Her || Charles Leclerc

13. The Sinking Ship

The moment Charles was done at the track, he didn't know how quickly he had to go home. The disappointment of what could have been, of the lost opportunities, weighed heavily on his shoulders. He could almost taste the victory that had slipped through his fingers.

Approaching his apartment, Charles couldn't shake the feeling of discontent. It was his home track and race, and his family and friends came to see him. He knew he had given his all on the track, but the circumstances beyond his control had thwarted his efforts. He let people down, the people he loved the most. But what stung the most, was the clash with Matilde, his own principal, during the race. He thought he would do the right thing, but he got the full brunt instead.

As he walked into his empty apartment, the silence amplified his frustration. His friends and family had offered to accompany him to his house, but he wanted to be alone for a couple of hours before he had to go to the party later that evening. Even though he had a shit outcome, he still wanted to be present at the parties that he planned.

Charles kicked off his shoes with more force than necessary and slumped onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. His living room, decorated with trophies and other memorabilia from his career, seemed to mock him. Fragments of the race replayed in his mind like he was watching a complication on YouTube or a film on TV. The voices of Xavi and Matilde went through his mind, they obstructed not to pit when he had requested a pit stop. Matilde's voice was the loudest in his mind. He had defied her orders, believing it was the right call, but the botched pit stop and his fifth-place finish had only deepened the wound.

His phone buzzed with messages and notifications, but he ignored them all. He needed some time to process his frustration and disappointment, to come to terms with the missed opportunity on his home turf. Racing was a team sport, and the team's decisions affected his performance on the track. Still, the division within the team, the public scrutiny, and the lingering doubts about Matilde's leadership gnawed at him.

He got slurred out of his thoughts when the doorbell rang. At first, he wanted to ignore the person on the other side of the door, but when the bell rang for the second time, he had to open the door. Charles opened the front door, surprised to see Pierre Gasly. For some reason, he was the last person he expected.

"Dude," Pierre said and passed Charles, closing the door behind him. "Why aren't you ready?"

Charles was still standing in the same position as when he opened the door; even his arm was still in the same position, but now, he was without the door handle in his hand. He balled his hand and turned around, squeezing his eyebrows together. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, to see if you are even alive. We planned to meet up an hour ago, remember?" Pierre answered and sat down on the couch. "What were you even doing here?"

Charles parted his lips and looked at the time. "Fuck," he said. He frustratedly ran his hand through his hair. "I lost track of the time."

"No, shit, Sherlock." Pierre watched Charles with concern, recognising that Charles was in a state of emotional turmoil. "What happened out here? Speak, talk, share."

A loud, sarcastic snort left Charles' nose, and he covered his face with his hands while he walked through the living room.

"What?" Pierre asked, confused.

"Jørgensen said that too," Charles replied. He removed his hands from his face. "'Speak, talk, share'."

"If it stays unspoken, you will get fed up with it," Pierre shrugged. "But fine, just don't ruin the dinner tonight," he breathed hopelessly.

Charles stopped pacing and sat down on the couch beside Pierre. He ran a hand through his hair again, looking visibly exhausted. "I don't know. The race, the team, Jørgensen... I don't know what's going on anymore."