Chapter Text
Carlos Sainz wants to be wanted.
Perhaps that is why he took James’ offer, back then in 2025, albeit rather hesitant—this is Williams we have been talking about. A Williams that had fallen from grace two decades ago. Yet Carlos wants to be wanted the way Lewis is to Mercedes, Max is to Red Bull, Lando to the McLarens, and Charles … to Ferrari.
He wants to be kept, to be fought over, to put it romantically. He wants to belong. It had been ten years since he welcomed himself in this hell willingly, and Formula 1 is exactly as it was described to him: hell. It was through sheer luck that he got the seat, and it was through sheer luck too that he powered through ten years, bouncing through five teams, adapting and adjusting and doing satisfactory results in the cars he had ever driven. He gave them points, gave them trophies, gave them everything of his person to be used and exploited, all in the hopes that he will have another year with them. All in the hopes that they would want him for another year, and he will spend that year proving his worth again, and the cycle would repeat again.
Yet he was not satisfactory enough to be held down, to be kept so tightly in their grasp. To be pivotal. To be the piece everyone wants to keep. To not be swapped out for other drivers. He was good, but never good enough. All of his sacrifices were for naught, and he was left waiting for another team to call after Ferrari left him for a true world champion. Then Williams called.
So he took the leap of faith. James had tried his hardest to woo him; the phone calls, the dinners, the outings to a hotel room (as he had put it on Netflix), and Carlos thinks that he was once more wanted. And he would like to stay, even if it meant sacrificing years of his dreams and being utilized to develop a car he didn’t even know will win championships or not, because he didn’t know if he would be wanted like this again when his contracts finally ended. He picked up calls from Williams’ engineers late at night in his season break—well, there’s a horrifyingly different timezone in which he and those engineers are from, and Carlos has done this multiple times, no? Giving everything just for them to keep him in their mind—when he had repeatedly said that he doesn’t do work on break.
In the past, he even went as far as telling everyone in the interviews that he deliberately hid himself to not meet with other drivers’ during the season break. He had spent a stressful 300 days dealing with every misfortune that could befall men, and every year’s season break would act as his grace period. An escape from everything that happened to him that year. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, especially when he’s hanging on a thread with no clear future ahead of him. But not at 2024. He’s booked, contracted, busy with every engineer in every department calling him like he’s their salvation. Perhaps he is, in a sense. It got so bad that his father muttered “don’t they have any head of engineering or something?” in his thick Spanish accent. He still wasn’t fond of Carlos’ decision to pick Williams over Audi.
And his efforts bore fruits, in a sense. The car was driveable. Much better than expected. Carlos had resigned himself to little to none points this season. Carlos had resigned to sit in a backmarker team. Yet somehow, somewhat, they came faster than a Mercedes or a Ferrari at best, scoring double points here and there. To outsiders, it seems like Carlos truly kept on his words to bring Williams back to its glory. To the commentators, Williams became somewhat of a hot topic. No one expected Williams to be good this season, even after bagging the hottest commodity of the 2024 market, but they did, somehow. What they fail to notice is the numerous sponsors Carlos brought and the lost hours of his sleep.
The 2025 season progresses. Carlos felt like vomiting.
Carlos is a practical man. He is a realistic man. He is as adept at strategies as a warlord and his ground. He knew his limits, his car’s limits, his teammate’s limits, and he knew how to utilize his knowledge on the field. He knew how to win a race. He knew how to steal a win. He knew how to bite. Yet why does he feel like this; vulnerable, broken, exhausted out of his mind? He shouldn’t feel like the championship trophy was too far to be reached. He shouldn’t beg to retire his car every single week. He is a top driver, for fuck’s sake, he drove for top teams before, why can’t they treat him like such—
He shouldn’t count all of his mistakes and bring them to his dreams. He shouldn't muses of what would happen if things had gone right. He dreamt of the podiums like it was unreachable, though he had been seated there for more times than his fingers can count. He shouldn’t snap at interviews, he should be the bigger person and push more at debriefs. Yet his mind wanders to what could happen back then. He could finish higher in Miami. He could continue his streak at Barcelona. He could qualify higher in Montreal. It was barely half a season, yet he was plagued with too many what ifs and the things he should do. Was it pure unluckiness, or is it his team’s incompetence, or is he just not as good as he once believed?
He had another four years with this team.
This is only the first, he muses. They will learn, so when we became a championship contender, these kinds of mistakes wouldn’t happen anymore.
Perhaps those were only mindless muses with no real hope for it. Nearing the half of the 2025 season, the mistakes still happen, everlasting as his rival’s careers in their respective teams. He lost his composure more than his four years with Ferrari, outright saying I don’t know. I’m upset to the journalists. None of his previous ten years in this sport had made him lose so much trust and hope in his team. Yes, he had lost much confidence in himself, especially during transitions into new teams and newer cars, but none of them had drowned him into a dark ocean and chained him to its seabed. Somehow, he had always come out on top. It should be the same now, yet the surface seemed so far away and he couldn’t breathe, let alone escape from the chains that was his despair.
