NOTES: We are still on that Saturday evening in Japan 2019, outside the typhoon and inside Charles taking refuge with Max after a last-ditch attempt to shake off his inner block.

41. PERFUME

/Max/

“I still feel like a pathetic idiot, but we haven't talked about it and Charles stayed here precisely for that reason, so I can even consider myself happy.
We haven't talked about anything. He silently dressed in my clothes and then sat on the bed without waiting for an invitation from me, a proposal, anything.
He sat watching the typhoon outside the window, hitting with such force that you wondered how they managed to make everything so airtight and safe.
The walls seem to be shaking, but only because, looking at how strong the wind is outside, you think they should. In reality, everything is still.
But I'm looking at him instead of the storm, even though I try not to be too cheeky. Sitting close together on the bed in a neutral position, our hands clasped between our legs; there's none of the frenzy I would have imagined being alone in the room with him. I think it's because of the shadow of what happened earlier.
From how hungry I am I think it's dinner time, but I don't dare look at my phone and surely I wouldn't leave now.
So we stay here in silence listening to the noise outside, muffled. We don't say anything.
There’re a thousand things to talk about, I would demand clarification, especially about before, but I don't ask anything, I don't speak, I don't say anything.
If I forced him to talk, he'd leave. He has a serious problem opening up and dealing with certain situations. I didn't imagine he was so closed off and maybe that's not even the problem.
But after all, what do I know about him?
I only know that he's beautiful and that I want to fuck him.
Lando's words shake me up. Don't I just want to fuck with him? So why all this concern?
But then how the hell can I ignore that he opened the door earlier to go out in the middle of the typhoon? It's not normal, right?
I can't ignore it. I know I'm not sane either. I know I can pretend to do a lot of things because I'm insensitive and I'm an asshole. But this is a big deal.
I would damn well like to ask him how he’s and what he was about to do, but I don't dare because I know he'd walk out the door and leave.
So I say nothing, letting the minutes tick by until my stomach races with the time outside. At my gurgling, Charles's eyes widen and it's as if he's awakened. He finally turns to me and looks at my belly, which I rub without making any secret of.
- Are you hungry, Max? - he asks rhetorically and surprised.
But as soon as he says it, I don't even have time to answer before his stomach growls too; we both end up laughing, suddenly unnerved.
The shadow that had remained until then vanishes with this and I reach for the phone on the nightstand.
- What shall I order? What do you want to eat? -
If he's hungry, it means he's feeling better. The typhoon must have relaxed him; he was enchanted by staring at it for I don't know how long. Now he seems normal. As normal as he can be to be alone with me without saying or doing anything. He and I alone have never been normal.
Starting from when we wanted to jump at each other's throats, but instead not even a single insult came out, only fiery or icy glances. What a way of being together we two have always had.
When he responds with a series of typical Japanese dishes, yet light since it's the eve of a race, as well as qualifying, I order two of everything he mentioned. When I hang up, I realize we'll be having dinner together on something that's not a real date, but it's definitely much more than we've ever had.
It's impossible not to feel strange, impossible for the frenzy not to start, the desire not to be triggered. It does indeed start, but what happened before remains, hovers between us like a ghost. Just as Pierre hovers, who isn't my problem but Charles's, and I know he'd reject me at the best moment. Because I have absolutely no doubt about that.
Charles finally gets out of bed and stops looking outside, but it's also difficult to distinguish anything because now evening has fallen and it’ll slowly be night. There wasn't much light before either, the clouds were dark and low obscuring everything.
I have to do something, but I don't know what. Why did I go from just wanting to fuck him to knowing I couldn't?
I'm such an idiot, that's what I am.
Charles goes to the bathroom and then comes out with a strange expression, as always unreadable. Only when he rubs his lips do I realize it's like he came back to life, somehow. His cheeks flush a delicious red and, tilting my head, I'm left wondering what he saw in there. I decide to go too, without really needing to, and when I go in, I notice that the perfume bottle isn't where I left it and it's not closed properly.
I sneer reconsidering my plan for the umpteenth time in a few hours.
If he really wanted, I wouldn't back down.
I mean, first he almost put his cock in my mouth and in response I dried and hugged him, but I mean. He sniffed my perfume which he’s apparently obsessed, and I just happen to have to give him my birthday present.
We'll wait until dinner arrives so it doesn't ruin the mood, then I'll attack.
I think whatever was on him before has just been pushed aside by my perfume and who am I to stop him from coming back to life?
When I return to him, he's looking for something on TV, but of course there's no signal, so he shuts it down annoyed.
- Do you think in this weather you can watch something just because you want to? - I tease him spontaneously and he appreciates it with a cute pout. He picks up his phone and decides to put on some music himself. Apparently he likes it and suddenly he can't stay silent with me. He could leave if it's too much to stay here like this, but I think he'd rather sit here and be embarrassed than leave.
