a difference.

———————————————————————

Carlos couldn’t sit still, his mind racing with anger and guilt. He was furious with Ferrari, blaming them for the car’s failure, and his thoughts were already beginning to formulate a plan - a way to hold them accountable, to ensure this never happened again. But as he paced, his anger momentarily subsided as he looked at Charles. Moving closer, he reached out and gripped Charles’ hair, his touch softening as he whispered, “You’re my annoying little brother, you know that right? Annoying? Yeah, more than anyone, but you’re still my little brother. So, you better fight, Charles. I’m not letting you go like this, not now, not ever. You hear me? We're in this together - we’ve still got a lot more trouble to cause and I need you, Charles. We’re going to make Ferrari pay for what they did to you… but I can’t do it without you.”

The others watched in silence, the weight of Carlos’ words hanging in the air. Pierre, standing nearby, was battling his own thoughts. The sight of Charles lying so still and vulnerable brought back the painful memory of losing Anthoine Hubert. He had never had the chance to say goodbye to Anthoine, and the thought that he might lose another friend without doing so was too much to bear.

“Can I have a moment alone with him?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion. “I never got to say goodbye to Anthoine… I need to do this, just in case.” The others nodded, understanding the weight of his request. Once the room was cleared, he approached the bed, his heart heavy with the words he struggled to find.. He leaned in close, his voice trembling and barely a whisper as he spoke. “I never got to say goodbye to Anthoine… I won’t make that mistake again. Please, Charles, don’t make me say it… Just come back to us. We need you… I need you…”

Pierre rested his head on Charles’ chest, listening to his heartbeat as his voice trembled. “But I’m going to say it now, to you, just in case… Goodbye Charlie… I will miss you so so much. Say hello to Anthonie, Jules and your dad for me… Je t'aime petit calamar…” Tears welled up in his eyes as he gripped Charles’ hand, the memories of his lost friend overwhelming him. After a few minutes, Pierre rejoined the others, his expression a mix of sorrow and determination.

Next, Max stepped forward, his heart pounding in his chest. The guilt was unbearable, the thought that he might have been able to prevent this tormenting him. He sat beside Charles, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch his friend’s arm. “Charles… I’m so sorry. I should’ve seen you, done something different… Please wake up…”

As Max looked at Charles, his voice broke in a whispered plea, “Please, say this is just a nightmare…”

But the sight of his own bloodstained hands, trembling with guilt and fear, made it all too real, a stark reminder that there was no waking up from this.

Max lingered for a moment, then stepped back, his chest tightening with emotion. For a moment, Max was lost in his own despair, but then he felt Daniel’s presence beside him, as the older driver entered the room, his usual lighthearted demeanour subdued but still present.

“Hey, Max,” Daniel said softly, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You know how Charles is Maxie. He’s too stubborn to let this keep him down. He’ll be back to annoying us all in no time.” Max managed a small, shaky laugh, the sound a brief respite from the depressing feeling of the day.

Daniel approached the bed, forcing a small smile despite the fear gnawing at his insides. “Hey, Charlie,” he said softly, his voice laced with a hint of his usual humour. “You better wake up soon, mate. You know we can’t continue without you… plus, who’s going to fight Max for the title and keep his ego in line if you’re not around?” His attempt at a joke was shaky, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

Daniel stayed by Charles’ side for a bit, talking to him about anything and everything - old races, inside jokes, plans for the future - trying to keep the mood light despite the suffocating tension. He hoped that somewhere, deep down, Charles could hear him and know they were all there, waiting for him to come back. Daniel smiled, but as he looked closely at Charles, a deep sadness washed over him. The memories of Jules Bianchi flooded back, the similarities too striking to ignore. The sight of Charles, so still and fragile, was too much. He had to step back, retreating from the room as the past threatened to overwhelm him.

After what felt like an eternity, Daniel returned, his face pale but composed. “I’ll drive you all back home,” he offered, his voice steady, though there was an unmistakable strain beneath it. “We’ve been here long enough. You all need to rest.”

Carlos shook his head, the anger in his eyes burning brighter now. “Drop me off at Ferrari,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I need to talk to them.”

Pierre and Max exchanged a glance, both of them looking equally drained. “We’ll head back to the hotel,” Pierre said quietly, his voice tinged with exhaustion.

Daniel nodded, understanding their need for rest, even if he wasn’t sure any of them would actually sleep. But when he turned to Lando, Alex, and George, they shook their heads in unison.
“We’re staying here,” Lando said firmly, his voice resolute. He glanced at Alex and George, who both nodded in agreement. “We’re not leaving Charlie.”

The three of them returned to Charles’ side, their presence a silent testament to their love and loyalty. Lando sat on one side, holding Charles’ hand tightly, while Alex and George settled on the other, their arms wrapped around each other and Charles in a protective embrace. They whispered words of comfort, their presence a constant, grounding force amidst the uncertainty.

As the night wore on, the hospital room remained a sanctuary of quiet. The fear of losing him was ever-present, but so was their love - a love that kept them rooted to his side, willing him to fight his way back to them.

And in the quiet of that room, amidst the soft hum of the machines and the steady rhythm of Charles’ breathing, they held on to each other, waiting for a sign, a miracle, something to tell them that everything would be okay.

Chapter Text

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Carlos stormed through the doors of Ferrari’s Maranello headquarters, his mind racing faster than any car he’d ever driven. The pristine halls, lined with trophies and photos of past champions, seemed to mock him now.

He was furious - furious with himself, with Ferrari, and even, irrationally, with Charles.

Before the race, Charles had confided in him, a rare moment of vulnerability. He had said there was something off with the car, something that didn’t feel right. Carlos had brushed it off, telling Charles not to worry, to focus on the race ahead. He had been so sure, so confident that everything would be fine. Charles was talented, one of the best drivers - he’d handle it. But now… now Charles was fighting for his life, and Carlos couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d somehow failed his friend.

The guilt gnawed at him, sharp and unrelenting. He should have listened more closely, should have insisted on checking the car, should have done something to prevent this. Instead, he’d dismissed Charles’ concerns, trusted in their team, and now one of his closest friends, one of the people he cared about most in the world, was paying the price. His anger wasn’t just directed at himself. It burned for Ferrari too - the team should have caught any issue, should have ensured Charles’s safety above all else. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to demand answers. How could this have happened? How could they have let this happen?

And then, in the darkest corners of his mind, there was anger at Charles too. Why hadn’t he pushed harder? Why hadn’t he refused to race if he knew something was wrong? But even as the thought crossed his mind, Carlos hated himself for it. Charles had trusted him, had looked to him for reassurance, and Carlos had let him down. He had told him not to worry. He had convinced him everything would be okay. But it wasn’t okay. Charles was lying in a hospital somewhere, fighting for his life, and Carlos didn’t know if he could ever forgive himself.

As he pushed open the door to Binotto’s office, he found the team principal sitting behind his desk, calmly reviewing some documents. The contrast between the man’s composed demeanour and the chaos of the past 24 hours made Carlos’ blood boil.

“Mattia,” Carlos began, his voice tight with barely contained fury. “We need to talk.”

Binotto glanced up, his expression neutral, as if Carlos had just asked about the weather. “Carlos, what brings you here at this hour? Shouldn’t you be resting?”

Carlos didn’t take the bait. He slammed his hands on the desk, leaning in closer. "Charles is in a coma, Mattia. Our teammate. Our friend. He could be dying right now, and you-“ Carlos struggled to keep his voice steady. “You seem completely unbothered.”

