Archive of Our Own ^beta

Carlos doesn’t know why he does it. 

It started innocently enough, with his sister confessing she’s gotten good at not swearing or saying the wrong thing in public because she writes the truth down. So every insult, complaint, unkind thought, and anger is freed but kept to herself. Blanca writes and then burns the notes so they won’t betray her. She doesn’t tell him that last step, or not until they’re both in their twenties and he catches her by the fireplace with a stack of colored notes. Maybe if she’d told him from the start, he wouldn’t be here. 

He doesn’t know why the idea attracted him as much as it did. Yet the thought of letting everything go excited him. A pen and paper reflected freedom in the same way that karting did. He did and let go, thoughts to the wind and impulses kept tidily to himself. No one knew or saw the mess he left behind. 

Carlos learns how to write his feelings away, but he doesn’t do it until he turns fifteen, his grandfather is dead, and he’s getting tired of starving himself. He doesn’t remember anything from the funeral except for the fact that he started his eulogy by quoting Colin Murray in what would also be the start of his first letter:

“Grif is the price we pay for love.” 

Your funeral was today. Aunt Malena told me that funerals are for the living, not the dead. It was a way to understand and move on. Yours was beautiful. I don’t know if I can do it again. I don’t want to.

I should be doing this in Spanish or French, even, you hated english with your entire being. A dirty language you called it, not as poetic or perfect as our native tongue. But I can’t write in it. If I do, then everything is real, a part of me. You’re gone and I’m here, and as much as it makes sense, I don’t want it to. I don’t know life without you, and now that I do… how do I go on? No one understood everything like you did. 

Do you remember how you let me know you were aware of my… habits? I went to have lunch, expecting some questions about my love life, karting, school… dad, but you never went for the obvious. Instead, you placed a glass of water in front of me and said you’d saved me some time and effort by adding the salt for me. To this day, I have no idea how you found out. I guess it died with you, just like everything else did. There’s nothing left of you but the memories. 

I want to drink some water with salt, but I can’t deal with more grief tonight. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after. Maybe never. 

Te amo,

Carlos

He saves the letter underneath his bed and forgets about it until he turns eighteen and is gathering his things to move to England in hopes of excelling in the Red Bull program. He doesn’t remember writing it, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten about writing. From essays, to race notes, random topics he researches, and letters. Writing means he can neatly organize his thoughts. Sometimes the taste of salt becomes too much to bear; other times, it's his father’s gaze. He can’t keep himself steady, but the letters give him a semblance of control. 

It manages to be enough for some time. 

Carlos doesn’t know why he keeps doing it. 

He gains and loses weight like it’s a swing, meets people who love but don’t like him, and learns how to smile and say what’s expected of him. He holds ice until his hands are numb, and feels the urge to scream every time it isn’t enough. F1 demands a lot, but it’s an easier weight to carry than the one inside his head. He writes and reads like it's the only thing that will keep him sane, but the voice remains. 

Sometimes he wonders what it’d be like to be normal. 

Red Bull drains him, but it’s Renault that manages to break him. He holds enough of himself together until a voice call snaps something open that makes him go to a stationery store and buy some materials for his goodbye. 

If he allows himself to truly reflect on it, he’d see that the letters are nothing more than a drastic attempt to keep himself alive. For every letter that exists, there are at least five reasons for him to stay. Other times, it’s plain embarrassment that keeps him from getting the ties from his suitcase. He can live with his thoughts being on paper, but not with someone reading them. 

He might not know that Blanca burns them, but he feels no remorse when he tears the one meant for his father and only takes a fragment with him when he asks Fernando if he wants to go for a late walk around Mexico City. It had read:

"Cause maybe if I were a better son, a better person, I wouldn't dream of never waking up. Then maybe your smile and your warmth would feel deserved. Maybe my happiness would be enough

Sometimes I wonder if you would have liked me as a person had I not been your son. It's a fucked up question, but maybe your resentment came only from our parentage and not from who I was... who I am. Could we have been friends? Would you have praised me if I were the son of your colleague instead of your flesh and blood?

I both want to know and wish you'll never answer.”