His heart broke further when James, in an interview, said that he could give him a winning car by 2028. He wants to cry. 2028 was too long, and he would be 34 by then. There wouldn’t be any longevity to him if he were to win again in 2028. He is not Lewis who is still sought after even at 40. He doesn’t have Max’s aggressiveness. He doesn’t want to have it, in fact, he is a gentleman driver as Pierre’s father had told the media. If he did well, perhaps there would be a hope, but with how 2025 is going his hopes of a better year is slowly relinquished in each race weekend.
“Perhaps I should’ve chosen Audi.” He muttered to Piñon, just after Hungary. He had returned home to Madrid to calm himself during the summer break. It was a much-needed break, after all. “Papa knows best, don’t you think?”
The dog woofs. Carlos sighs. It was just an impulsive thought. No one knows if Sauber’s Audi rebranding will somehow make them a top team. 2026 is still far, after all. He was just frustrated that everything went wrong this year, despite James’ lofty promises and romantic proposals.
“Next year will be better, no?” God, at times like this, he felt like he’s 19 again, clinging onto hope that he will get into Formula 1. It’s always going to be like that, he thinks. He presented himself as someone that looks forward to the future. He is a dreamer, and he would grasp that dream be it by force or luck. He always tried to reassure everyone that everything will be okay. It was easy to say, and it was easy to believe. Perhaps Carlos should believe in his own words. He doesn’t know the word to properly describe this feeling gnawing deep in his heart, though. He doesn’t know if he wants to believe his own words or be deceived by it. He doesn’t even know if everyone that supports him even believes in his words anymore; that everything will be okay, and we will push through.
Piñon pawed him confusedly. He just hugged the dog, swearing that this year’s season break wouldn’t be filled by him constantly taking calls from Williams’ headquarters because an engineer wants the car to be attuned to his likings. Those fine-tuning can happen quickly. He missed home—not the one in Monaco, but the one in Madrid, even if he had to watch his father mumbling and grumbling after each race, and he promised he would stay.
Dinners with his family in these two weeks weren’t bad. Not as good as it was last year, when he was on the podiums here and there or scoring good points, but not as bad as the dinner after this year’s Barcelona. Carlos still dreamt about a possible point finish in Barcelona. Was it longing, or was it trauma? He doesn’t know. Would he want to know? No, not exactly. What he remembered was a tense drive back home with an angry Sainz Sr. and a dinner that is impossibly more tense. Even at 30, it seems that you can still fear your father’s disapproval, and that includes an internationally famous F1 driver such as him.
Weeks passed after the summer break. His father’s words dangled in his head ever since. What is it about bite and don’t get bitten that you don’t understand? And the guilt persists over him over weekends and weekends. Perhaps he had lost so much hope that he didn’t feel anything in disappointing his home crowd—or so he thought. He willed himself to be numb about it, knowing just how Williams are, but he couldn’t stop himself from waving to the people in his grada at the last laps. He did that more in these few races, waving at where he can see tiny tints of blue, be it other team’s blues or Williams’ distinct blue. And red, at times. He knows that the Tifosi would love him too, despite everything. He tried to convince himself that he is still loved. That there would be people that support him whatever his race results would be.
Ah, he thought, when he saw a group of blue with what he could discern is his Williams cap. Gaetan was speaking something on his radio, but he couldn’t decipher it. I can’t disappoint them again, no?
He thought he had numbed himself, truly. He thought he could endure the disappointment, the hope, and just race with indifference. After all, there is not much hope left in his person, and he has grown tired of trying after multiple ruined weekends. Why must he shoulder the burden of not giving a satisfactory result? He had long given up that any teams would want him after Williams, especially with how he had performed in this season, and if not for the longevity of his career, why should he deliver anything to the table? Coming to F1, that was once described to him as hell, became an inferno that engulfed his dreams of winning. If he had known the price of a seat was to bury a dream, perhaps an idealistic Carlos Sainz Jr. would never partake in Red Bull’s scheme.
Carlos doesn’t usually read comments. But after Mexico, he opened the comment section of his latest post. His jet was about to take off and Teto was already fast asleep, slumping on Gigi’s shoulders. He can read in peace without being fussed by his entourage. First thing he saw was a lot of Vamos! and a barrage of chili emojis, followed by blue hearts. It calmed him, to a sense. Is this why Charles liked scrolling his own comment sections? To see people that still looked up to him despite everything, despite every misfortune that has befallen him? It’s a good thing, he thought. Validation. Maybe I should do this again in the future.
He pushed through the last race weekends with a little bud of hope planted in his heart. Maybe it is for the better. He tried to believe his own words again, that next year would be better, just like how the masses believed him. He starts to defy team orders at times, calling out Gaetan when his orders simply don't make sense, and bites the way he was bitten earlier in the year. It was a development, in a sense, but he wants to win races again. He had disappointed his father, lost faith in himself at times, but he had a dream to upkeep. Past rivals he wants to overtake again. Podiums he wanted to stand at. Tracks he wanted to win. Championships he wants to devour all for himself.
When he stood on Abu Dhabi’s podium—bless that track for having long straights that a Williams’ car is stupidly good at—for the first time as a Williams driver, Carlos beamed. This moment wasn’t as happy as his past wins, but he had endured an entire year of Williams’ bullshit that this podium felt so sickeningly sweet. Like he was high on ecstasy. He made it despite the stupid car and the stupid strategies. Even though it was only third place, it is still a podium for Williams, and a small token that 2026 will be better. This is how it felt like to stand on the podium, Carlos thought. Should savor it, get used to it. I’ll stand here more next year. His thoughts were then scattered when Lando sprayed champagne over him, just like the good times.