Binotto leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly. “This is Formula 1, Carlos. Accidents happen. It's unfortunate, but we must look ahead. The season won't wait.”

Carlos blinked, momentarily stunned by the coldness of the reply. “Look ahead? What about the fact that our driver could be dying right now? What’s the plan for when he’s out of commission?”

“We’ll find a replacement,” Binotto replied smoothly, as if discussing an interchangeable part in a machine. “The car is ready for the next race, and we need someone in it.”

“Ready? You can’t be serious,” Carlos shot back. “The car broke. We need to figure out what went wrong before anyone else drives it. The crash wasn’t Charles’ fault, and you know it.”

Binotto’s gaze hardened, as if Carlos had just insulted him. “It was driver error, Carlos. That’s the official line. That’s what we’re telling the media.”

Carlos felt a cold chill run down his spine. “Driver error? Mattia, Charles doesn’t make mistakes like that. He wouldn’t just lose control.”

“That’s irrelevant,” Binotto snapped, his patience wearing thin.

Carlos thought deeply. “The media will know straight away that it was a car failure. They probably even heard a radio of Charles saying there was a problem.”

“We asked the FIA to not publish any radio or camera footage until after we have released a statement, which means we can tell the public it was just a driver mistake.”

Carlos argued back, “So you’re just going to lie to all the Tifosi and fans? They will be disappointed when the truth is revealed…”

“What matters is that the Ferrari name remains untarnished. We can’t afford a scandal right now, not when we’re fighting for the championship.”

Carlos gripped his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, trying to stay composed despite the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him. “This isn’t just about Ferrari’s image, Mattia! Charles nearly died out there! And you’re going to blame him? What about the car? What about the upgrades? Was there something different on his car compared to mine?”

There was a brief pause, and for the first time, Binotto’s eyes flickered with something close to annoyance. “Yes, we were testing new parts on his car. Charles agreed to it. He wanted to win, Carlos. He knew the risks.”

Carlos shook his head, disbelief clouding his thoughts. “No. No way, Charles wouldn’t agree to something that dangerous, not like this. He wouldn’t risk his life just for an upgrade.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Binotto said, his voice low and dangerous. “Charles is as hungry for that championship as any driver on this grid. He knows what it takes to win, and he was willing to push the limits.”

“Push the limits?” Carlos repeated, his voice trembling with rage. “He nearly died because of those ‘limits’! And if the FIA finds out you were testing unsafe parts-“

“They won’t find out,” Binotto interrupted, his tone icy. “Because you won’t tell them, will you? You wouldn’t want Ferrari punished. That would only hurt you, too. No racing, no championships. Isn’t that what you care about?”

Carlos laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and mirthless. “If you seriously think I care more about racing in F1 than about Charles’ life, you don’t know me at all.”

Binotto’s expression didn’t change. “Well, then I was wrong, that’s disappointing. All I care about is Ferrari’s success. We’re here to win, Carlos. That’s all that matters.”

Carlos’ jaw tightened. "I’m not going to let this slide. I’ll tell someone. I’ll tell the FIA that the car is unsafe, that you’re putting people’s lives at risk.”

Binotto’s eyes narrowed, his voice a venomous whisper. “I could easily make it look like you were jealous of Charles, maybe you wanted a contract extension… maybe you sabotaged his car. Just a little whisper to the media, and you think you’d have a future in F1 after that? Think again.”

Carlos’ eyes widened, shock giving way to anger. “Did you just threaten me?”

Binotto’s smile was thin, devoid of warmth. “Consider it a reality check. There are hundreds of drivers who would kill for your seat. If you don’t want it, someone else will. You’re leaving at the end of the season anyway, aren’t you? So why not leave quietly?”

Carlos leaned in closer, his voice low and defiant. “I’m leaving at the end of the season, Mattia. I’m not afraid of you. But you should be afraid of what happens when the truth comes out.”

For a moment, the two men stared each other down, the air thick with tension. Then Carlos turned on his heel and walked out of the office, his heart pounding. He didn’t know what he was going to do next, but he knew one thing for certain - he couldn’t let this go. Not when Charles’ life was on the line.

———————————————————————

As the steady beep of the heart monitor filled the room, Lando, George, and Alex sat around Charles’ hospital bed, each of them lost in their own thoughts, yet united by the deep worry etched on their faces. They had spent hours by his side, holding his hands, brushing stray strands of hair from his forehead, whispering words of comfort, even though Charles was unable to hear them. The sight of him lying there, so still and vulnerable, tore at their hearts. The silence between them was heavy, but it was filled with the unspoken support they were offering each other, all their love and concern focused on the man who had brought them together.

Lando reached out, gently squeezing Charles’ hand, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re going to get through this, Charlie. We’re right here with you, okay? We’re not going anywhere.”

George nodded, his thumb brushing across Charles’s knuckles. "We’re all here, love. You’re not alone. Just keep fighting."

Alex, sitting by Charles’s side, leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. "We love you so much, Charles. You’re stronger than this. We believe in you."

Just then, the door to Charles’s hospital room creaked open, and a middle-aged woman in a white coat stepped inside. Her expression was serious, her eyes sharp as they scanned the room before settling on the three young men huddled around the bed. The scene was one of quiet intimacy, the three of them offering what little comfort they could to the unconscious man lying between them.
The doctor hesitated for a brief moment, taking in the tenderness with which they touched Charles's hand or adjusted his blanket. But then she composed herself and approached them cautiously, her gaze flickering between the three with a hint of wariness.

“Excuse me,” she began, her voice professional but carrying a subtle edge. “I’m Dr. Paola Binetti, the attending physician for Mr. Leclerc. May I ask who you are in relation to him?”

Alex, feeling the weight of her scrutiny, cleared his throat and spoke up. “We’re… we’re his boyfriends,” he said, the word feeling oddly out of place in the sterile, clinical environment.

Dr. Binetti’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but she maintained her composure. “I see,” she replied, her tone carefully neutral. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with you all privately. There are some things we need to discuss regarding Charles’s condition.”

The three men exchanged uneasy looks before rising from their seats and following her down a quiet corridor to a small, private consultation room. The room was stark, with only a table and a few chairs, the walls a plain, unremarkable white. The contrast between the warmth they’d tried to create at Charles’s bedside and the coldness of this room was striking.

“Please, have a seat,” she offered, gesturing to the chairs. They sat down, feeling the cold metal beneath their fingers as they braced themselves for whatever news she was about to deliver.

“I want to start by saying that Charles is in a stable condition,” Dr. Binetti began, her voice carrying a note of reassurance. “As you know, he suffered significant trauma in the crash, and we’re doing everything we can to speed up his recovery. However, there’s something else we need to discuss.”

The three men exchanged nervous glances, sensing that this conversation was about to take a darker, more unexpected turn.

“When we conducted our initial assessment of Charles’s injuries,” Dr. Binetti continued, her voice growing more cautious, “we noticed some bruising on his body that doesn’t quite match the injuries from the crash. These bruises appear to be older and in various stages of healing, they’ve raised some concerns.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and foreboding. The men looked at each other in confusion, trying to process what she was implying.

George, his face pale, leaned forward slightly. “What… what do you mean by concerns? Are you suggesting that Charles was hurt before the crash?”

