33. TOLERANCE THRESHOLD

/Charles/

“It's not difficult to come in Pierre. It's not difficult at all, in fact.
It's almost too easy.
But I think it's because I'm finally having the kind of sex I've always wanted, the kind that's most mine, right?
Since Jules's time, I started to think I had tendencies. I definitely liked him, but I never had the chance to delve deeper. I always thought only about running, about making Jules proud because he introduced me to Nicolas, his manager, and then my father who had sacrificed so much for me. Not to mention that I've never had problems with girls and as long as I could be with them, who would make my life difficult?
Slowly, though, something happened; I think I've slowly reached my limit.
It's like when you develop a food intolerance. You have a tolerance threshold, right? Beyond that, if you insist on eating that thing, you feel sick.
For me, it must have been something similar. I simply reached my tolerance threshold at some point. I couldn't stand it anymore, ignore it, pretend to be indifferent.
It's not that I don't like girls, I just like boys more. That's all. But it wasn't just that. If it had been just that, I could have handled it.
What I couldn't handle was the confluence of too many things.
The losses, joining F1, then joining Ferrari, my overly high expectations colliding with those of the entire world.
And then Max.
Max reawakened something in me that was already there, but that under normal circumstances I could handle.
It's just that to get away from Max—because I couldn't stand him, didn't approve of him, didn't suit him—I threw myself on Pierre, convinced that he was good too. That he was most acceptable.
After all I trusted him, right?
He was nice, easygoing, gay, we grew up together. He was the perfect match.
So no, not Max, but Pierre eventually yes.
Too bad that when it happened with Pierre, the truth slapped me in the face.
My tolerance threshold is well and truly exceeded, but Pierre isn't enough for me. He's not Pierre. It's not like he's good enough and that's why I can continue to ignore Max.
It's not Pierre I desire, but Max.
Pierre isn't enough to stem what it's pointless to ignore now.
I like Pierre; he's handsome, he's sweet and he knows me, he knows everything I've been through and he doesn't irritate me, he doesn't bother me. He's the only presence I can accept around me, one of the few I'm willing to let touch and hug me.
I can kiss him, rub myself against him, suck him, penetrate him and have orgasms with him.
I can do it without any major problems, but the more I do it with him, the more the obsession for Max drills into my brain and my guts.
I like Max. I don't know why, I don't know how the hell it's possible, but he's the one I desire. Nothing and no one can erase this fact, they won't cure me of this kind of disease.
And maybe if I understood once and for all that it's not an illness, that there's nothing wrong with liking that asshole who's so unconventional, so easily to disapprove of and insult, who pisses me off every time he gets in a car... well, maybe I'd feel better.
Pierre distracted me from another loss and I think this thing between us had precisely that purpose, actually. To not make us feel that pain, to not make us feel bad for our friend. To heal each other's wounds.
I collapse exhausted, panting, on top of Pierre after our orgasms. I bury my face in his neck and he gently kisses my sweaty forehead.
He's the best person I could ever meet and I just want him to be happy, but I can't deceive him forever. Sooner or later, I'll have to find the courage to tell him the truth and hurt him.
But are you really willing to see this beautiful relationship of yours change, Charles? Because you know well that as soon as you tell him you feel only affection for him, the wonderful friendship that bound you two until now, will be forgotten.
You know it well.
Are you willing to give up that too?
As my cruel mind asks me this question, I lift my head and place my lips on his in an exhausted kiss that answers everything.
No, I'm not ready to give up his friendship yet. I'm sorry, I'll be a little more of an asshole until I truly can't take it anymore. Until my tolerance threshold becomes an unbearable allergy.

It's just that I wasn't fully aware of it.
While I'm with Pierre and having sex with him with splendid orgasms, it feels good in a certain way. The hormones are clouding me. I can't give up what we have, even though rationally I know I have to.
But as soon as the hormones pass and the effect of sex leaves me, I realize it's not good.
It's not good at all.