Even if he’s growing too old for any teams’ that would take him after Williams, on god, he will take that championship one way or another. He had spent a decade fussing over a dream that he couldn’t afford to lose. Whatever happens after his win will be future Carlos’ problem. Now, he would dream freely, and perhaps defy more team orders than Williams would like him to.
***
2026 rolled in like waves crashing onto sand.
Carlos upheld his promise to Piñon. He stayed in Madrid, not picking up calls from Grove after 9PM, and went through his secluded break comfortably. Despite Alex’s vow of never inviting Carlos ever again, he begged him to play padel in the same team this time. They had grown rather comfortably around each other. Not to Lando or Charles’ level of closeness, but close enough that Carlos would take Alex’s call. There’s no time difference between Madrid and Monaco, so Carlos is happy to pick up a call at a normal time at once.
“Lando will be there,” Alex offered. “Come on, Carlos. No one saw you after Abu Dhabi. You didn’t even attend the awarding ceremony. The media might buy your excuse, but being sick? You? The most active sports freak I have ever known?”
“Don’t be a prude.” Carlos spoke.
“Lando and George will be there,” Alex is begging now. It was the same formation of their first padel, it seems. Perhaps he had a bet with George and needed Carlos to win with him. Even Yuki and George had commanded Carlos for his horrifying padel skills.
Piñon Jr. barked in the background with Oli. Carlos sighs, shifting to be more comfortable on the couch. “Sorry. Fussy babies. But still no, Alex. ‘m not flying to Monaco just to play padel.” He spoke, still watching a cheesy telenovela on the TV. He had grown to enjoy the simple things and even though this telenovela was awfully scrappy, it reminds him of his childhood.
“Come on!”
Carlos hung up.
Alex had picked the wrong bait, it seems. If it was another Monegasque, perhaps Carlos would consider—just consider, though, not straight-out refusing. He loves Lando’s company, but that’s just it. Lando is his muppet friend. Carlos wouldn’t turn the world upside down just because Lando was there. He would understand, after all, Carlos didn’t like to be disturbed in his season break. But he hadn’t spent a lot of time with Charles that year outside of the drivers’ parade and the paddock, and truth be told, Carlos kind of missed him.
His days passed comfortably. He was in a good mood. The car is comfortable, he had confidence despite that shitshow of a season, and no one dared to bother him again. He was rather private, after all. Despite his famous (or infamous) reputation as a paddock slut, he’s really just close to a few people on the grid. He’s 31 now, and he slowly understood why Lewis doesn’t socialize as much as the seasons passed. It is exhausting. Seeing those rookies… well, just Isack mainly, socializing here and there and being all buddy-buddy tires him. I’m getting old, he thought.
I’m getting old and that championship is so near, yet so far away.
The pre-season testing rolled out. Carlos was delightfully surprised at how well the car glided through the track. This is what was promised to him, and he was happy he endured that year for a car he felt comfortable in. He got the fastest laptime again, two years in a row now, and he biked through the paddock with a light heart and a good mood. Despite the horrifying season of errors last year, he felt like he found his drive again.
He believed his words again. It was too early, perhaps, or it was just wishful thinking, but he managed to will himself into believing that this year would be better. Next year, too. For once, he smiled a genuine smile during the interview.
Carlos hadn’t stopped reading comments, though. He knew that people were looking for him during season break, having no DONTBLINK vlogs uploaded and practically no sightings but glimpses of him in Madrid and some photoshoots for brands. Guzman deserves a break, after all. It delighted him when the rush of validation poured in again—it fed his ego to a certain sense and he was embarrassed to admit it, but it made him happy. People found his eyes beautiful. The people that supported him through and thoroughly were overjoyed at the sight of his genuine smile. They’re happy that he’s happy. Perhaps last year took a toll on them as much as it affects him. Perhaps Carlos had taken them for granted when he drove indifferently last year, the bout of depression made him numb to whether he delivered results or not.
He came home for dinner. His father stared at him with a gaze Carlos couldn’t decipher. Is he still disappointed? He had never come to his races after Barcelona. His excuse was that he’s running as a FIA president, and coming to Carlos’ garage would seem bad. Favoritism and all that. Carlos couldn’t really understand what he was saying after all that happiness in the pre-season testing and hearing Charles’ voice again after months of silence. Charles wouldn’t reach him, and Carlos wouldn’t reach first, so they came to a still standpoint.
“I’m happy your testing went well.” His father said “But I’m the president now. I can’t come to your garage anymore.”
Carlos felt his heart shattering a little bit. But he can’t say anything, can’t object. That is his father’s decision, and he’s not a 6-year-old that can whine and ask his father for something again. So he asked a polite question. “So you won’t race anymore, Papa?”
“No.”
“I see.” Carlos spoke, slicing meat on his plate. “I should find a new manager, then. Please tell me earlier if something like this happened.”
His father didn’t answer. Carlos didn’t push for another conversation. If he believed that this is a comfortable silence, he would fix this relationship in his head. It will be okay.