Dr. Binetti nodded slowly, her gaze steady. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting. The pattern and location of some of these bruises are inconsistent with the kind of trauma you’d expect from a racing accident. Given the circumstances, we have to consider the possibility of non-accidental injuries.”

Lando’s eyes widened in shock, and Alex looked at the doctor in disbelief. “You’re saying… you think someone hurt him? Before the crash?” Lando asked, his voice trembling.

Dr. Binetti’s gaze remained unyielding, though there was a softness to it as well, a conflict between her suspicions and what she was observing in front of her. “That’s what we need to investigate. The bruises are suspicious, and as his partners, I assume you spend a lot of time with him. You would have noticed if something was wrong - if there were bruises on his skin.”

Her words were not just an inquiry - they were a subtle accusation, and they hit hard. George’s face flushed with a mix of confusion and anger, while Lando shook his head in disbelief. Alex, trying to process the implications, finally found his voice.

“You think… you think we did this?” He managed to choke out, his voice filled with disbelief.

Dr. Binetti didn’t back down, though her tone softened slightly. “It’s my duty to explore all possibilities when it comes to a patient’s well-being. The pattern of these bruises suggests that they were inflicted over time, not just from a single incident. I need to understand how Charles could have sustained these injuries.”

“Look, Charles… he’s everything to us,” George said, his voice firm despite the shock and confusion. “We would never hurt him, and we haven’t noticed anything like that. If we had, we would’ve done something about it.”

Lando, still reeling from the accusation, added, “We don’t get to have a lot of physical contact with Charles, not in public at least. We’ve had to be discreet… Maybe that’s why we didn’t notice. But someone should have. Ferrari should have reported it if they saw anything.”

Dr. Binetti nodded slightly, her expression softening a touch but still laced with skepticism. “Look, you seem like good people, and I’m not here to make accusations lightly. But these bruises… they’re concerning. If there’s something you’re not aware of, it’s important that we get to the bottom of it. Charles’s safety and well-being are our top priority.”

She paused, searching their faces as if trying to gauge the sincerity of their words. Finally, she gave a slight nod, though her expression remained cautious.

“I will be conducting a full investigation into Charles’s injuries,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “In the meantime, you’re welcome to stay here at the hospital. I’ll keep you updated on his condition.”

As she turned to leave, the door closing softly behind her, the three men were left sitting in stunned silence. The weight of the accusation still hung heavily in the air, mingling with their worry for Charles. The implication hit them like a ton of bricks, leaving them reeling, their love and concern for Charles now tainted by the fear that something darker had been overlooked.

No-one spoke.

Lando was the first to break the silence, his voice shaky. “Do you think… do you think someone actually did this to him? Hurt him?”

George, still pale from the shock of the conversation, shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t know… I mean, Charles never said anything. He never showed any signs. We would’ve noticed if something was wrong, right?”

Alex, usually the calmest among them, was frowning deeply, his brow furrowed with worry. “How could we have missed this? Bruises… old ones. He must’ve been hiding it from us, from everyone. But why? Who would do this to him?”

The room fell silent again, each of them lost in their own thoughts, trying to piece together an answer that made sense. The idea that their Charles, who was so bright, talented, and full of life had been suffering in silence, enduring abuse from someone, was almost too much to bear.

“Maybe it wasn’t someone,” Lando said quietly, almost as if he didn’t want to say it out loud. “Maybe it was something… maybe he was pushing himself too hard, hurting himself somehow, and we didn’t see it.”

George’s eyes darkened at the thought, his fists clenching unconsciously. “If that’s the case, why didn’t he say anything? Why didn’t he ask for help? We would’ve done anything for him.”

Alex shook his head, frustration and concern evident in his expression. “Whether it was someone else or something Charles was going through on his own, we need to find out. We can’t just sit here and wonder. When he wakes up, we need to talk to him. We need to make sure this never happens again.”

George nodded, though his jaw was still tight with anger. “Yeah, we will. And if someone did this to him…” His voice trailed off, but the threat lingered in the air. There was no doubt that they would protect Charles at all costs.

Lando, always the optimist, forced a small, determined smile. “He’s going to wake up. We’ll be there when he does, and we’ll get to the bottom of this together. No one’s going to hurt him again. Not while we’re around.”

The three of them sat in tense silence once more, but now their concern for Charles was mixed with a deep, simmering anger. Whoever had hurt him, whatever had caused those bruises - whether it was someone else or Charles himself - they would get answers. And when they did, they would make sure Charles was safe, no matter what it took. For now, though, all they could do was wait. Wait for Charles to wake up and tell them what had happened. Wait for the chance to make things right. And, as they sat by his side, they silently vowed that they would never let him suffer alone again.

Chapter Text

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The whispers had begun the moment Ferrari had released their official statement calling the crash a ‘driver error.’ Saying that it wasn’t a mechanical failure was one thing, but calling it a ‘driver error’ was undoubtedly a cover up. It was the same excuse teams had used a thousand times before, an easy out when the truth might prove too controversial. But this time, nobody was buying it. Charles Leclerc was one of the most talented drivers on the grid, and the idea that he had simply lost control didn’t sit right with anyone who had watched him, who understood the sheer skill with which he handled the car.

Social media buzzed with speculation. Fans dissected the footage of the crash frame by frame, analysing every radio message and telemetry data snippet they could find. The conversation had moved from hushed uncertainty to outright suspicion, fuelled by one particularly damning tweet from a well-known Ferrari fan account.

"I love Ferrari, but let’s be real – that car looked dangerous. There was something wrong, and they’re covering it up. How many more lives do we need to risk before they admit it? #FerrariFail #JusticeForCharles"

At first, it was just another voice in the echo chamber of social media outrage, but then, in a move that would ignite a worldwide controversy, Carlos Sainz liked it.

A single, seemingly irrelevant tap on the screen had just practically begged news outlets to start to wonder. And wonder they did, as Carlos’ quiet endorsement was published on every major news outlet across the globe.

“Ferrari's Own Driver Lends Support to Accusations of Foul Play!”

“Carlos Sainz Likes Controversial Tweet About Horrific Crash!”

“What does Carlos know that we don’t?”

“Is Ferrari Hiding the Truth About Leclerc’s Crash? Sainz Seems to Think so…”

In the midst of the chaos, Carlos sat in his living room, staring at his phone in disbelief, the damage was done. Notifications buzzed relentlessly as his heart raced. Messages from Ferrari’s PR team were already rolling in, their anger clear even through the formalities of written text. But Carlos didn’t care. He hadn’t meant to fan the flames; he had liked the tweet in a moment of frustration, without thinking about the consequences. But now it was too late. The media had taken it as confirmation - Ferrari was hiding something, and Carlos knew.

The ding of another notification snapped him out of his thoughts - it was George.

George Russell: “Carlos. We need to talk. In person. Call me when you can.”

Carlos closed his eyes and let out a long, exhausted breath. He needed to take control of the situation, but he couldn’t do it through Ferrari’s carefully filtered PR channels. He couldn’t let them spin this any further. The truth had to come out.

He dialled his manager's number with trembling hands.

“I need to make a statement,” he said as soon as the call connected. “I need to speak to the media.”

“Carlos, do you know how bad this looks?” his manager replied, his voice laced with stress. “Ferrari’s furious. Liking that tweet – it’s like throwing gasoline on a fire.”

“I know,” Carlos responded, pacing the room. “But I can’t just sit here and let them blame this on Charles. He could’ve died, and they’re pretending like it’s his fault. I won’t be part of that lie.”