His copatriot unknowingly walks him off the edge as he refrains from asking about why they’re wandering so late at night after a race, only making fun of his worn-out sneakers. Not once did he comment on his cigarettes or shaky hands. Fernando’s only indication of knowing something’s wrong is the long hug he gives him at the hotel’s lobby. 

“I’m here if you want to talk about it,” he whispers before messing his hair and adding, “I’m here if you need something too.”

Carlos shakes his head and leaves while wondering if the austurian really couldn’t see everything he’d already given him. His suitcase remains closed, and he sleeps better than he’d have all season. He buys some chocolate for Fernando the next morning and leaves it with the older driver’s things, and they never talk about it. 

Carlos had begun to wonder why he did it when he makes a mistake. 

He falls in love. 

He’d met and managed to befriend several of the drivers, mechanics, and engineers, who seem to like him, and reporters are getting more interested in his life. It’s enough for him to feel more at ease with his place in the sport, no longer a fish out of water but one in a pond. It’s limited and harsh, but somehow it’s home. That doesn’t mean he’s stopped writing, even if it’s become scarce at times. 

Yet his eyes are constantly drawn to the one he can’t have, the shiniest star, one of the sport’s future: Charles Leclerc. 

The Spaniard finally manages to talk to him on a warm night in Singapore, and his world turns on its axis. It’s warm and kind, and for a few minutes, the voices are quiet enough for him to hear the rest of his thoughts. It’s a breath of fresh air that gives him the impulse to flush the sleeping pills he’d been taking and text his dad. It’s too soon for his story to begin with the Monagasque; he’s not worthy of it yet. So as quickly as he got close, he drifted away. 

Lando comes and allows him to explore some of the teenage mischiefs he’d deny himself, and in turn, does his best to be a good veteran driver. It’s hard to set an example for someone when you don’t exactly want to live, but McLaren warps around him like a blanket and urges him to breathe. 

It takes seeing how happy people are for his first podium for him to truly believe he isn’t as alone as he thought. He doesn’t finish the letters he starts because somewhere in the middle, he always realizes he does want to live. He meets with his mother for coffee, and her smile as she watches him get in the car feels like enough of a reason to stay.

Still, the calmness is brief. He won’t acknowledge its name, but as he flushes his dinner down for the first time in years, he hears it. Steady is his grandfather’s voice as he whispers Depression and tries to get him to talk with someone. Instead, he opens his backpack and starts another letter.

Fer:

You once said you probably knew me better than most of my inner circle by sheer observation alone. I know it was a joke to signify the amount of time we spend together, but you should know it works as a mirror. You see me just as clearly as I see you. That’s why I know how this is going to go down. I know how you’ll react. I’m here to beg you not to do it. 

Trust me when I say I know it’s easier to shut people down than to let them in. That I know it’s easier to push everything down instead of dealing with it. How do you think I got to this point? For my sake, if a dead person can have one, feel whatever you need to feel. Talk with people. Let yourself grieve in a healthier way than isolation. 

For the record, you had no part to play in my decision except for being someone who makes me reconsider. You can be so kind without wanting to be, I’m not sure you even notice it. It made the difference more times than I can admit, to know I could count on your patience, warmth, and love. You are a lifeline to shore, but this time I’m sure I want to swim anymore. I’m tired, Fer, so fucking tired. 

I don’t want to hurt you with this. I don’t want to hurt any of you. I’m not even sure I want to do this anymore, but sometimes I feel like it’s the only path for me. Whatever is fucked in my brain won’t cure itself. I don’t know if I can keep putting myself together every three weeks. Take care of yourself, and, as hard as it’ll be, keep an eye on Lando and Charles. I think the three of you will be able to help each other. 

Maybe I should try something else, I don’t know, medication, meditation, swearing my soul to God again. Maybe I could punch something or spend more time with you. I’d like to get to see you achieving the 33, maybe even stand on the podium with you. Maybe that can be reason enough to finish the season. I’ll try to decide after I take a nap. I’m not lying when I say I’m tired, both physically and from looking for answers I don’t have.

Maybe I’ll ask you when I see you. I probably won’t. Just in case, I love you, Fer, and thanks for everything you gave me despite not deserving it.