Because I should be honest and I'm deceiving him; I fool myself into thinking it's for him, because that's how I take care of him. But now he's the one smiling and I'm just the one pretending terribly.
It's also not good that as soon as I pass Max on the circuit or in the hotel, I feel torn apart like an idiot. I burn just wanting to give in to what I really want, but I can't, I shouldn't. Not until I clarify everything with Pierre and maybe if I don't, it's because I'm still not really sure, right? So what's the point of acting without first being sure? What if I mess up again?
But then I look in the mirror, every time Pierre's lips touch mine, and I'm damned aware that I'm a horrible person. So horrible.
That monster that I don't know if it's me or if it's just inside me... well, that monster is still there and I can't stand it.
So, as soon as I get in the car, it seems like the only real relief I've had in a week and instead of remembering the Scuderia's instructions telling me to slipstream Seb in qualifying, I do my time and completely forget about him.
I don't do it on purpose, but as soon as I lowered my visor, I felt the first real relief of these seven damned days.
Only when I'm racing do I feel good.
My brain shuts down, I can't think of anything except escaping that shit inside me, that makes me deceive Pierre for my own fucking needs, because I'm a coward, because I don't know.
That same shit that makes me deprive myself of what I sincerely desire deep down.
Max, abandoning myself to him in any way, always.
If I went back to Singapore, I wouldn't back down like an idiot.

Unfortunately Seb is pissed off about the lack of a slipstream I should have given him and I'm sorry. I can't even find the words to justify myself—not that he's leaving me any way. He's completely ignoring me, like he's never done before.
It hurts and it's shocking and I'm truly sorry. I'd like to do something, make amends, but nothing comes out, I'm stuck in the knowledge that I made a mistake. Right now, I'm a living mess. I can't even enjoy my Pole Position, even though I'm happy about it. I am, right? Can it show from the outside? Can I smile, put on a Pole Man face?
It's not personal, Seb. For me, getting in the car and closing the visor is a way of erasing everything. I'm another Charles. I'm not the decent one who always does what needs to be done, the kind and altruistic one because my father raised me that way. I'm a Charles who only thinks about beating everyone without looking anyone in the eye, and I'm not the Charles who lives among others and who everyone knows—or rather, thinks they know. It's nothing personal, Seb.
Don't be angry with me.

But my lips remain sealed and meanwhile, a kind of uproar erupts around this matter, as if it were a matter of state.
The second driver doesn't slipstream the first in qualifying. Unthinkable.
Has the little prodigy already gotten a big head after an F1 victory?
Does he know that Vettel won four world championships to earn certain rights as the first driver?
There are internal rules; today it was Leclerc's turn to slipstream Vettel. He surely did it on purpose; he didn't want him to steal pole position.
I hear so many things and I don't want to, but I can't control this rampant obsession. I know Ferrari really lifts the spirits of all its many fans and sports journalists, but I didn't think that for something as stupid as a missed slipstream someone would end up crucified.
- Now you have to win tomorrow, or you're finished! - Lewis's voice makes me shiver.
After all the usual duties of the top three—photos, interviews, a press conference—and after the controversies raised by journalists at every damned excuse, as we prepare to leave the circuit at the same time to return to the hotel, Lewis comes up beside me and talks as if he hadn't had a thousand opportunities before.
I look at him in surprise and I reach out for Bottas, but I don't know where he’s; maybe he's already gone. I've been a bit late getting my things, but Lewis must be a time-waster like me.
Once we reach the reserved parking space, he slows down as if waiting for someone.
Maybe Bottas, in fact. Maybe they agreed to leave together; I know they get along.
I pick up the keys to the car I use to get around Monza and turn them over in my hands, staring at them as if they were interesting. I quickly search my mind for something to say, but I wasn't expecting him to say something like that.
- I didn't do it on purpose. I didn't think about it, I was focused on my qualifications and didn't remember what I had to do after. These are complicated days and when I get in the car, I find relief because I can block out all the mess I have. Unfortunately, I tend to block out too much. I'm sorry Seb was hurt.