His manager let out a sigh. “You realise this could ruin your career, right? Ferrari won’t protect you.”

“I’m not asking them to,” Carlos clenched his jaw. He knew the risks “I’m asking you to help me.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “What are you asking for?”

“I want to arrange a press conference. I’ll do it myself, no Ferrari representatives. Just me and the media.”

His manager sighed. “Alright. I’ll make some calls. But Carlos, you need to be ready. This won’t be pretty.”

He nodded, even though his manager couldn’t see him. “I’m ready,” he said, though the truth was, he wasn’t sure if anyone could be ready for what was about to come out.

Carlos ended the call and sank into the couch, his mind swirling with guilt, anger, and the weight of what lay ahead. He had a team to race for, a contract, a future in F1 — but he also had a friend in the hospital, a friend who deserved the truth. And that friend mattered more than anything.

———————————————————————

In the hospital, the soft hum of machines filled the room as Alex sat beside Charles, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. It had been seven long days since the crash. Seven days of waiting, of hoping, of quiet moments that stretched endlessly into uncertainty. Every hour spent in the ICU had felt like a lifetime, but Alex refused to leave. Each day, he and the others — George or Lando — took turns keeping watch. They spoke to Charles, even when there was no response, clinging to the belief that their voices would pull him back.

“Come on Charlie,” Alex leant forward and gently stroked Charles’ hair, the familiar touch calming him as much as he hoped it would Charles. “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

As Alex continued speaking to him, his voice soft and steady, he whispered about Charles' family. “Your family’s been here too. They arrived a few days ago, you know? Your mum, Lorenzo, Arthur… they’re so worried about you, Charlie. They’ve been staying nearby, coming in every day, waiting for you to wake up.”

Charles' family had lost so much over the years, and the fear of losing him had shaken them to their core. His mother had sat by his bed for hours at a time, her hand gripping his, afraid of the possibility of losing another loved one. His brothers had been there too, a constant presence, keeping quiet but their faces showing the strain of watching their beloved brother suffer.

“They’ll be so relieved when they see you awake again,” Alex murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You mean everything to them, Charlie. They can’t lose you too.”

He pressed a soft kiss to his boyfriend’s forehead, his hand resting lightly on Charles’ arm. He was about to pull back when something changed - Charles' fingers twitched. Alex’s breath hitched in his throat. He stilled, his heart thundering in his chest.

“Charles?”

There was another twitch, and then, a squeeze. This time, Alex let out a shaky breath, his voice thick with emotion. “Charlie! Can you hear me?”

Charles didn’t open his eyes, but his fingers tightened ever so slightly. It was enough.

Tears pricked his eyes as he fumbled for his phone, his hands trembling as he dialled Lando and George.

When Lando picked up, Alex’s words tumbled out in a rush. “He squeezed my hand, Lando! He’s waking up!”

By the time Lando and George arrived, Charles had grown more restless, his body occasionally shifting beneath the covers. Small movements, but they were everything, and now and then, a soft murmur escaped his lips as if he was fighting to come back to consciousness.

“He’s coming back to us,” Alex said softly, glancing up as Lando and George approached the bed. “I know he is.”

But just as the words left his lips, Charles’ body tensed. His eyelids fluttered, his breath hitched, and his face twisted in pain. A soft whimper escaped him, followed by a sharp gasp.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Alex murmured, his heart breaking at the sight. He reached for Charles’ hand again, squeezing it gently. “It’s okay, Charlie. We’re here…”

Lando and George joined him, their voices soft but firm as they offered words of comfort, gently calming the unconscious boy.

———————————————————————

The flashback was overwhelming, the violent memories of the crash flooding back in broken pieces. Charles was lost in it, his body trembling, his breath quick and shallow.

Finally, his eyes blinked open; wide, confused and filled with pain. The first thing he noticed was the softness of the pillow beneath his head, followed by the cool, sterile air that filled his lungs. He tried to move but was met with a wave of fatigue, his body protesting even the smallest effort.

“Charlie? Love?”

The voice was soft, familiar. He turned his head slowly, and through the haze of disorientation, he saw Alex sitting beside him, his eyes red-rimmed but filled with relief. George and Lando were there too, hovering near the bed, their expressions a mix of worry and joy.

“You’re awake,” George said, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank God.”

Charles blinked slowly, trying to piece together what had happened. “Where am I? What happened?” His voice was raspy, barely above a whisper.

“The hospital,” Alex explained gently, leaning in closer. “You’ve been out for a whole week.”

Seven days? The realisation hit Charles hard. The last thing he remembered was getting in his car, and then… nothing.

He swallowed hard, trying to push away the rising panic. “I crashed… what happened? I just remember… black. And pain.”

“You were in a coma, but the doctors said you’d pull through,” Lando said, brushing a strand of hair from Charles’ forehead. “Don’t push yourself to remember. You’re safe now, and that’s all that matters.”

Charles’ gaze drifted around the room, settling on the small pile of gifts and flowers. “Everyone…?” he asked, his voice raspy.

“Yeah,” Lando said with a soft smile. “Max, Lewis, all the drivers. They’ve been sending their best.”

But as Charles took in the tokens of support, a flicker of hurt crossed his face. “Where’s Carlos’?” Charles asked, his voice quiet but strained. “Didn’t he come?”

Alex bit his lip, exchanging a quick glance with George and Lando. “He came, straight after the crash,” Alex said softly. “He wanted to make sure you were okay. But… he had to leave.”

Charles’ eyes clouded with a flicker of disappointment. He had hoped his teammate, his friend, would have stayed, would have at least sent him his well wishes.

“Ferrari has been dealing with a lot recently,” George admitted, his voice gentle. “But he does care, I promise you. He was the first one at your side and wouldn’t have left if he didn’t have to.”

Charles nodded, though his expression didn’t fully hide his hurt. “Yeah… I know.”

Lando quickly tried to change the subject. “Your family will be here in a bit. Your mum and brothers come to visit every day. They’ve been staying close, waiting for you.”

At the mention of his family, Charles’ eyes softened with emotion. He knew how much his family had been through, and the thought of them worrying over him for so long filled him with a quiet guilt. But knowing they had been there, waiting for him, eased his heart just a little.

Charles released a short statement to the public, thanking everyone for their support and letting them know he was on the road to recovery. The outpouring of love was overwhelming, but as the hours passed, an unspoken tension settled over the room.

Lando, Alex and George exchanged looks, silently agreeing to aproach the subject.

“Charles,” George began, his voice gentle but firm, “there’s something we need to talk about.”

But before he could say more, the door opened, and a nurse stepped in, clipboard in hand. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need to check on Mr. Leclerc.”

The conversation was left hanging in the air, tension simmering as the nurse began her routine checks. But as the three of them stood by Charles’ side, they knew the time for answers was coming soon - and when it did, nothing would ever be the same.

———————————————————————

The room felt smaller once Charles’ family arrived, their presence filling the space with a mixture of love, relief, and unspoken fear. Alex, George, and Lando exchanged knowing looks and quietly stepped out, giving the family the privacy they needed. The door closed softly behind them, leaving the room bathed in the gentle hum of medical equipment and the soft shuffle of footsteps. His mother, Pascale, rushed to his side, her face a mask of relief and unspoken fear. Behind her, his brothers Lorenzo and Arthur followed, their own expressions reflecting worry and hope.