The 2026 season rolled at a pace Carlos felt comfortable in. The car was good, he had the courage to call out Gaetan whenever Williams’ strategy was absolute shit—which is, to be fair, almost all of the time—and he’s consistently coming around points in every race until now. Alex did well, but Carlos didn’t really care less. They might be teammates, but in this grid of gladiators’ machinery, it’s every man to himself.
Carlos is used to cameras panning on his face. He is used to attention. It was expected from a Formula 1 driver, after all. He is his father’s son, so his life has been pretty much exposed to the media ever since his childhood. But his father’s newfound position puts him in a difficult situation. It’s not like a lot of people hadn’t compared him and Lewis a lot last year, but this year, he felt like there’s a lot more scrutiny towards his person. Every time he opens his comment section, it wouldn’t be hurls of Vamos! and chili emojis as usual, but supposed Formula experts sharing their supposed intelligent opinions. When he did well, they’d accuse him of having his father involved somehow. When he did badly, they would trample his remains over the track. Nothing he did would be correct in the eyes of the internet’s law.
So he stopped opening the comment sections just for validation. He’s 31 years old, after all. He doesn’t need validations from social media any more, he thinks. Seeing blue caps with a white 55 on it is enough validation. He hadn’t stopped waving and it came as a sort of tradition now. He enjoyed the slow lap and seeing people cheer when he slowed down for them.
The season continues. Carlos is confident. Not championship contender confident-level, but someone who found his tune confident-level. He’s happy with the car, happy that there’s significantly lesser errors in his races, and happy that those god-awful pitstop times are improving. Not as good as Ferrari’s pitstops, though, but he will accept pitstops below 2.5 seconds whenever he could. He didn’t have many hopes in a Williams, however much his ego-search for validation helped him gain his confidence, but god he had expectations and bare minimums he insists Williams must deliver.
He didn’t fear Barcelona now. What he feared most was Madrid. His father had no expectations for this year’s Barcelona, but Carlos would rather choke himself than fuck up Madrid. If Barcelona had made his father this angry. A whole damn year of anger and disappointment that Carlos swore he would never come home again if he messed up Madrid. This is perhaps the most scared he had ever been since he signed into F1. Carlos couldn’t bear the stares of people that knew him when he came back to Madrid exactly a week before the race. Whether it is a glare of scrutiny or anticipation, Carlos may never know, and he doesn’t want to find out. He’s not good at reading people, after all.
He felt like vomiting. It has always been like this. He can feel the bile rising up his throat whenever he feels this anxious.
His thought went back to Charles. Has Charles been this anxious before racing in Monaco? It was the streets he grew up on, after all. Apartments of his past friends are there overlooking the circuit. Perhaps that was what cursed Charles before 2024. The streets of Charles’ childhood feared that something happened to him in the race, it would be on the soil little Charlie played hide and seek in. The soil of his homeland dreaded blood be spilled atop a gladiator’s circuit loaded with speed-defying machinery.
Carlos pats his cheeks. What was he thinking? F1 had been safe. Modern F1 is the safest. There’s none of this spilled blood nonsense. There is no home soil curse, just unluckiness and not enough preparation. He’s not superstitious, on god, he prided himself as a realistic person, so why is he acting like this?
Charles’ WhatsApp roomchat is still open. Carlos has hesitated calling him. None of them would reach first. Well, Charles would, but not to him. Never to him. He doesn’t know why. This is why they came to this agonizingly still standpoint. But Carlos took another leap of faith and called Charles. After all, there’s no time difference between Monaco and Madrid.
“Carlos?” It seemed that Charles just woke up from a nap, judging from how his voice is rather hoarse and husky, and the fussing of duvets in the background. “Leo, come down..”
“Charles.” It is Carlos’ turn to speak his name. He slips out some sort of vulnerability he hated the world to know, especially Charles.
“Sorry, mate, it seems that Leo slept on my bed.. A moment.”
Carlos waits. He could hear a little yelp and whine from the dog. He chuckles softly, wondering how different his life would be if his family adopted small dogs instead of big babies like Piñon. The rustling sounds of the duvet sounds like Charles is rolling the lints for Leo’s fur. It reminds him to change his bedsheets as well.
“Apologies. Now what happened? You don’t usually call.” Charles spoke, plopping onto a chair.
“...” A silence on Carlos’ part. Should he deliberately get to the point? Or should he make small talk first, considering they barely talk this year?
I miss you, and the last time you held me was at the drivers’ parade. I hope Lewis doesn’t talk to you like I do. I would be devastated if he did. You missed me too, no? Carlos, the person behind the helmet?
“Carlos?”
“Ah, sorry, mate. Was spacing out.” Carlos said, Piñon licking his feet now. He couldn’t pay him any mind. “I want to ask you something, but promise you won’t get offended?”
Charles hums. He wondered what Carlos would ask, especially that he reached him first. Carlos doesn’t usually do that—reaching out, asking, being vulnerable. Carlos doesn’t do vulnerable. Especially to Charles. “Sure.”
Carlos inhaled. “How.. How did you, um, manage to race in Monaco? You know, home soil and curses and all that. It gets in your mind, no?” There it goes. There goes nothing.
Charles laughed. So hard that even little Leo yelped. So hard that Carlos’ heart fluttered. “Ah, so that’s what this is about? Mr. Madridista is nervous because Madrid is coming near?” He teased, cheeky. Just like the same Charles he remembered. Carlos was relieved—at least Lewis didn’t change him, didn’t gather all of Charles to himself. That is still the Charles he knew so well, the Charles he held close to his heart.