I don't know why I talk about it so much, but really, who should I talk to if not Seb's secret boyfriend?
- But he helped you last time... - by saying this, he confirms something that shouldn't be taken for granted. Lewis speaks for Seb because they're together. I don't know if he realized it; I know he wants their relationship to remain a secret, but I certainly don't point it out to him.
I bow my guilty head and nod, feeling even more like shit.
- I know. I'm sorry...
Maybe he'll tell him for me and stop acting like the ice king. I wish I could tell him certain things in person, but since I'm a bad guy, I took advantage of Lewis. Maybe one day, if he needs a favor, I'll reciprocate. Assuming he actually helps me in the end and acts as an intermediary to calm his disappointed man. Tell him, please.
- It’s not personal. - I repeat implying a billion things that I think Lewis understands. I don't dare look at him, I stare at my hands playing with keys, my expression clearly guilty. I hope that's enough. I can't do better, forgive me.
In any case, disappointing Seb was one of the things I didn't want to add to the mess in my life right now.
Lewis listens to me patiently and gives a sympathetic, apologetic smile.
- Try telling him too when you see him. - he suggests softly, meaning that now he'll tell him for me anyway. He has a delicacy in saying things that never bothers. I look at him in amazement.
Lewis smiles sweetly, nods and gently touches my elbow without saying anything else, as if deciding the scolding in honor of his man should end here. He nods to me and walks to the passenger side of one of the few cars left in the parking lot and only when I look more closely do I notice a curly blond man driving. My eyes widen and I go pale.
Is she leaving with Seb so brazenly? And he's been waiting for Lewis all this time?
Did he hear? I don't think so, he wasn't that close, but Lewis definitely tells him. I hope. Who knows.
I just needed to escape and I did it even from people who had nothing to do with my shit situation, from whom there was no need to escape.
I like Lewis, he's discreet but says what he has to say, just not intrusive, rude, or out of place. He's very much in line with what I try to be; I think my father would be crazy about him if he could get to know him better, like I do now.
I smile dazedly and sigh shrugging my shoulders, trying to loosen them, but the tension is still high.
Tomorrow in the car will be better, I'm sure of it. Tomorrow I'll take off my visor and finally get my relief.
And maybe someone or something will be able to get me out of here, give me that good jolt I need, that they have to give me every now and then to return to real life and remind me that I'm not a ghost in the world. Maybe a race at Ferrari home by Pole Man is just what I need.
Well, yes. If only I could win.”

/Max/

"As if I wasn't pissed off enough on my own, my dad has to get involved too, damn it!
- This qualifying session is a real piece of shit! What the hell happened? How the hell is it possible that I couldn't even record a fucking valid time? Engine problems happen to everyone, but they have to at least have a fucking valid time, damn it! Why did you wait so long to go out? There can always be unforeseen events, you have to take them into account! These stupid tactics must be done with someone else, damn it!
My dad's furious voice echoes in my head as I pull the phone away from my ear, hoping to hear less. Poor fool. I can hear everything too well, fuck it! It's like there’s the speakerphone from how he’s yelling!
Breathe, Max, breathe, and don't answer him. You know it's worse and you're never going to get rid of him.
- What the fuck do you want me to tell you? I followed orders, it's not like I decide! And if the car is a piece of shit that doesn't work, what the fuck can I do?
Yes, exactly. Don't answer him.
I can't even count, he immediately screams into the phone, even louder.
Here I honestly switch off, I can hear but not listen and I have to say it's really better.
In the end I say 'yes' without knowing what to and I only back when he says: - YES FOR FUCK! YOU WASN'T LISTENING TO ME, MAX!
And nothing, in the end I hang up. Really, I can't do it. I can't. I don't know what the hell I did wrong, because some people are born to be broken, or maybe they're already born broken.
Shit attracts more shit, that's what they say, right?