Charles’ heart ached at the sight of them. The guilt surged within him as he saw the anxiety in their eyes, the way they tried so hard to mask their fear. His voice, barely more than a whisper, trembled with remorse. “I’m sorry for making you worry.”

Pascale’s hands reached out instinctively, cradling his face with a tenderness that spoke of years of love. Her eyes shimmered with tears as she leaned closer. “Oh, mon bébé,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You scared me so much. I was worried sick.”

Charles blinked, his emotions warring between relief and guilt. His mother had always worried, every race, every lap, every time he got behind the wheel. He knew that. But seeing it on her face now, seeing the weight of her worry made it hit him differently.

“Maman, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice soft and strained. “I didn’t mean to… make you worry. I never want to—”

She shook her head quickly, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “It’s not your fault, Charles. I worry because I love you. I’ve always worried about you, since the first time you sat in a kart. It’s part of being a mother.”

Her lips quivered as she smiled, pride shimmering in her tear-filled eyes. “But I’m also proud of you. So proud. Every time you’re out there, I see how strong you are, how hard you fight. And even now… you’re still fighting. That’s all that matters.”

A lump formed in Charles’ throat as he fought to keep his composure. The crash had been severe, and knowing his family had been watching from the sidelines, helpless… it made him feel guilty in a way he couldn’t shake.

“I didn’t want to cause any of you this pain.”

Arthur stepped forward, his usual playful personality softened by the seriousness of the situation.

“Hey, Charles,” he said gently, his voice full of sincerity. “You’re one of the strongest people I know. What happened out there - it’s not your fault. We know you’re fighting hard. We’ve seen it. And we’re here with you every step of the way.”

Charles forced a small smile, but the weight of his guilt stayed. “I just—”

Lorenzo placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “We know, little brother. We all know how much you love racing, and we love you even more. Don’t worry about us being scared. We’re proud of you and your strength. That’s what keeps us going.”

His gaze softened as he added, “Jules and Dad would be so proud of you. They’d be cheering you on right now. You’ve got their strength in you, and we’re all behind you.”

The mention of Jules brought a sharp pang to Charles’ heart. He remembered the coma Jules had been in - the endless waiting, the hope that had dimmed so quickly. It was a painful reminder of the fragility of life and the way it could shift in an instant.

The room fell silent for a moment, the air thick with emotion. Charles took a shaky breath, his eyes scanning their faces - his mother, his brothers, the people who had always been there for him. They had been through so much together, and even now, after everything, they were still here, standing by his side.

“I’m okay,” Charles finally said, though it was as much for their sake as it was for his own. “I promise. I would never leave you. I’ll always fight to come back to you.”

Pascale smiled through her tears, brushing his hair back from his forehead like she used to when he was a child. “We know, Charles. We’re here for you, just like we have always been.”

Charles squeezed her hand, trying to express his love and appreciation through the simple gesture. The room’s heavy atmosphere seemed to lift, if only a little, as their love enveloped him in a comforting embrace. Their love and support helped him find a renewed sense of strength, and with them by his side, he felt ready to face whatever lay ahead.

Chapter Text

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The blinding lights from the cameras crashed down on Carlos as he sat at the front of the press room, every bulb an interrogation, every lens a witness. Shadows leaped off his frame, slicing sharply across his face, adding an intensity to his expression. A buzz of tension electrified the room, as palpable as a storm waiting to break. Every journalist leaned in, eyes gleaming with curiosity, voices hushed, poised for the next revelation. Faces shifted between polite concern, naked hunger for scandal, and the thrill of fresh controversy.

The first question shot out, sharp and fast.

“Carlos, what can you say about Charles’ crash? Some reports suggest it was driver error. Was Charles at fault?”

Carlos clenched his jaw, the muscles working under his skin as he scanned the room. His gaze zeroed in on the reporter who’d dared to voice the accusation. He held his stare, letting the silence deepen before his answer came, every syllable grounded and sharp-edged.

“The crash was not Charles’ fault.” He spoke slowly, every word measured, a punch aimed straight into the doubt appearing the room. “Charles is one of the most skilled drivers on this grid. If something went wrong, it was with the car, not him.”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the room, half of the crowd nodding thoughtfully while others whispered or exchanged questioning glances. Carlos braced himself; this was just the beginning. As he expected, another voice quickly cut through, eager and probing.

“Ferrari recently tested some upgrades on the cars, didn’t they? Could this crash have been caused by one of those parts?”

His heart drummed against his chest. This was it - the moment he’d dreaded yet prepared for, the moment to reveal what he had wrestled with in silence. There would be no turning back.

“Yes,” he began, his voice barely above a murmur, but laced with determination. “Yes… it was an upgrade. Ferrari tested unsafe parts on his car.”

An audible gasp rippled through the room, quickly replaced by stunned silence. His words lingered like storm clouds above, heavy and ominous, before a torrent of questions poured in, each journalist jostling to have their voice heard.

“Are you accusing Ferrari of endangering their driver?”

“What does this mean for your own future with Ferrari?”

“Why did you decide to speak out now?”

Carlos inhaled deeply, his mind racing even as he kept his demeanour controlled. This was for Charles; this was the truth he owed him, the vindication he deserved.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Carlos replied, his voice taking on a sharper edge, his conviction solidifying. “Ferrari knew about the risks. They tested unsafe parts on Charles’ car and chose to keep it quiet. I refuse to be silent any longer.”

The murmurs grew louder, the frenzy in the room intensifying as some reporters scribbled furiously while others cast glances at each other, eyes wide with shock. But one voice sliced through, its tone sharp and skeptical.

“Carlos, is this just jealousy speaking?” The journalist’s tone was laced with taunting disbelief. “Are you doing this because you feel threatened by Charles’ success? Jealous of his future with Ferrari?”

Carlos felt his fists clench under the table. He had anticipated this, but the accusation still stung. He forced himself to stay calm, his voice measured and firm. “This isn’t about jealousy or rivalry. It’s about Charles’ safety - about what he went through, and the lengths I’m willing to go to for his sake. I don’t care about my contract; I care about his life. Nothing else matters.”

The questions kept coming, sharper now, relentless.

“Are you prepared to face the backlash? What team would want to hire someone who speaks out against their own?”

Carlos met the eyes of the reporter head-on, feeling his anger ignite. “Whatever the consequences are, I’ll deal with them. Right now, Charles is my priority. He’s in the hospital, and that’s where I’m going.”

Without waiting for further questions, Carlos rose to his feet, ignoring the clamour that followed him as he walked out, feeling the weight of his words sink into him like stones. His footsteps echoed through the corridor as he left the chaos behind, his mind racing but resolute. He had done it. He had exposed Ferrari’s betrayal, told the world the truth, and, in a way, avenged his friend. But now he had to face Charles…

———————————————————————

The hospital’s sterile silence was a stark contrast to the uproar of the press room, but it only made Carlos’ heart beat louder in his chest. Each step felt heavier, the weight of his confession pressing down on him. He hadn’t come to see Charles since the accident, hiding behind his own guilt and the truth he carried. But now, there was no hiding left.

As he reached Charles’ door, he hesitated, his hand hovering over the handle. With a steadying breath, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

Charles lay on the hospital bed, propped up by a mess of pillows. His face was pale, his eyes shadowed with fatigue, but they lit up when he saw Carlos - a flicker of surprise, followed by something guarded and unreadable.