In an instant I decide to indulge him and see what he does, since I have my own plan.
When he puts a playlist of songs I assume he's downloaded to his phone so he can listen offline when he's flying, he doesn't even ask me what I like or if I want to listen to music. He just takes it and does it. And that's fine. I smirk in amusement. That ghost is now a bad dream. Did that strange thing really happen?
Maybe I imagined it.
When he seems satisfied with his international pop music or whatever genre he's listening to, he gives me a heated look and seems more and more like a different Charles. I'm about to say something about it, but room service knocks at the door, so I go to open it noticing that he instead runs away to the bathroom so as not to risk being seen by even the staff.
I shake my head. What would be wrong with letting them know we're having dinner together in the room?
When we're alone again, I shout to him that he can leave and start to put thins in order on the double bed. There's a table, but there's only one chair, so I arbitrarily decide we'll eat here, just as he arbitrarily chose we'd listen to music.
As the minutes pass, we're increasingly weirder. We still don't talk to each other and make decisions for each other, but he doesn't leave, he doesn't make any move to run away and I have no intention of letting him get away. It's the weirdest situation that's ever arisen between us, and many strange situations have arisen, especially between us.
It's just that we're sober and neither of us wants to talk about certain things, so it's like a blind date between two strangers. Too bad we're not and we both have too clear in our minds what we want from each other.
No rushing, no flirting that precedes unforgettable sex. What the hell do he and I have in common?
We don't even want to play on PlayStation, because we've literally been doing it all day.
After we start eating, Charles finally speaks.
- What music do you like? - as soon as he starts like that, I realize that yes. It's exactly the awkwardness of a couple in the dark who have to get to know each other. One of those who knows they'll sleep together sooner or later, but who have to do something in the meantime. Something to trigger them, for example.
But that trigger is there, in the air.
- I don't listen to music.
Charles opens his eyes wide in surprise.
- Really? - it sounds like I've sworn and I laugh, shrugging.
- Is that so weird?
- But you really don't like it, or don't you listen to it? I'll stop it if you want, I thought you liked it... it's just that now the silence...
Charles, embarrassed, is delightful and talks too much. Definitely too much.
Now no silence? And before? Where were you before, when you liked being quiet so much? I'd like to ask him, but I can't.
- No, leave it. It's not that I don't like it, I just don't listen to it. I don't even know what my tastes are.
- Do you like this kind of music? - I shrug.
- I don't mind.
But it's the same, honestly. Silence would be fine too, but I think it would be more awkward, we'd have trouble talking and right now I want to know everything about him.
- And what do you like to do?
Charles, on the other hand, is like a tarantula bitten. He also eats rather quickly, but out of nervousness, not pleasure or hunger. He fills every silence as if he suddenly can't stand it anymore. Has he thought enough already?
And what has he pondered? I assume he doesn't want to talk about himself since he's bombarding me with questions about myself.
Don't worry, I won't ask you uncomfortable things, if that's what you're afraid of. Do you want to monopolize and control the conversation because you're afraid I'll corner you?
- Lots of things, actually. - I reply vaguely.
- But without music! - He emphasizes ironically, pushing for a light and fun conversation.
- But without music! - I confirm, laughing. Apparently I infect him and his beautiful face lights up with laughter that drastically changes the atmosphere. It’s lightened up just as he'd hoped and it's easy to be together again. Easy. If, of course, there was ever anything easy between us.
But enjoy it, dear Charles, because as soon as we finish eating I'll give you my present. We won't have sex unless you're ready. But I dare you not to really want it afterward.
- And what are these 'many things'? - he asks as if he were testing the goods that will one day be his.
At this point I reel off all my passions and hobbies, surprised and bewildered that someone is so interested in me. Whatever the reason, it's the first time it's happened without an interview in between, which I hate.
To be honest Daniel shared a lot with me because we did a lot of things together; he introduced me to a lot of them, for example. But I've never had anyone who was truly interested in me; usually they just want to fuck me or are after my money or my fame in some way.
- I like bikes, motorcycles, quad and jet skis. - I'll start with my favorites.
- Do you have a motorcycle? - he asks surprised. I shake my head.
- I drove them secretly, but I'm not allowed to do or own one. It's my contract!
At this Charles spits out what he had in his mouth to laugh and that both pleases and irritates me. How dare you laugh at me? Fuck you and your pretty laughing face.
- Go to hell! - I grumble.
- So what kind of hobby is it? - he teases.
- I said I like it, not that I do it!
- I asked you what you like to do! I listen to music, play chess, golf, scuba dive, hike in the mountains, climb, follow fashion...
- Do you follow fashion? - I ask derisively not considering it a serious hobby. He nods narrowing his gaze, ready to incinerate me, but I'm not afraid of him and, smelling a perfect lead, I strike out to pay him back in kind.
