45. DO SOMETHING

/Max/

“I spent the entire race week obsessively wondering, like an idiot, what I should do with him: pressure him or leave him alone?
At the press conference on Thursday, we were miraculously together and I thought it was a divine sign, like someone from above, who I don't believe exists, who was paving the way for me. We were even sitting next to each other and I was able to play the fool, trying to make him laugh, as if it were my solemn mission. To stimulate his smile to see if it even reached his eyes, if they could light up with sincere joy and amusement, erasing that shadow of sadness.
I played the fool like never before, seizing every opportunity, even the most insignificant, and exaggerating things that were perhaps a little funny but not that much. I found myself desperately searching for jokes in the hope that they would be funny, and I always made them addressed exclusively to him, as if the other driver with us didn't exist. Was it Kevin, perhaps? And why did I play the fool? It didn't matter, because in the end Charles laughed and exchanged a few jokes with me and I felt over the moon. Like a pathetic idiot.
Too bad his eyes always had that slightly dull light behind his beautiful smile and laugh. It was a real shame.
But I was laughing in his place. Or maybe I was smiling. I think my face had such a soft and tender crease at a certain point that I realized for myself how fucking pathetic I was. And completely fucked.
He was right there next to me, laughing at my jokes, unable to be truly happy, but you could see he was fine with me, that he wasn't uncomfortable and that he wasn't trying to escape. I didn't stress him out like I wanted to, like I've done other times to remind him that I'm here and that I want to fuck him. I followed my mother's advice and was patient, but here in Abu Dhabi, the last race of the year, I didn't know how to behave anymore.
I was like a madman and he, as if by magic, gave me a little sign. He stretched out on the chair and his left foot touched my right, just the tip. That small, seemingly casual contact reminded me of Monza, when he danced for me letting our feet and legs touch, and even later in the bedroom, when he was naked in front of me and wanted to know what had happened since he'd gotten drunk. Every single memory is vivid in me.
I stood there, stunned, with his foot against mine, so discreet, so hidden, almost. Something seemingly insignificant to anyone, but so important to us, with such a strange and twisted dynamic. Things that can only have meaning for us.
Did he want me to do something, or just thank me for being patient and not busting his balls like I usually do?
Should I force my hand, go somewhere alone together and do something?
I wondered this like an idiot the whole time and in the end I let it all end like that, without doing anything. Without even creating my own opportunity.
Like a damned idiot!
Why didn't I do anything after that press?
Why the fuck am I so pathetic and idiotic?
I've been kicking myself all weekend, vowing that if I ever had the perfect opportunity again, I'd take it. To do what, I don't know. But I want to take it.
All weekend like this.
Do I do it or not? Of course I do it, if the moment presents itself, I do it. What? It doesn't matter, I do it. It's the last race of the year, I have to do something. I can't let him go like this. What if he forgets about me?
A hellish weekend in a certain sense. I don't know where I got all that patience from, but luckily I was rewarded in the end, as unexpectedly we're now on the podium together, me second and him third. Who would have thought it would end like this?
Fate again, or who knows what, paving the way for me like Thursday.
'You were an idiot on Thursday, get a move on, now!'
I imagine the voice of someone pulling the strings, giving me the directions from above.
'Don't think I'll give you so many more opportunities if you don't take even one.'
The reward is truly unexpected and arrives with a half-hug between us as soon as we get out of the cars; well, I'm looking for it, I admit, but he doesn't run away. As soon as we get out and remove our helmets, we both have a clear intention to compliment each other. It's somewhat standard, but this time is different from the others. We've always only shaken hands formally, almost forced at times, other times more spontaneously and heartfelt. But now we're walking towards each other in perfect sync and it's not a handshake we're looking for. Oh, no. It's a hug, what we want.
It's a shame something halfway comes out because I think there's embarrassment or something, but our eyes meet for a brief moment as we seek and come towards each other. I lower it immediately as soon as I get too close because I'm pathetic and my heart is racing right now; I have too much adrenaline from running and I know myself. If I look at him too closely, I'll end up making one of my own bullshit, but it's not the kind of opportunity I can take advantage of, seeing as we're surrounded by billions of people, many of whom are filming and photographing us.
So my hand takes on a life of its own: I grab his shoulder sliding it immediately behind, towards his neck, as if trying to pull him closer to me. To feel him better.
More vigorously.
Shivers run through me powerfully, thanks in part to his grip on my shoulder. We both move closer and our shoulders touch; it's not a full embrace, not like the ones we've shared in private, but it's much more than we've ever done in public and it's shocking and intoxicating to do it like this, now, in front of everyone. Not caring about what we've always done, what we should do, what it would be best to avoid. All things I don't know and never have known, but Charles has obviously always known.