“You finally showed up,” Charles murmured, his voice soft and quiet. There was no anger in his tone, just a calm acknowledgment of Carlos’ absence.

Carlos felt his chest tighten. He took a few steps closer, his voice tinged with regret. “Yeah… I’m sorry. I should’ve come sooner.”

Charles’ gaze drifted to the sheets, his fingers picking at a loose thread. “Where were you?”

Carlos let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “I… I was trying to figure things out. I wanted to be here, but everything with Ferrari - what they’ve hidden, what they’ve done… it’s all so much.”

Charles’ gaze turned back to him, searching his face as if trying to gauge the depth of his turmoil. “I heard about the press conference. What did you tell them?”

Carlos swallowed, moving closer to the bed. “I told them the truth,” he said softly. “About the unsafe parts. How they put you at risk. I couldn’t let them blame you. This wasn’t your fault, Charles.”

“Thank you,” Charles whispered, the gratitude in his voice surprising Carlos. He hadn’t expected it.

Carlos sat down, caught off guard by how raw the moment felt, and the awkward silence that followed. It wasn’t the easy reunion he’d imagined.

“We were all so worried, Charles… we thought we’d lost you.” His tone shifted, the worry spilling into frustration. He wanted to scold the younger, shake him, make him understand just how close he’d come to… to not coming back at all. “You can’t risk your life like this, for points, for a championship that wouldn’t mean a thing if you weren’t here to accept it.”

Charles flinched, his face closing off. “You’re… you’re disappointed,” he said, the words barely escaping him. He looked away, the faint tremor in his jaw betraying his calm facade. “I’d rather you just yell at me. It’d be easier.”

Carlos’ heart twisted painfully. He reached out, placing a hand on Charles’ shoulder, feeling the tension wound up there. “I’m not disappointed in you, Charles. I’m just… I’m scared. Scared of losing you.”

Charles looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes, followed by a slow understanding. The room filled with a quiet stillness, the weight of Carlos’ words hanging between them.

“I just… didn’t want to let anyone down. I thought if I pushed hard enough, if I did good maybe things would get better.”

“Not like this,” Carlos said firmly, his grip tightening as he felt the suffering in Charles’ mind. “You don’t have to break yourself for this sport, for anyone. You’re worth more than a title.”

Charles’ face softened, and he looked away, visibly grappling with his own thoughts. Before Carlos could go further, the door creaked open, and George slipped in, his expression tense as he took in the two of them.

“Carlos,” George greeted, giving a nod. “Can we… talk outside for a minute?”

Carlos hesitated, glancing at Charles before following George out into the hallway. They needed privacy, but more than that, Carlos needed someone to understand, someone to hear the anger and frustration he couldn’t keep inside.

Once they were a few steps away, George turned to him, the concern in his eyes unmistakable. “What’s going on with all this talk about Ferrari putting Charles in danger? I don’t understand. You’re saying they did this to him?”

Carlos clenched his fists, the anger that had simmered beneath the surface boiling over. “They knew. They tested unsafe parts on his car George. They knew the risks, and they still pushed him out there. And Charles… he knew too. He let them do it.”

George’s expression faltered for a moment, the shock obvious in the way his eyes opened. He quickly glanced back at Charles’ door, as if the room could give him some kind of answer. “He agreed to it?” His voice was quiet, disbelieving.

Carlos nodded grimly, his fists clenching. “Yes. For the sake of winning. For points, for a championship that wouldn’t be worth anything if he wasn’t around to see it.” Carlos continued, “I understand that he wants to win, we all do, but sometimes… It’s like he doesn’t even care what happens to him, as long as he can get back in that car.”

George stood there for a moment, the quiet between them heavy. His gaze darkened, and he hesitated, as if weighing his next words. “Carlos… there’s something else you need to know.” He paused, glancing over his shoulder as if making sure they were alone. “Charles… he has bruises. The doctors found them all over his body - old ones, new ones. And they’re not the kind you get from racing.”

Carlos’ heart dropped. The anger that had been simmering inside him froze, replaced by a wave of dread. “Bruises?” His voice cracked, disbelief creeping in. “What are you saying? How? Why?”

George swallowed, his voice strained. “I’m saying… We think he’s being hurt by someone. And he’s been hiding it, covering it up.”

The realisation hit like a punch to the gut. Carlos’ breath caught, a cold fury flooding through him that this time had nothing to do with Ferrari and everything to do with Charles. “Why would he keep that to himself? Why would he let someone hurt him?”

George’s gaze softened, an understanding sadness in his eyes. “Maybe he thought he had to. Maybe he thought it was worth it… if it meant keeping on Ferrari’s good side.”

“This isn’t right, George. We can’t let him keep going like this. He’s only hurting himself.” Carlos shook his head, fury and concern warring within him.

George placed a hand on Carlos’s shoulder, his own resolve hardening. “Alex, Lando and I - we’re going to talk to him. We won’t let him face this alone.”

Carlos nodded, feeling the determination steady him. “No. He won’t be alone anymore.”

Chapter Text

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The rhythmic beeping of hospital monitors had long faded into the background for Charles. He wasn’t sure how long he had been staring at the ceiling, drowning beneath layers of exhaustion, confusion, and frustration. His body ached constantly, every bruise, every broken bone a screaming reminder of the crash, but nothing hurt more than his mind. The blank spots, the half-formed memories. The way his boyfriends watched him like he was made of glass.

He could feel it, their eyes on him. Not just worried. Concerned. Suspicious.

He wanted to disappear beneath the sheets and stay there until the world moved on. But it hadn’t. And wouldn’t.

George was the first to speak, voice measured and careful. “Charlie… we need to talk.”

Charles turned his head slightly to look at him, then at Alex and Lando. The youngest was biting his lip, eyes wide and glassy, looking as though someone was about to yell at him. While Alex sat rigid, his arms crossed, a defensive posture Charles had seen many times before.

Charles forced a weak smile. “You’re all acting like I’m about to die again.”

Lando flinched. “That’s not funny,” his voice trembled.

Alex exhaled sharply. “This isn’t about the crash, Charles.”

A strange feeling settled in Charles’ stomach, his smile slowly fading. He had a bad feeling about where this was going.

George leaned forward, his hand hovering near Charles’ on the hospital bed. “Charles, the doctors found bruises on you. Bruises that don’t match the injuries from the crash.”

Charles’ heart dropped. His fingers curled slightly into the sheets. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

Alex shook his head, his voice barely controlled. “Baby, don’t. Please. We need you to be honest with us.”

“Did someone hurt you?” Lando was trembling now, voice small and cracking.

Charles stiffened. He could see the raw fear in Lando’s expression, the desperation. He hated this. Hated being the centre of their worry. Hated the idea of them knowing. “No one hurt me,” he said quietly, pulling his hand away.

George’s jaw clenched. “Then explain the bruises.”

“I can’t.”

Silence. The kind that felt thick and suffocating.

Alex ran a hand through his hair, exhaling in frustration. “You can’t or you won’t?”

Charles swallowed, looking away. He wished he had an answer that would make this easier. “I swear… It’s nothing.”

Lando let out a broken laugh, one that held none of his usual humour. “Nothing?” His voice cracked. “You expect us to believe that?”

Charles’ chest felt tight. “Please, just drop it.”

George looked at him like he was breaking apart in front of them. “We can’t just drop it, Charlie. Not when we’re terrified for you.”

“You don’t need to protect me, we’re not defenceless kids anymore.” Charles snapped, a bit louder than he meant.