“Yes.” He murmured.
So they talked until later in the night. Carlos had never slept that well since he first signed to Williams. Ever since the anxiety and the constant urge to vomit every time anything bad happened.
The next week came. Madrid rolled in like a storm to a race weekend. Carlos was anxious. Very anxious. His father was there—not in his garage, but up there, he doesn’t know what the fancy name is for the place where FIA officials would watch.
If he messed up Madrid, he might as well pack his bags and live full-time in Monaco. He couldn’t bear his father’s disapproving gaze. With how many times he said that his relationship with Sainz Sr. is okay, lingering feelings of Barcelona last year would come to mind. Madrid might be his saving grace if he wanted a dinner with little to none tension. Carlos always tried to be polite to his team, his race engineer, but there is this inherent fear of failure that made him snap. Debriefing after FP1 and FP2 wasn’t a pleasant place to be for any Williams engineer. Carlos demanded a lot of things to be fine-tuned and asked to call his own shots. It was so uncharacteristic of him that James just had to oblige. It was a big week for Carlos, after all.
Cue qualifying day. Carlos fussed over everything. Everything should be perfect. As perfect as it could be to put a Williams on top of those McLarens. And he did it, the impossible, putting a Williams on top of those two rocketships they call McLaren.
“And Carlos Sainz is on pole position!” The commentator screamed.
The crowd cheered. The whole garage celebrated. Carlos grinned, happy beyond his mind. He slowed down, almost stopping, wanting to see his grada and the people waving the blue flag. He loved it, missed this feeling of being on pole, missed having the chance of winning something after Ferrari. If he won today, it would be written in history. The little child from Madrid winning the first race in Madring, winning on the streets he grew up on.. He can finally avenge his poor performance from Barcelona last year and rekindle whatever relationship he had with his father.
He had a comfortable dinner that night. His father congratulated him. His mother and sisters fawned over him. All foods on the table were his favorites. The tension was forgotten and Carlos felt at ease, like he could breathe again. “I want to win,” he spoke.
“You should be.” His father spoke.
“Mmhm.” He didn’t know what his father meant. Should he win Madrid, or should he want to win Madrid? He doesn’t dare ask.
It was always like that. Their conversations were always finished rather abruptly and awkwardly, with none of them knowing how to continue it properly. Carlos just continued eating. In his head, this relationship fixed itself with his pole position, and would be fixed even more when he won.
He smiles at the thought.
He will win Madrid.
And so he did. It was a photo finish, yet he won Madrid, fair and square, keeping his lead for the entire race through sheer will and degrading his tyre to the absolute limit. He knew Max. He knew the McLarens, the Mercedes. He knew Charles. He wouldn’t let them overtake him even if took his life. He wouldn’t let Williams plan his pitstops—James gave him the authority to call his shots and he exploited it. His whole radio was him being rather snappy, but he gave Williams its first win in decades, he should be forgiven for being rather prude.
He felt like he’s on top of the world.
The worries from 2025 felt like it was so far away. The bouts of anxiety and depression, the self-doubt, the indifference in his few races felt so, so far away. He stands proudly in front of a crowd who knows nothing about his hardships, yet they cheer for the son that conquers his childhood’s home soil. The turmoil felt so insignificant to the happiness he felt. To stand on the top step of this podium in white and blue instead of his previous colors felt liberating, in a sense, that he had proven something to everyone that doubted him. Suddenly, the worries about his longevity and future after Williams were forgotten. He didn’t care if no other team wanted him. Madrid was the validation Carlos desperately needed, the last piece of confidence he desperately required to shape his person.
Charles was the first to congratulate him, then Lando, then Alex, and the whole grid. Everyone knows how important this race is. Everyone knows how important Madrid is to Carlos Sainz, similar to what Monaco is to Charles. Monaco made Charles wait eight years.
Madrid didn’t let Carlos wait.
He felt like the championship was in his grasp.
***
2026 went as fast as it came. Soon it was Abu Dhabi and the awarding ceremony of a trophy that wasn't intended to him. Soon, it was season break. Soon, it’s another two months of staying in Madrid, watching his dogs spinning around the house, biking around Madrid with his entourage. He still felt the high even months after that Madrid win. It was poetic, in a sense. Car 55 won his 5th Grand Prix win in his homeland. Like it was meant to be. Like it was fated.
It was the same as the last two years. Carlos would reject offers to hang out. After thirteen years on the grid, it would seem that his closest friends still don't get that he purposefully distanced himself from every driver out there. In no world would he bump into Danny Ric in California the way someone did. Too bad Carlos couldn’t remember who met Daniel in the USA; not like it’s his business. Not like he would meet someone in Madrid. People go everywhere in Spain—Barcelona, Mallorca, Ibiza, Valencia, but he never heard of a driver visiting Madrid. There’s simply nothing interesting there. But Carlos isn’t one to ask, as he had lived in this place his whole life.
He watched as his little nephew watched F1 highlights on the TV. His sisters were busy having some ‘girls time’, as they had described, and the responsibility of this toddler fell onto Carlos. The excuse was Carlos was out so much that the little bun didn’t have a proper chance of bonding with him. So here he sat, babysitting a toddler he barely knew, and having said toddler watch his victory lap in Madrid last year. He sighs. “That is me, you know?”