He places the letter inside a white envelope with golden edges next to the letters he’d written for Max, one from their time as teammates and the other a few months older than this one. They’re safe inside his non-racing notebook, close enough for their weight to linger in his consciousness without overwhelming him. 

Carlos is not sure why he does it. He’s not sure why he keeps choosing to live, but sometimes he’s glad for it. 

He feels particularly glad for it when he opens the door to a beaming Charles after the Ferrari contract went public. He feels alive when, after sharing some wine, the younger driver leans in and kisses him for the first time. It’s messy, and maybe a blazing bad idea since they’re about to become teammates, but none of it matters as he allows himself to love and potentially be loved in return. Maybe falling in love can be another reason.

Time passes, and the monagasque never leaves him alone. He seems to understand that something dark tends to get hold of his mind for periods and never presses for more details than what he can give. He knows Charles knows more than what he’s willing to admit, but he finds he cannot mind it. Even if some of his attempts at keeping him safe involve changing his salt for sugar. 

In return, Carlos does his best to get help despite never managing to trust his therapists enough to confess to the letters. He doesn’t want to know what they’ll say about his habit. He doesn’t want to hear all the ways his safe action might be detrimental to his well-being. 

Depression, as he now was certain of its name, felt less like a fight and more like a waltz. They spun in circles while trying to see who’d lead. A spin here, a drop there, and back into its arms he went. Over and over, as different songs played for each year. He was allowed to switch partners, but would always return to it. Lately, Carlos has been getting better at taking the lead and guiding it into something more manageable. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t trip from time to time. 

Carlos is thirty now and completely lost in why he does the things he does. He wonders if his sister will resent the lingering smell of tobacco when she reads it. If she reads it. He doesn’t really care as long as she holds it and reads his anger for the final time. If anyone will get it, it’s her.  

Blanca:

Why did you teach me to write goodbyes instead of helloes? Why could you never look me in the face when you passed me tissues? Why can we never admit we’re hurting? You drink and I starve. That’s who we are deep down. Two siblings hurting, knowing the other is the same, but never acknowledging it. I wonder what would happen if we did. Would we be better? What are the chances we learned how to heal? I love you nonetheless, you protected me from myself and taught me to outlast the pain. I’m sorry I didn’t last as long as I should’ve. 

I don’t want to live and decay. I don’t want to see my hair turn gray and slowly lose focus and stamina. I don’t want to wake up and hurt. I want to sleep while you play with my hair and Ana sings or reads Benedetti out loud. I want to wake up once the world stops demanding, or when I’m finally well-rested enough to accept and give back. 

I also don’t want you to have to bury me. To have to live with undeserved guilt over someone who didn’t know how to save himself. I know this will not be the letter you initially read after they’ve found me, that one will say my actual goodbyes and last wills. I also know you’re going to find this one when you tear my stuff open in search of missed signs and see my stationery. I know that’s when you’ll understand.

I just imagined you having to bury me, having to explain to your son what happened to me in a few years. I don’t want that anymore. I want to be heard and comforted in ways I’ll never learn to say. I want a hug and some tea too.

The letter stops there as he realizes there are things he can handle and solve. Placebos he can take while he waits for his life to allow him the chance to travel and get that hug from his big sister he’s so desperately craving. The tea is warm, and for a few minutes so is he. 

Sometimes that’s all it takes to see another day. 

A month later, he sees her and spends more than three hours carrying his nephew and softly mumbling in italian. Before leaving, he hugs Blanca tighter than usual and tries not to break when she whispers “Te amo”. He doesn’t mention the letter or the unopened bottle of sleeping pills he flushed down the toilet less than a week ago. Deep down, he thinks she knows.

Charles and he move together officially despite having technically done so since their second year as teammates and boyfriends. It’s a home they bought together, hidden away in Milan with their dogs, despite publicly stating that one lives in Monaco and the other in England, so he can start adapting despite having a few months of contract with the cavallino left. They meet up in their little secret paradise, and life gets a bit lighter. 

He’s getting better at admitting and accepting help from others, but the voices seem to grow in volume. Carlos isn’t sure why this time, but they do. His waltz is turning into a push-pull game, and he knows he has every odd to lose at it. He keeps writing and praying, but nothing sticks for longer than a month, and he’s getting to the point where he’s refusing to eat outside of his home when he sits in the backyard and writes another letter. 