Lando flinched like he’d been struck. “But we want to,” he whispered, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his oversized hoodie. “We… I love you, Charlie. If we don’t protect you, who will?”

Charles felt the sting of guilt like a blade in his chest. He hadn’t even realised he was shaking until George reached out and gently laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Charles whispered. “I didn’t mean to-”

“We know,” George said. “But you’re not okay… and it’s okay to not be okay.”

Charles took a deep breath, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I don’t want my life to change. I don’t want my crash to change anything.”

Alex shook his head. “It already has.”

Charles nodded but looked away. “Then let me hold on to what I still have…”

They sat in silence, grief and love heavy between them all. Finally, Charles exhaled shakily. “I want to go to the next race weekend.”

The shift in conversation startled them. Alex frowned, looking over to the Ferrari driver as if he’d lost his mind. “Wait. What?”

“I want to go.” Charles met their eyes, resolute. “I can’t race yet, but I need to be there. I need to feel part of it again.”

George hesitated. “Charles, you’re still healing. I don’t know if that’s a good idea just yet.”

The words sent frustration spiralling through Charles, mixing with everything else that had been building inside him. “You’re not my parents, George! You don’t get to decide what’s best for me!”

The second the words left his mouth, Charles regretted them and the silence that followed was icy.

Lando let out a choked sob, and when Charles looked at him, it felt as if the breath had been knocked out of him. He hadn’t realised he had raised his voice until he saw the hurt flashing across Lando’s face, the tears welling up in his eyes.

“Lando, baby… I-” Charles’ throat tightened as his voice failed him. He had made Lando cry… how mean of a person do you have to be to make Lando Norris cry…?

“We love you too much not to care,” Lando interrupted, his voice thick with emotion as tears streamed down his face. “We almost lost you, Charlie. We’re scared.”

Charles’ heart broke all over again, he reached out and pulled the younger close. “I’m so sorry love. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just… I need to feel like myself again.”

George nodded slowly, his own eyes starting to water. “Its okay Charlie, you have nothing to apologise for... If you need to do this, we’ll always support you.”

Alex leaned into George’s side, carefully brushing away a tear. “But we’re still going to worry.”

Charles managed a small smile. “That’s fair.”

A soft knock on the door broke the moment. A nurse stepped in, clipboard in hand and a gentle smile on her face. “Mr. Leclerc? You’re cleared for discharge.”

———————————————————————

The paddock buzzed with the usual energy, fans screaming, journalists shouting, cameras flashing. But to Charles, it felt like walking through fire. Flanked by Andrea and Joris, he moved quietly, head low, sunglasses and cap shielding him from the stares. But not the whispers. The impact of Carlos’ press conference was clear - Ferrari was facing backlash like never before. Fans lined the barriers, calling out his name in support.

“Charles! We love you!”

“Stay strong!”

Even Red Bull and Mercedes fans wore shirts that bore his initials. Homemade signs waved above the crowd, some with red hearts, others with angry slogans directed at Ferrari. Unfortunately… not everyone was so supportive.

“Traitor.”

“He’s ruined Ferrari’s reputation.”

Charles set his jaw, refusing to acknowledge them. They didn’t know the truth. Not yet. He focused on getting to the Ferrari garage, hopefully where he could finally find some sense of peace.

But inside, the tension was thick. Some engineers offered weak smiles. Others refused to look at him. The division was clear. He forced himself to focus on qualifying, instead of the weirdness of the situation around him. He smiled when he saw George, Alex, Lando and Carlos all make Q3. Max secured pole, but Carlos was right behind him.

Hope flickered in Charles’ chest, maybe Ferrari still had something worth fighting for. It felt weird to be supporting a team which had nearly been the death of him, but something in him still urged him to cheer. People always said he’d forever bleed Ferrari red.

Then the air changed. He felt it before he saw it.

Turning, his stomach twisted as he met Mattia Binotto’s cold gaze.

“Come, we need to talk…” he said curtly. The words were cold, commanding.

Charles hesitated, but something ingrained in him, probably the years of loyalty, made him follow. They stopped in a shadowed hallway outside the garage. The roar of the crowd and engines faded.

Mattia’s expression turned venomous. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

Charles stood still. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Mattia leaned in, face twisted. “You should’ve kept the car on the track. Or died in the crash. Like a real racing driver.”

The words landed like ice water, stealing Charles’ breath.

“I-what?”

“You’ve embarrassed this team. Shamed everything we’ve built.” Mattia’s voice was low and dangerous. “You think the public’s love will protect you? You think Carlos’ words absolve you? The Ferrari brand is bigger than you… you’re nothing.”

Charles could barely breathe. His hands trembled at his sides.

“Remember who gave you your career,” Mattia hissed. “You owe Ferrari your life. If you want any future in racing, you’ll stay quiet.”

He stepped in close, too close. “Say nothing, Charles. Or you’re finished.”

Mattia didn’t wait for a response, just turned and walked away. Charles remained rooted in place, frozen, his heart hammering, breath shallow. The threat echoed in his ears, louder than the crowd, louder than the cars. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there…

“Charles?”

The voice broke through the fog.

Pierre stood a few steps away, brows furrowed in concern. “What are you doing back here? You alright?”

Charles blinked hard, trying to focus on the present. “Yeah. Just… mentally exhausted, I guess. Being back here… it’s a lot.”

Pierre nodded slowly, reading between the lines. “I get that. It’s good to see you, though. Want to hang out for a bit? I’m done for the day, and we haven’t really talked since, well... everything.”

Charles hesitated - then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Pierre clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go, then. You look like you need some normal for once.”

And for the first time that day, Charles let himself properly breathe.

Chapter Text

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Race day had arrived like a storm with no warning, and for Ferrari, it was nothing short of a disaster.

From the moment the lights went out, chaos reigned in the red garage. Miscommunications flew over the radios, pit stop strategies backfired, tyres weren’t ready and silent panic spread through the crew like wildfire. And as if fate were mocking them, Carlos’ car had to retire on the final lap with a mechanical issue that could’ve been prevented, probably should’ve been prevented, if anyone had been actually listening. But they hadn’t, and now the race was over. No points. A humiliating defeat and the crowd made sure to let them know it.

The jeers came from all sides, Italian flags waved mockingly and even the hardcore Tifosi turned their backs. When the live broadcast panned to Mattia Binotto, the chorus of boos nearly drowned out the commentary. There was no doubt anymore. The public had seen through the lies.

And Mattia? He was livid.

He exploded the moment he stepped into the garage, face flushed and voice raised to a deafening roar. Headsets were thrown, doors slammed and Ferrari personnel scattered like mice. No one dared approach or even acknowledge him.

Charles had been watching awkwardly from the back of the garage, quiet and pale, still recovering, he wasn’t even really supposed to be there. He’d only just gotten out of hospital a few days prior. He’d barely eaten, his body ached and every breath still came with a whisper of pain. But he had insisted on being at the track. He wanted to feel normal again, needed to prove he wasn’t broken. Just a driver. Just another person in the paddock.

He hadn’t come to be blamed.

“OUT!” Mattia’s scream shattered the air like glass. He eyed the few mechanics brave enough to stay, “All of you, get out of my sight before I fire every single one of you!”

Charles tried to slip away with them, tired and nauseous from the tension. He didn’t want to be part of this dramatic spectacle. He just wanted to go watch the podium celebrations and maybe head home and cuddle with his boyfriends. But before he could take a single step, Mattia’s glare locked onto him like a predator spotting prey.