“¡Tío Carlos!” He happily pointed to the TV. “Did you win?”
“I do.” He answered, smiling, patting his head. Madrid had salvaged the crack in his heart, somewhat.
“Would you win the champ.. champyon..”
“Championship.” Carlos corrected. The little bundle of joy laughed heartily like it’s the most brilliant thing in the world. “Yes! Did you win it?”
It struck his heart. It had been thirteen years, after all. It’s 2027, two years after he came to Williams, two years after bad races and good podiums. Perhaps he would dig up the long-buried dream of a world championship. The chance is there. The car is good, despite it not being a ‘winning car’ by James’ standards, he won a car with the FW48. If everything went as well as Madrid all year long, he could win the title. If he demanded more, defied more, asserted more. If he decides to bite all year long instead of being bitten, he could be a champion. He’s going to be 33 this year. If not now, when?
So Carlos turned to his nephew, smiling, placing the little boy on his lap as they continued watching race highlights. Charles’ scarlet Ferrari beams on the TV screen right now. He pats the toddler’s head gently, “if I win this year, would you watch?”
“Yes!”
“Then tío Carlos will win this year.” He offered his pinky finger to the toddler. “I promise.”
It took a great deal of mental fortitude to not mess up a Williams race. Even after two years being in this team, it exhausts Carlos to no end. He tried to trust his team, he really did, but he really wanted this championship and with how things are going, he wouldn’t have one for another decade. It was a dream he buried for thirteen years, it wouldn’t be unreasonable if he wanted it now, no? It might not be 2028 yet, but Carlos will push this car to the pole position. To win. He needs the wins, all of the points he can get, whether James determines this is a winning car or not.
The first few races were alright. He scored consistent good points and a few podiums here and there, even in the tracks unfavorable to a Williams car, but all of those other drivers are catching up. He needed to be extraordinary this year. He felt like he would vomit every now and then from the sheer thought of not winning, but he limped through to give everyone the idea that he is alright, he is the championship leader, he will continue leading and win this year’s championship. He is bound to a promise. If not for his nephew, let this promise be for a 19-year-old Carlos who stepped into Formula 1 with big dreams. Let this promise be a salvation for a 30-year-old Carlos who thought his world would shatter with how bad his races were in 2025 Williams.
It will be alright, he thought. Everything will be alright.
It was a hard season. Carlos was anxious most of the time that even Teto was concerned. He was supposed to be the man who kept his composure, but seeing how he slips and lets his hands tremble, even the sturdiest driver lets himself be vulnerable. He felt worse than that week before Madrid. Then, he could call Charles and ask for reassurance, savoring his good friend’s calming voice the whole night, but he couldn’t rely on anyone else right now. In this grid of gladiators’ machinery, it’s every man to himself, moreso that he stood atop everyone right now. He hoped Williams wouldn’t mess up his pace. The championship contender was chasing closer in this chase of cat and mouse, but Carlos is able to stand his ground unchallenged.
Coming into tracks like Suzuka and Monaco was the worst of times. He couldn’t even explain why he was late to the national anthem and got fined for it. He couldn’t tell the world how anxious he was, or how lightheaded he felt after scoring points. A podium there was impossible. His position was compromised. If this is how one feels while fighting for the championship, he never wanted to fight again.
But with Qatar rolling in, it is getting better, somewhat. His position is projected to be secure. He is secure, the people in his garage would reassure him. Carlos will be a world champion. He doesn’t have to win the last races, but he can’t mess it up. He couldn’t fuck up until Abu Dhabi. Yet his thoughts wandered into the worst case scenario—that all his hard work would come to nothing. That his years enduring Formula 1, enduring Williams, would come to nothing, and the championship wouldn’t be his to savor anymore.
The night before Abu Dhabi, he wondered what it would feel like if he retired after this. Pulling a Nico Rosberg move, he meant. Even if the championship contender won first place in Abu Dhabi, it would not change the result. Now he understood why Nico left as soon as the trophy was in his hand. He might not have a rivalry akin to what Nico and Lewis had back then—scratch that, his early days in Williams felt something like what Nico and Lewis had, but never to that extent—but this year already exhausted him. Going through every race weekend, almost losing his mind, taking pills just to be able to sleep… Did his championship year dim his passion for racing? Because it felt like it for Carlos. Winning with a Williams was a hope against hope, a desire Carlos pushed to fruition, and a fruit he would harvest in a few weeks.
Perhaps it was best that the dream was buried. Perhaps there was a reason that the dream was buried for thirteen years. Perhaps fate was preparing him for the bloody battle that is the 2027 season. Not even the dots of blue he would wave every race would bring him peace, quite the contrary, he would choke himself if he saw the people in Williams’ blue be disappointed in him.
He had an exit clause in 2027. He could leave now, albeit rather abruptly and to the dismay of all his fans. He could take the trophy and stop trying. What even is there to continue reaching? He had won races, he won the race in his home soil, and he would win the championship. He had achieved everything his 19-year-old self had spoken in his sleep. Wins, podiums, and good races. He had come so far, yet this war tired him more than he had expected, stripped him of his passion of racing, knowing he is mentally incapable of producing another championship with Williams.