- And does that sound like a hobby to you? - I mock him acidly, imitating him.
- Following something is a hobby. I asked you what you like to do and you said motorcycles, but you don't actually go! - the know-it-all doesn't let go and shows off his worst, touchy and punctilious!
- But Moto GP exists! - I point out victoriously, with the essential aim of having the last word with him.
- So, say you like following Moto GP!
- And chess and golf, by the way? - I ask realizing with a belated realization what kind of boring hobbies he has. From here we continue to tease each other like two children, like the ones we once were. For a moment, we forget all our past and current intentions. For a moment everything is finally easy again.
But I'll take care of putting everything in a more congenial light. I'm not as much of an asshole as I always thought, maybe, but I'm no saint either.
Let's see what happens when we provoke a little more. Since we've finally finished eating, I clear everything off the bed and pile it on the table. 
We're still arguing like two childish children about whose hobby is more fun and whose is more boring. And here, as if nothing had happened, as if I were offering him dessert after dinner, I hand him my early birthday present.
He suddenly falls silent giving me the false impression of having won the argument. In reality I haven't won, I just hit low and treacherously, but it's still satisfying not to hear him irritatingly scold me anymore.
Here, my dear Charles, I really want to see you."

/Charles/

“I smelled his perfume in the bathroom earlier. Here's what I did.
I took it as if possessed by a puppeteer who was manipulating me. I opened it and smelled it losing myself for a moment in a violent rush of excitement that brought me back to that night in Monza, when I smelled it twice. The second time I was dead drunk, but I recovered with my nose glued to his neck sniffing it and there was that scent.
With that scent once again vivid, all the details of that night came back to m, and now I can't forget a single one.
His hand inside my pants on the dance floor while we were glued to Pierre and he to that girl, with the smoke erasing us from the world, his finger pointing at my tight hole waiting only for him. I barely stopped him.
On the dance floor, for Christ's sake. We were on the dance floor surrounded by a lot of people. No one was watching us and no one was thinking clearly thanks to what they had taken between alcohol and other things, but it didn't matter.
Then I fucked Pierre in the bathroom, making sure Max saw me come in with that intent, knowing that he'd do it with that girl after me. Right where I'd just done it, maybe leaning on the same spot. Thinking about the same thing. How we would have done it if only he and I had been together.
Then the maniacal, provocative conversations we had. My unfiltered declaration.
'I want to fuck you, but I'm too drunk.'
But without being drunk, I would never have had the courage to say it.
My control quickly slipped, so much so that I was leaning against him and then in the bedroom I ended up with my face against his neck and his scent was still there, I could smell it despite the night spent dancing. A really good perfume, which now I know what it is.
Giorgio Armani.
It suits him, it's like him, it's not too strong or excessive, but it's masculine and you can smell it. The kind that drives me crazy and that I didn't know had so much power over me.
I remembered how I tried to unzip his pants but I was too drunk to do so. I remembered everything.
Even how he led me down to the bed and then gently placed his lips on mine.
I was half asleep, unable to open my eyes or make a sound, but I remember that feeling well. I wanted so badly to open my eyes and kiss him back, to slip my tongue inside him, to wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down on me, but I couldn't even move the muscles in my eyelids.
His scent had the power of a bomb that dispels fog and smoke.
That was his secret, I told myself.
Then I went out and I was still confused. He looked at me, noticed me, but strangely he didn't ask anything. I was desperately looking for an excuse to give him, hoping I was still capable of not showing what I felt and thought, but there was no need.
Now, in an instant, Max cancels the entire dinner he served us to distract and relax from the strange tension that had built up. It was like dating for the first time, even though we've actually known each other for years. In fact it was like discovering each other.
But now, after clearing everything from the laid bed, he presents me a gift package tossing it to me as if it were the keys I'd forgotten on the table. Then he slumps onto the mattress, crossing his legs in the same position as me. But he's closer than before; now there are no plates separating us. Our knees touch and there's an electric shock that quickly fades into the background, because between my fingers is this package I completely didn't expect to receive out of nowhere.
I fall silent and stop scolding him. The lighthearted, joking atmosphere it’s blown away as if the wind had entered again and I look at him in amazement.
- What is it? - a stupid question that Max immediately makes me feel sorry for.
- A present, can't you see? - he says ironically. I roll my eyes exasperated by his way of doing things. Why does he always have to purposely annoy me? Can't he stop for a moment? I'm about to respond in kind, only because I can't help it if he provokes me, but he immediately adds, lower and hoarse: - I know your birthday is in four days, but I really wanted to give you my present because I don't know if I'll have another opportunity. Not a better one than this.
With this, he completely takes the last word, even though, of course, I say, as usual: - But it wasn't necessary, I didn't do anything to yours, why did you do it?