“You!” Mattia’s voice sliced through the air like a whip. “This is all your fault!”

Charles blinked and froze. “Wha-?”

Mattia stalked toward him. “You think I don’t see it? The way the world turned against us. Your crash, your theatrics, your lies to the press. And then that circus of a press conference Carlos held. It all started with you.”

Charles’s breath caught in his throat, unsure of what he could even say. “I-”

“You crashed. You embarrassed us. You made everyone think we’re killers and now they boo me. ME!” Mattia snarled

Charles’ stomach twisted. “I never said-”

“Don’t play innocent with me!” Mattia’s voice cracked the air like a thunderclap. “You’ve always been the problem, Leclerc. Weak. Soft. Emotional. A liability.”

Charles looked down, the words felt like knives driving deeper into old scars. He tried to leave, to walk away from the venom, to find Carlos or Pierre or anyone really. They would understand. Maybe he would be able to breathe if he could just get out of this room.

But Mattia wasn’t done.

He lunged forward and grabbed Charles by the arm, yanking him back with force.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” he seethed. “This isn’t over, this will never be over until you’re gone!”

Charles flinched, eyes wide with shock. “Let go of me-”

The slap came without warning. It wasn’t just anger. It was pure, unfiltered violence. The force of it sent his head to the side with a sickening crack. He stumbled back, colliding with a metal table, knocking down a tray of bolts and tools with a crash. The floor rushed up to meet him as he collapsed. Charles lay on the ground, blinking up at the ceiling, breath trembling in his chest. The sting on his face was nothing compared to the hollowness in his chest. He didn’t fight back. He didn’t speak. He didn’t scream.

He just curled into himself and stayed. Just like before.

Was this all his fault?

He caused this…

Then came the voices, from somewhere outside. Alarmed. Fast. Urgent.

Carlos?

Max?

———————————————————————

They had just left the media pen, both tense and exhausted, helmets tucked under their arms, walking side by side in silence for a few moments before Carlos finally exhaled hard.

“Fuck, man. On the last fucking lap as well...” he muttered bitterly, kicking at the gravel as they passed through the paddock. “I’ve had nightmares that felt more organised than today.”

Max gave a dry laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah mate, it’s a fucking circus. No, it’s worse than that, at least in a circus people know what they’re doing. Ferrari is just…”

Carlos shook his head, trying to scrub the frustration from his face. “I was nursing the car home for fifteen laps. Felt every part screaming. And still nothing - just boom dead.”

Max didn’t respond. He just kept walking, jaw tight, eyes flicking toward the Ferrari garage as they passed it. Something felt... off.

Then they heard it.

A piercing yell.

Mattia Binotto’s voice, sharp, feral, echoing through the garage’s walls. They stopped in their tracks.

Carlos turned toward the source, frowning. “He’s been angry recently. Really angry. But he’s not usually that loud...”

Max glanced at him, concern now creeping into his features. “No. That’s defiantly not normal.”

Then a loud crash. A pained yelp. A voice they knew all too well.

Carlos’ blood ran cold. “That was Charles.”

Max didn’t wait. He was already running.

They reached the garage entrance in seconds, ignoring the confused looks from the crew standing just inside. No one stopped them pushing past, too stunned or too scared to intervene. They barged open the door and...

Mattia Binotto.

Charles, curled into himself on the cold floor like a wounded animal. Shoulders hunched. Face raw red. Not moving.

Mattia loomed threateningly above him, fist raised and still screaming.

“You think anyone gives a damn about your sob story? You’ve ruined everything! If you had any dignity, you’d have died in the car and let the team recover your body instead!”

Carlos’ mouth fell open. Max’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles cracked.

They didn’t need to ask what had happened.

They already knew.

“HEY!”

The scream that left Max’s mouth wasn’t human. It was something darker, protective, dangerous. He crossed the distance instantly, slamming Mattia back with enough force to knock the air from the older man’s lungs. Mattia stumbled, hitting a row of lockers with a metallic clang.

Carlos rushed to Charles’ side, dropping to his knees. “Charles? Charlie, hey look at me.”

Charles blinked slowly, confusion and pain clouding his features. His lips parted, a faint sound escaping.

“Carlos…?”

The elder wrapped his arms around him, careful not to accidentally hurt him. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. He won’t ever be near you again.”

Max stood like a wall between them and Mattia, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.

“If you ever touch him again,” Max said, low and venomous, “I will fucking end you.”

Charles, from the floor, barely lifted a hand. “Max… please.”

Just then, security arrived. A Ferrari engineer had finally snapped out of his daze and smartly called security. Mattia began to shout, to flail, to insist it was all a misunderstanding. But no one listened anymore. Not after everything that just happened.

They took him by the arms, dragging him out despite his protests. The eyes of the entire Ferrari garage followed. Some in shame. Some in disbelief. Some in long-overdue relief. As soon as the door shut behind them, Charles sagged into Carlos’ chest, trembling like he was about to fall apart.

“I didn’t think... I didn’t think it was actual abuse,” he whispered.

Carlos closed his eyes. His voice cracked. “It was, Charles. It was. And it’s over now. He’s gone.”

Max knelt beside them, taking Charles’ hand gently and helping him up. “Come on. We’re getting out of here.”

Together, they led him out of the garage, through the silence and shame of the Ferrari team and into the paddock. Max walked ahead, aggressively pushing aside cameras and reporters. Carlos stayed glued to Charles’ side, never once letting go.

The second the door of the Red Bull garage shut behind them, Charles all but collapsed on the sofa inside the hospitality suite. Within only minutes, three more pairs of footsteps came thundering into the room.

“CHARLES?!”

Lando was the first through the door, his helmet half off, eyes wide with panic. Behind him came George and Alex, both breathless from running across the whole paddock.

Alex practically slid to a stop. “Is he okay?!”

George’s face was pale, as he dropped in front of Charles. “Who was it? Who hurt you? Tell me.”

Charles couldn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Carlos delivered the answer with a growl.

“Binotto.”

Max was pacing. “He fucking hit him. Hard. Screamed at him.”

George’s eyes widened. “What the hell?! He better be fucking arrested?!”

“Security’s dealing with it,” Carlos muttered. “They won’t be letting him back in the paddock that’s for sure.”

Alex crouched next to Charles, his hand hovering over his sore face, afraid to touch. “Charlie, baby…”

“I’m fine,” Charles whispered. “I promise I’m okay.”

“No,” Max snapped, “you’re not. You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

The room fell quiet, only the faint hum of electronics filling the silence. And just like on that dreaded day back in Italy, the Red Bull garage housed a safe space for multiple worried drivers.

Charles looked up at the faces around him: Max, Carlos, George, Lando and Alex. They weren’t just teammates or rivals or boyfriends. They were his friends. His family. The ones who had come running.

He wasn’t alone, not anymore…

His lip trembled. “I love you guys so much…”

Lando reached for his hand, as Max pulled a blanket over his shoulders. “We do too Charlie. We love you so so much, we’ll always be here to protect you…”

Outside, the paddock was alive with rumours. Footage already spreading, social media ablaze. The Ferrari name was being dragged through the mud and the real truth was finally clawing its way into the light.

But inside this small room, nothing mattered except the people who held him close.

He didn't need to be strong right now. He didn’t need to fight anymore.

And for the first time in a long time, Charles let himself be.