If he decides to continue, he will be pressured as the reigning champion, and he doesn’t want to restart a war he had triumphed once.
He doesn’t care if James promised him a winning car in 2028. He had won in 2027, no matter what the result of Abu Dhabi was. He had put the impossible into the realm of possibility and gave Williams a championship trophy after three decades. He wouldn’t covet anything that doesn’t belong to him, especially that he is amongst the small number of drivers that had been crowned champion. He had made his father proud. He had made everyone that supported him proud. Now his name will be remembered with pride, with love, with everyone that had been here for him. Everyone that had supported him in the whole thirteen years of his career. He is prepared to say goodbye to them.
Yet he longs to call Charles. He couldn’t. Charles is still his rival, and the season hasn’t ended yet. A king must not bare his vulnerability to the world, for the subjects surrounding him hid fangs that could tear his flesh. The pivotal point had long ended. This race weekend is a formality he must pass before the trophy is given to him.
Carlos called Teto. His team is the only one he can trust, after all. The relationship with his father is good now, after his Madrid win in 2026, but he felt it was rather odd if he confided to the man that runs this championship shitshow he’s trying to win. The dinners were okay, not as tense as before, but perhaps it was because Carlos rarely went home again during breaks, preferring to stay in his Monaco condo. When Teto picks up, before he could grumble and mutter about why the hell Carlos is calling him this late, Carlos storms to speak first. “Gelato?”
“Okay!”
“No bikes, I’m tired.”
“Come on!” Teto groans to the phone. “You haven’t biked that much this year. Anxious much?”
“Yes.” Yes, he was anxious. Too anxious that even biking doesn’t clear his mind. Too anxious that he felt he would faint if he’s left to his own accord, so he seeks company whenever he could be graced with one. “Can we go now?” He asks, his voice low.
They went for gelato after that. Teto brought the whole entourage, and Carlos got a brain freeze. It was a pleasant night as much as it is rowdy, yet it allows Carlos to calm and distract his racing thoughts. He had decided to say goodbye, yet being the realistic man that he is, he must plan his life moving forward.
The championship that felt so far away is now so near.
“AND CARLOS SAINZ WON THE CHAMPIONSHIP!”
Carlos didn’t know what he was doing. He was supposed to drift, to spin in front of the crowd, but he went out and kneeled before his car. The car James had doubted. This isn’t the car that would win as per James’ standards—that car that was going to be given to him in 2028, yet he won anyway. He won against all odds, against reason, against promise, against all discouragement that could be.
He didn’t care if people photographed this moment or compared him to Vettel back then. He understood why Seb did it, bowing low before his car, because he would do it again if God gave him another chance to win another championship. But he wouldn’t win another, so this is more like a parting, the last gratitude he could offer for a car that won him a title. He would not fight again even if Williams promises him yet another wave of barrages of romantic proposals. He had waved in front of the last dots of blue, and there’s simply nothing more after this that could move him. Not after an exhausting war for the title. Not after Carlos sacrificed his body and soul for a title.
Abu Dhabi came and went just like that. It was a good track, at last, and he stood on the second step of the podium. It was liberating, more relieving than his 2026 Madrid win. For Carlos Sainz, this podium felt like freedom. The war has ended and he triumphed over his blunt and bloodied foes. He is the champion. He had proven his worth, and even if it took thirteen years, his dream had come to an end. Continuing his life in Formula 1 will fill a cup that has been full, adding springs of his championship as a final note before it was served to the waiting masses that is his fans.
An unexpected glimpse of red followed him. Everything was rather blurry, or rather, it was Carlos that’s on the verge of crying.
“Congratulations, mate.” Charles spoke after everything. Despite everything, Charles is always the first to congratulate him. He hugged him tight, tighter than he ever held Carlos, almost afraid to let Carlos go. Almost like Carlos would leave as soon as he released the hug. Which, to be fair, he would. Then the other drivers came and congratulated him as well, and he was whisked away.
Carlos didn’t remember the cooldown room. Didn’t remember what he said in the interviews. He was too overwhelmed to offer parting words for the season, too dizzy to answer questions about his race. It felt like he spaced out the whole thing, but he could hear his voice. Maybe he will find out what he said earlier when he came back to the hotel. His mind is filled on how to terminate the contract, utilizing his exit clause, and to end his brand deals to retire. He only had a few weeks if he were to announce his retirement in the middle of this season break.
So he went to work. His entourage were overjoyed, with Teto and Gigi celebrating as if they were the one that won the championship. You would believe it, in some sense, with how ecstatic they were in his garage. Yet he called Caco, having him sort out his contracts and penalties. He didn’t mind. It was a small price to pay for his peace of mind going forward. His attachments, brands, obligations, all of them will be dismantled this very night.
His nephew fulfilled the promise they made last year. Carlos could still remember their pinkies linking in front of the TV. The little bun came to the awarding ceremony, albeit seated back there with his sister to avoid the spotlight. Carlos smiles, his suit straightened well—he’s still an ambassador to a luxury clothing brand, after all. He couldn’t let himself be seen as disheveled—he didn’t really talk a lot in his speech in fear of tearing up on camera, and would naturally be caught crying on livestream. He should really have spoken something more, though, but seeing the trophy made him feel so damn emotional that the dam could burst anytime.
