Chapter Text
The July sun hung low over Silverstone, its light slicing across the paddock in shades of orange and gold. The race weekend was over—another podium for Max, another P4 for Charles. Ferrari’s upgrades were decent, but Red Bull remained untouchable. And Williams… well, Williams had Carlos, which felt strange every time Charles looked at the blue and white car cutting across the track.
Six months ago, the three of them had been inseparable. Charles, Max, and Carlos—always together, always laughing. Charles used to think he was the center of it, that their late-night dinners and half-drunk hotel confessions meant something. That maybe Max’s hand brushing his a little too long, or Carlos’s habit of leaning too close when he spoke, were signs. Signs that Charles was not imagining the pulse of something more.
But then things changed.
Carlos had started dating Alex. And Max—Max had grown closer to George. It wasn’t sudden, but it was sharp enough for Charles to feel it. Two shifts in the universe, and suddenly he was orbiting alone.
Charles was still Charles—still polite, still smiling when the cameras were near—but he carried the heavy weight of “maybe it was never me.” Maybe they had just needed someone to fill silence until they found who they truly wanted.
---
Charles sat in the Ferrari motorhome, scrolling through his phone half-heartedly while Lewis chatted with an engineer across the room.
“You’re brooding,” Lewis said, suddenly sliding into the chair opposite him.
Charles blinked. “I’m not brooding.”
“You are. You’ve been staring at your screen for ten minutes and haven’t scrolled once.” Lewis smirked, his tone softer than his words. “You want to talk about it?”
Charles shook his head, but Lewis had this uncanny ability to see through walls. “It’s nothing. Just tired.”
“Right,” Lewis said, leaning back. “Just remember—being strong doesn’t mean pretending. It means letting someone in before you implode.”
Charles gave him a look, half-grateful, half-annoyed. Lewis only smiled knowingly.
---
Later, Charles walked through the paddock. The others were scattered—Yuki laughing with Liam, Pierre and Esteban deep in some argument, Lando filming Oscar for another one of his endless TikToks. George was there too, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Max.
Max had his sunglasses on, head tipped toward George as they spoke. Their body language was easy, comfortable, too natural. Charles’s chest tightened at the sight, though he hated himself for it.
“Charles!”
He turned to find Carlos jogging toward him, helmet bag slung over his shoulder. His hair was messy, still damp from the post-race shower.
“Hey,” Charles said, forcing a smile.
Carlos grinned in return, wide and genuine. For a moment, it was like nothing had changed—like they were back in Monaco, sitting on Charles’s balcony with cheap wine, arguing about who was worse at cooking.
But then Alex appeared behind Carlos, slipping a hand across his waist with casual ease.
And just like that, the illusion cracked.
---
That night, the drivers gathered at a small restaurant off-track, one of those places teams pretended to “discover” even though everyone knew PR booked them. Long tables, shared plates, too much wine—it was tradition.
Charles found himself between Ollie Bearman, who was still buzzing after his first points for Haas, and Isack Hadjar, who spoke quickly about setups Charles half-understood.
Across the table, Carlos and Alex sat pressed together, their laughter rising above the chatter. And further down, Max and George leaned close, shoulders brushing, talking in low voices.
Charles nodded absently at something Ollie said, but his gaze kept drifting, his throat tightening.
“Are you okay?” Ollie asked suddenly, frowning in concern.
Charles blinked. “Yes, of course. Why?”
“You look… I don’t know. Sad.” Ollie’s voice was soft, awkward, like he was unsure if he’d overstepped.
Charles forced another smile. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
The lie burned.
---
As the night wore on, Charles excused himself and stepped outside into the cool air. The street was quiet, the neon glow from the restaurant’s sign painting the pavement red. He leaned against the wall, hands shoved into his pockets, trying to breathe past the ache in his chest.
“Charles?”
He turned. It was Lando, holding a half-empty glass of wine, expression unusually serious.
“You okay?” Lando asked, echoing Ollie.
Charles sighed. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Because you’re terrible at hiding it,” Lando said simply. He leaned beside Charles against the wall. “You don’t have to tell me, but… just know you don’t have to carry it alone.”
Charles glanced at him, surprised at the sincerity. He wanted to laugh it off, to shrug like always. But instead, he whispered, “It feels like I was… wrong. About everything.”
“Wrong?”
“About what they wanted. About what I thought they felt.” His throat closed around the words. “Maybe it was never me.”
Lando didn’t reply immediately. He just sipped his wine, then nudged Charles’s shoulder lightly. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just giving up too soon.”
---
Later, back in his hotel room, Charles lay awake staring at the ceiling. The words echoed in his mind: Maybe it was never me.
But there had been moments—hadn’t there? The way Max had stayed with him after a crash, refusing to leave his side. The way Carlos had once driven across the city at midnight just to bring him soup when he was sick. Those things had felt real.
So why did they vanish so easily?
Charles closed his eyes. His chest hurt, a dull ache he couldn’t shake. The noise of laughter and friendship downstairs carried faintly through the window. He was surrounded by people, and yet he had never felt more alone.
He whispered into the darkness, barely audible:
“Maybe I was just… never enough.”
---
(To be continued...)