We're sixteen days apart, him and I. Sixteen, like my birthday and the number on my car, the number I consider my lucky one, even though my favorite is seven, but sixteen is one plus six.
What a curious coincidence.
He shrugs curving his lips, downplaying the matter and looking at the package I haven't opened yet.
- It doesn't matter, I thought of a perfect present for you and I really wanted to give it to you!!
Curiosity suddenly strikes me so I decide that I'll reciprocate in some way. Max giving me a present is the strangest thing in the world. Something like this has never happened before and it freaks me out in so many ways, but now my concentration is focused on the mysterious object I'm unwrapping.
As soon as I see the package, a shock hits me and my brain shuts down, then a wave of heat hits me.
The Armani perfume shows off, the same one he wears.
I immediately stiffen, my eyes wide open, heat invades my face and I think I'm finally expressive for the first time in four years. I mean, without any help from alcohol or a strong adrenaline rush brought on by racing or F1 news.
I look up at Max in panic and utter embarrassment.
I first smell his perfume remembering all the details of that famous night, and shortly after he gives me the incriminating perfume?
His blue eyes stare at me, mischievous and curious, waiting for my reaction, waiting for him to say or do something, but I'm confused. I wasn't expecting anything like this. Not even that he was giving me a present, or even that it was even this.
Obviously he understood that I was obsessed with his perfume and wanted to give it to me, but there's something behind this gesture that shakes me deeply.
- Do you like it? - he asks without hesitation. I swallow hard and nod without opening it, turning it over in my fingers nervously, not knowing how the hell to get out of this mess.
Suddenly I feel like I'm in that typhoon again, like before when he caught me by a hair's breadth before being dragged away.
It's as I thought.
Max is my typhoon. He has exactly the same effect on me.
- It really wasn't necessary...
I don't know what the hell to say. For the first time I'm speechless, and he seems so happy about it that he points to the perfume with his chin.
- Open it and try it, tell me if you really like it!
If I asked him how he knows it, he'd answer honestly and it would be like looking for it.
I know I shouldn't open this perfume and smell it, just as I know I shouldn't ask him how he knows I like it, but I can't deny it to him seeing as he just gave me a gift, a gesture that is famously and universally beautiful.
So I swallow, stiff and nervous, and open it resigned. I just smelled it; it won't have the same devastating effect on me as before, right? I've remembered now, I shouldn't be shocked anymore.
I open it and spray it on my wrists, rubbing them together, then automatically run them under my ears and down my neck. Finally, I sniff and without meaning to, I close my eyes inhaling deeply, knowing that it's exactly like a drug now.
The effect is aphrodisiac, like before, or maybe worse, because now I know what to expect and all the memories are already vivid. The same ones that come back to me as if they had just been experienced.
My face on his neck, me smelling him, my finger slipping into the waistband of his pants unable to open them, so damn tight.
When I open my eyes again, I feel an intensity come over me, while the desire to repeat and fix what didn't work that night overwhelms me.
Now I'm not drunk.
I look at his sweatpants comfortable. This time it would be easy.
- Do you like it? - he asks low and sensual. His damn sexy voice gives me the final blow and I nod, going back to smelling my wrist so as not to smell him and not to put my finger in that elastic and pull, completing the unfinished work of that night.
But maybe I'm doing worse. Maybe I should get up, go to the window and watch the typhoon, come to my senses, but I can't. I can't.
I'm stuck in front of him, but he's absolutely still, not moving a muscle, not doing anything. He looks at me with his head to the side, waiting, aware of what's happening to me. Curious to see if I'll lose control, even though I'm not drunk.
It's as if he's telling me, 'If you want, I'm yours,' but right on this thought, another one strikes me.
And you? What do you want instead?
If I want, you're mine, but what do you want, Max? Why don't you jump on me, if you want, instead of provoking me so much?
I remember how it went that night. We provoked each other all night until you took it too far and fucked that bitch who had nothing to do with us, you ruined everything. We could have been the ones fucking in that damn bathroom. But not us, we provoked each other to the point of overdoing it. You fucked a bitch, I drank too much.
I'd like to ask him, but I'm sure I'd lose control of the conversation and the situation and I don't know if I'm ready yet, because I just escaped from Pierre and opened that door to go out into the typhoon. I don't think I'm well enough to do such things lightly.
Even though I'd like to. You have no idea how much I'd love to do what you think is your little secret again, but do it right this time.
Your lips on mine aren't your exclusive prerogative. I want mine on yours in the same way.
I stare at them and then, with a deep sigh, I turn away the perfume and break the contact of our knees and our gazes. I lean my back against the headboard of the bed and remain staring in front of us, at a black television that we can't turn on. My music is still playing the songs I've chosen, my favorites. Right now, a Coldplay song comes on, which perfectly reflects my current state of mind, if only for the title and certain lyrics. "Lost." 
And on it everything changes again, quickly, unexpectedly.”