“Thank you,” he whispered with a trembling breath. Everyone in the room might not know yet, but it would be his last gratitude to them. To the sport. To everyone that helped him achieve this title.
When his father offered him the trophy, a tear actually fell down. He thought he’s used to it. His father had handed him trophies since 2026, especially Madrid, and what is the difference with this one? It is just heavier, more important, but it is inherently a trophy. Is it because his father actually looks proud of him? This trophy made his heart feel so heavy. It was everything he ever dreamed of, the trophy his 19-year-old self coveted so much it came to his dreams for years on end. Even though it took thirteen years, it's here nonetheless, although he paid for it with sacrifices he could never give again. He held it high, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Carlos Sainz, 33-year-old, world champion.
It was good enough. He did well. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was a page Carlos was eager to close. Now, all that is left is to announce his retirement and disappear to the world, leaving traces of a champion in an adrenaline-filled world behind.
He remembered the words he had been echoing for years. The reassurement that he had given towards everyone that had supported him. So he repeated it again, this time for his own peace of mind.
Everything will be okay.
***
The season break rolled. There’s really nothing Charles wanted to do in this break. He has a dog to take care of and a million things to actually do, but he could afford to procrastinate until the end of time and just lay lazily in his condo. But Lando just have to open his apartment door—how the fuck did Lando open the door? Wait, he didn’t lock it—with a horrified gaze. “Have you checked Carlos’ account?”
Charles dismisses him. Surely whatever happened in Carlos’ account wouldn’t be as bad as Lando made it out to be. “Meeeh. What happened, mate? Did he post himself manspreading in the gym again?” He wonders why Lando would come here if Carlos just posted a thirst trap. Gotta be something serious.
“Charles, fuck, no!” He plopped next to Charles uninvited, pulling Leo to his lap. “Oh my… god, I don’t even, I don’t know what to say. Just open his Twitter, please. Hurry. Hurry!”
“Shit. Calm down.” Charles opened his Twitter. There’s something rather urgent in Lando’s tone, and while usually Charles isn’t really concerned, Lando had made it hard to not be concerned. What even happened on Carlos' Twitter? He had just won a championship. Surely it would just be some random picture of Carlos partying and looking unfairly hot.
Charles couldn’t believe his eyes. “Lando?”
It was an announcement. Cold, professional words, clearly but there are personal touches that only Charles can discern. The letter felt painstakingly Carlos in a way it was vulnerably written, but would everyone else know that it’s written with such sentiments? It hurts to even read, yet Charles read it over and over again as if it would soothe the burn.
I want to thank everyone who has been supporting me over the years until I won my first championship. It has been an arduous decade with many hardships and love, and I am grateful for everything.
I will not continue in Formula 1 for the 2028 season.
It may come as abrupt and unconventional, as those before me chose to announce their retirement mid-season or even one year before everything ends. I sincerely apologize to everyone. Thank you, and farewell.
No mentions of future activities. Just an assured ‘farewell’, like everything already ended the moment he posted that announcement. What happened? Shouldn’t Carlos be happy? He just won the title he coveted for a decade. Nothing made sense to Charles. It’s almost like this isn’t the Carlos he knew, or has he been estranged from Carlos for too long? Does he even know Carlos anymore? There were so many questions swirling around his mind that even he felt lightheaded. “Mate, April Fools is still so far away, right?”
“You fucking muppet.” Lando sighed. “It was so abrupt too. Surely he told anyone anything beforehand? Charles?” The F1 grid WhatsApp group was shaking. Everyone is tagging Carlos, even the youngins—they weren’t exactly rookies again, this is 2027—that Carlos hasn't socialized well with. All of them were asking if the announcement was true. Seeing how Charles is so calm about this probably meant that he had the group on mute.
“No.” Charles was horrified. Neither of them would reach first, and it had been like that for multiple years. It was a standstill, a delicate balance Charles thought both of them had treaded carefully, that they were comfortable in this distance they created themselves, but it seemed that only Charles had this in mind. “We don’t really talk anymore.”
Carlos didn’t tell him about his retirement.
Not even a hint of retiring. Not a hint of him being done with Formula 1. There has to be something untold, something Carlos had deliberately kept hidden from everyone. “He didn’t tell you?” Charles asked. Lando shakes his head.
They were the closest friends Carlos had on the grid. If they weren’t told anything, then Charles doubted Carlos had told anyone else outside his close inner circle. And it’s not like Charles can immediately pull up to Teto and ask him things about Carlos. They barely knew each other and it’s clear Carlos worked on his retirement as discreetly as possible, if everyone on the grid is this surprised. It made him feel oddly.. betrayed. Betrayed that he wasn’t someone good enough for Carlos to confide in. Betrayed that he didn’t come to Carlos' mind before deciding about this retirement. Carlos had left him alone in this cold land of rivalry.
Until Alex broke into the open door with a horrified gaze. It seemed that Charles should reinforce his security a little bit more if all his friends managed to bump in like that. Alex pocketed his vibrating phone—it seems that the group is still buzzing with questions. “Where the fuck is Carlos?” He asks, clearly out of breath, like he was biking here as fast as he could. “Why the fuck is his condo empty?”
Charles and Lando looked at each other. “What?”