I'm rotten in some ways and my father is just trying to mold me to make me less bad, but obviously he uses shitty methods. Luckily he's not here, he's not always glued to me like he was before F1.
Red Bull saved my life, I'll be forever grateful. Too bad that sooner or later I'll leave here and go home and woe betide me if I don't go to him. It's wonderful when he joins me at some races and then wanders around my garage and my spots with a special pass. Those are the best races.
Fuck, damn it.
What the hell did I do wrong?
Even though I was out on the terrace of my room hoping the fresh air of Monza in September would help, I still feel suffocated. Annoyed, with my head exploding and my nerves in spasms, I go back to my room and slam the phone on the bed, hoping he won't call me back to continue his tirade, knowing he will.
To avoid saying bullshit like "I didn't hear," I go out leaving my phone there on purpose, just taking the key card and going out of my room as I am.
It must be around ten o'clock at night, maybe eleven. He tried to call me all fucking night and I never answered him on purpose; in the end, to get him off my back, otherwise he would have continued forever, I answered.
It was better to keep going ignoring him.
What the hell can I do if they tell me to do certain things?
The car had problems, isn't it my fault? But he has to blame me because it's his best pastime.
In these conditions I couldn't even concentrate on Sim Racing.
In these cases only Daniel could calm me down. All he had to do was hug me.
Where is he? Where the hell is he? Why the fuck did I leave him?
For a moment I feel like I'm possessed by a demon, as I search for room numbers in the corridor I walk through, trying to remember which one he's in. Only when I reach the end, where there would usually be a comfortable terrace for smokers and anyone who wants to enjoy the outdoors, do I realize it's not here. And above all, I realize I don't know which room he's in. He doesn't tell me anymore.
Besides, why should he?
Pissed off and nervous as hell, I go to the elevator and go down. This wonderful luxury hotel in Monza has a very convenient feature, in the absence of the terraces on the top floor -in this case there is one, but it belongs to the restaurant- it has an internal garden where wedding receptions and similar event are usually held.
I don't use it often, but luckily it's there and I don't meet a soul.
Apparently, on the Saturday night before a race, the drivers are all good; they stay in their rooms to rest or have sex with someone, if the pre-race ritual calls for it. It depends; some let off steam with sex and some avoid it because they end up letting off steam too much.
It helped me, obviously, and having to give up that important practice is driving me crazy. I can't stand anything anymore, and I couldn't stand anything before.
In the evening you can't understand a thing, there are some charming street lamps and some of them are lit. There’s a small avenue and the rest is surrounded by hedges or the hotel walls themselves.
I move around in my sweatshirt sleeves pulling up my zipper, my hands deep in my pants pockets, in my slippers.
The garden it's not very big for the truth, because it’s the internal one built to avoid the outside glances from the other side, where the gates are. During race weekends, they're besieged by Ferrari fans, of course. I find a bench and sit down tiredly, as if I'd run who knows how many kilometers on foot.
I don't even feel like being outside or moving. I don't want anything, just something that makes me feel good.
Daniel was my stress reliever, but that's no reason to be with someone, especially if you can't fuck anymore.
I slide forward on my ass and let my head flop back, looking up and sighing because I can't even see the stars.
- Shit! - I growl through gritted teeth closing my eyes.
- Ehi! - after a while, a familiar voice shocks me, a voice that interrupts what I thought was a perfect, solitary silence.
I snap my head up and widen my eyes; I realize I'm tense, ready to react badly, for a change. As soon as I focus on Charles's serious face, I relax only to tense up for another reason.
Really? Him?
- Can I? - he asks pointing to the bench. I shrug feigning indifference, while inside I rejoice. Finally, the first good thing in these shitty days.
- It’s not mine.
My typical fucking response.
He, who wasn't expecting anything friendly, doesn't flinch and sits down.
My heart starts pounding stupidly, I'm an idiot. Why the hell did he show up? Ask him questions, Max. Take advantage. Don't let this moment slip away.
- Are you running away from Pierre? - okay, you shitty mouth of mine, of all things, this?
