Hope.

A beautiful blinding feeling, settled on his chest.

Maybe it was the vodka. Or the tears clouding his vision. The sun shining admist the rainy day.

Abu Dhabi. Another year. Another waste.

no trophy.

don’t waste it. don’t waste your talent. Seb said.

”Charles?” Jules smiled.

..he would stare out into the track. Watching the cars speed by.

”do you think I’ll ever be there?” he’d ask.

”I know you will.” he would always answer.

..

He had this strange hope for 2025. He really did.

Lewis was one of the greatest of all time, with 7 championships, as his teammate.

It was a new year. Something just..made him hope.

What came with hope, however?

…

.

Fear.

Snot ran down his face as he desperately tried to breathe.

You’re not a fucking rookie Charles. Calm down. 1…2…

He qualified P7.

It was fine. They had a rain setup- and- why was he even having an attack in the first place?

Oh.

He was looking at the data across the board.

..how..

were the McLarens so much faster?

That brought him fear. Intense fear.

Redbull. 2023.

Before he knew it his eyesight got blurry. No. Not again.

..

He calmed down though. He always did. Always alone.

It’s fine. It was going to rain tomorrow. It’s okay.

..

Usually, hope ends in two ways.

Happiness. Or, the opposite.

And god was it bad.

P8 and P10.

.

Charles got out of the car. Oddly silent.

He did media, did the basic duties.

Went into his drivers room..

Locked the door..

And sat there.

.

6 years. It has been 6 years.

He looked into the mirror.

He saw himself. He always did.

No stubble, same eyes, just a little brighter.

Yet his arms so much bloodier.

That Charles had hope.

That Charles had wishes. Dreams.

This Charles just wished for mercy.

That the hope he felt- would turn into happiness.

Every season- it was the same.

it never did.

That was Ferrari. What could he do? only if he hadn’t told his dead father he was going to drive for this stupid team.

.

He wasn't going to win a title.

This season had gone to shit. No race wins- hell no fucking pole even in the first 10 races.

He was P5 in the standings. P-fucking 5.

..

He couldn't do this anymore. Not with Ferrari.

Storming into the team office, he slammed his contract on the table, a force every mechanic he had grown to adore could hear.

He was going to do--exactly what he did with Binotto. To Fred.

He believed in the project. Sure.

But he was tired.

So he was gonna,

"I'm-"

use,

"done."

himself.