Carlos doesn’t know why he does it so naturally. It’s been six months since the last one, but he knows this will work better than any coping mechanism his therapist (ex-therapist) will throw at him. 

My muppet friend,

Thank you for always staying by my side and doing your best not to leave me alone. Thank you for never insisting on questioning if I was okay or not. You’ve calmed me down more times than I can count, and your understanding of my anxiety saved me. Yet a part of me wishes you had questioned me a bit more. Somehow, you’ve always known when I was at my most vulnerable. I’m half expecting you to turn up tonight.

You know, sometimes I think I’m going to die soon, not tonight, but soon enough for this letter to still look new. I’m surprised I even made it to my early thirties, considering I was sure I’d die before my twenty-first birthday. Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve. Maybe outliving my deathdate means everything else was a mistake. I hope that’s not the case. because being your friend is one of the best parts of my present. 

I think about making lists of reasons not to kill myself, but it’s also pointless. I know them by heart, but if you’d find some comfort in knowing how many of them relate to you. 

I’m sorry I’ve never been the role model you deserved or the friend you needed. I wonder if I took that place from someone better than me. Yet I can’t bring myself to fully care. I’m happy to have held you, to have been there to cheer you on your maiden win, and for your help with organizing my engagement. I hope I live to see you win your first championship. 

As I write this, I realize the list has grown again since I know you’ll win more than one championship. It’s exponential (remember that term?) despite my brain trying to cut it down. I’m not sure I want to live, but I think I have to. 

Carlos rubs his eyes and decides he’ll finish the letter in the morning before flying back to Maranello for some team meetings. The bed is warm and so is the shower he takes before leaving, the letter forgotten but resting inside his bedside table’s drawer.

Things get worse when he does leave for Williams, but then they slowly get better. In the meantime, he tries to put on some more weight before Gigi starts force-feeding him. He quits smoking for what feels like the tenth time in his life, tries to make new friends, and does his best not to obsess over how much he misses Charles by his side at all times. Alex is great, though, even if he’s way too easy to annoy whenever he mentions that Lily is one of his favourite golfers. 

He keeps writing. He’s never stopped, but for the first few races, the number and consistency with which he writes grow to an unknown scale. He doesn’t talk about it, but he dumps a few of the wrong and impulsive ones into the bathtub and drowns them until they’re illegible. He also breaks down more often, but Caco’s yet to find out, so it’s okay.

Carlos doesn’t know why he does it, but he finally writes a letter to Charles that he doesn’t immediately tear down. The Austrian GP left him questioning his place so badly he can’t breathe, and it only gets worse when Franco crashes into him and ends up costing him this race as well as the Silverstone, since his wrist is injured. He doesn’t blame the argentinian, but he also feels his will to live fade in front of his torn-up car.

He doesn’t really remember writing it, the only part he can truly recall being: 

I want to live next to you, yet I feel like I can't most of the time. Maybe that's why I'm writing today, because my unconscious has noted how close I am to doing something I know I'll regret. You asked me to watch Leo, and it makes sense. You're traveling, and he needs someone to hand him his meds. Sometimes, I don’t want to survive, but I really think I could do it for him—for you.

His lover finds him later that night and cradles him to safety while doing his best to hide the smell of champagne embedded on his skin. Carlos decides it’s time to officially call him his home, despite wondering if it’s truly the best time for him to do so.

Life gets better again as he busies himself with preparing for the big event. Pascale’s approval of him as a partner burns deep through him in pride as he drives back home. He feels bad for lying to Charles about his destination, but he knows there was no other way to do this without arousing suspicion. 

Carlos doesn’t remember his myriad of letters inside his drawer until he walks into a silent house, only to be greeted by their pups.

Carlos forgets about the letter addressed to his lover until he reaches their bedroom and sees his worst fear come to life, and throws himself to the ground so he can hold Charles close to his chest and calm down his crying. He doesn’t care about anything other than lying about not wanting to die anymore. 

Carlos never knew why he had done it. Now he thinks it might be time to linger on it and confront it.