He looks at me with eyes wider than usual, probably wondering if I'd really had the nerve to ask him that, but while I arch my eyebrows in a snobbish way, pretending not to understand what's so strange about this question, he seems to accept it.
He slides forward on the bench like me, hands in his pockets. He doesn't try to look up, he knows he can't see the sky.
- And you from your father? - wow, not bad!
I try to laugh, but I'm actually bitter.
- Did you hear me? - then my slow brain realizes something else and I immediately say it without filtering: - Wait a minute, is that why you followed me? Did you hear me arguing on the phone with my father?
Charles raises an eyebrow and tilts his head to the side, but without looking at me; he's still staring at this dimly lit internal garden.
- I was on the terrace too and he was shouting a lot, even though he was on the phone; hearing doors and windows slamming, I got a little worried.
When he says that, I straighten up convinced I'm living a dream. Is he really saying something like that? I turn closer to him, my arms now crossed over my chest.
- Are you kidding? You worried about me? And what happened to Pierre? Are you tired of worrying about him?
But why the hell do I always have to be such a damned bitch and provocative? Why the fuck can't I just accept kindness from someone I like? What am I, ten years old that I react playing pranks on those I like??
At this point Charles looks at me in surprise again, seemingly wondering what kind of reaction this is and he's right.
However, my mouth is careful from remedying.
- Will you stop constantly bringing Pierre into this? What the hell does him have to do with us?
His response is annoyed and it's the first I've ever gotten from him. If I were to go back, yes, I remember moments of bitterness between us, or times when he was icy and clearly annoyed, but he always handled me by trying to show as little as possible.
Now he's really exasperated and openly annoyed. Annoyed in a normal way.
The excitement kicks in, as does the irritation and a strange sense of frenzy.
The hunt, maybe.
It's like when I'm on the track and there are a few laps left and I'm almost in first place, I'm just about to overtake the guy in front of me and take the lead.
- And you answer me once and for all! - I blurt out even more annoyed. Actually, fucking angry.
Because I really am, with everyone. With my dad being his usual asshole, with Red Bull failing to get the car and strategies right working against me, with Daniel disappearing from my life, with the lack of a proper vent and someone who understands and helps me, with Charles who doesn't make me understand a damn thing. About how he feels about me, what he thinks, what the fuck he's doing, who he's with, how he feels.
Charles stares at me dazed, incredulous that I'm actually saying what I'm saying, especially in this way.
- What the hell are you talking about? What should I answer?
He's not afraid. I like that about him. He's never been afraid of me; he knows how to stand up to me. He doesn't feel inferior, on the contrary. He feels superior even though I know he isn't.
He's not afraid to argue with me and set me straight.
Fuck, I really like you, you damn asshole.
- Are you with Pierre or not, damn it?
As if it's any of my business. Shit, answer me once and for all! Fuck, answer me!”

NOTES:  And slowly, finally, things are getting REALLY interesting. If Charles's tolerance threshold is approaching, Max's has certainly reached it. Will Charles be able to calm him down or will he instigate him? Will they finally be able to communicate properly or is another clash looming around the corner? Will they lower their defenses and open up to each other a little more? The answers are in the next chapter.
Of course, the technical references are true; what happened in qualifying with Seb and the missed slipstream, caused a stir at the time. Now it doesn't seem like a tragedy to me, but in Italy, everything related to Ferrari is a kind of tragedy and Charles was crucified (until he won the race, where he was forgiven and loved). It’s something very revealing about his true character, which in fact helped me draft his profile.
Of course, I have to include Lew or Seb as often as possible, but I warned you from the start. They are my supreme beings.
The photos in the banner are all from that week, except the one of Charles and Max together, which is from Monaco 2019. Charles always had peculiar expressions, not that Max was any better.
I tried to find out about the hotel where the drivers usually stay in Monza, but I had to fill in the blanks with my imagination. (I've never been to Monza or that hotel, I just looked for photos online.) See you next time. Kisses, Akane