Is he looking at me? I don't know what his eyes are doing; I keep mine fixed firmly on the ground, on the toes of his shoes which this time aren't touching mine.
Embarrassment and desire are sinking into me. How are you, Charles? What's your condition? What are you feeling? What would you want right now if we weren't surrounded by all these damned nuisances? But his hand on my shoulder is still tight and as soon as his fingers give me this jolt, the shivers make me stupidly euphoric and fucking excited.
Still feeling embarrassed, surely the same for both of us, we let go without giving too much and both of us immediately go get settled after the race, ready for the on-track interviews and then the winner's awards ceremony.
But it's when we're both standing on the stage for the official awards ceremony that I realize it.
It's here, as we talk and laugh together spontaneously and calmly, that I understand my answer to my damned insistent questions.
I can't let things go, I'm not capable, but I'm not ready to risk him any more by pressuring him too much; I don't want him to run away, but I don't want him to go away either because I'm letting go too much.
There's a very fine line between us, about what's right; a line so delicate, the kind where you have to be a damn good driver not to go off the track. A bit like on the Monaco circuit, where if you make the slightest mistake, you're out with no chance of recovery. I feel like I'm on this track now, at this moment in our relationship, and the comparison is curious, given that it's the track Charles is known to care about the most, as it's his home GP.
But while we're here on the podium getting wet with champagne and having fun together, I see his face laughing and his eyes always darkened, even if not by much, but there's that opacity and I just want to erase it. He should be happy; he made the podium and came fourth in his first year at Ferrari. He achieved an excellent result in his second F1 world championship.
He smiles, he seems happy, he celebrates like everyone else and throws champagne, but it never reaches his eyes. None of the things that light up his beautiful face reaches his eyes, which remain with that melancholy depth.
There where the tears want to overflow, but can't come out. What are you afraid of? Even if you cried, it wouldn't be the end of the world.
But I say this having never cried in my life. I'm not the best person for these pathetic sermons.
But I do my best to make him laugh anyway, in the hope that one day I'll actually see him laugh. That his eyes will light up like his lips and that he'll be truly amused and happy when he does.
Who knows how wonderful it would be to see him laugh for real, with his whole face? Who knows how I'll feel knowing he did it thanks to me?
As I think this, a small part of me, perhaps inherited from my mother, tells me that this goes way beyond just to fuck with someone.
That just for an orgasm with someone doesn't get you to this level. Then in the press room, this feeling becomes even clearer.
I'm annoyed that Lewis is separating us and I can't get his attention and make him laugh with some bullshit, or talk to him quietly about something only he can hear, thus gaining a moment between us.
I like Lewis, I've always liked him in more ways than one, he's never bothered me, but today I just wanted him to disappear and I know that's not normal. I know that well.
Just as I know that, fuck off, if I get up now and leave this place without doing anything, I'll regret it for the rest of my life. I know that well. I'm aware of this. So Max, you're going to get up as soon as the press is over and find a fucking way to have a moment with him. It doesn't matter what, just one damn moment before we go on vacation and never see each other again for who knows how long.
Do something, damn it!
Then it doesn't matter how long it takes you to leave Pierre and throw you on me, I'll wait as long as it takes without putting you at risk, without pushing you to do stupid things to regain your precious control.
One day I hope you'll understand that I'm worth it, that even if you lose that control, the world won't fall apart.
That day I'll be here waiting for you, I'll welcome you, I'll kiss you long and hard and hold you, then I'll undress you and lay you on my bed and from there I'll never let you go. I'll make you mine in every way and you won't regret it. I promise you that when I finally make you mine, you won't regret it.
My eyes never leave him even though Lewis is in the middle talking and answering questions; they're all focused on him, no one will notice me staring at Charles like a madman.
Am I that pathetic? Am I that crazy?
Really, Max?
What the hell did he do to you? How did you go from just wanting to fuck him to standing here staring at him like this?
Absurd.
Absolutely absurd.
Get back on track or you'll make a fool of yourself here.
Maybe he's right after all when he says that if we fucked, he'd be the top.
Holy shit, I'm so addicted to him that I'm disgusted. Maybe I should give myself a shake and find someone else, at least temporarily, a one-night stand. Or several. Or a girl to fuck and show off whenever I want, to mask this crazy thing that's starting to come over me.
Or maybe another guy who gives me a blowjob: there must be one, right?
Yeah, but who? Who the hell?
Oh, fuck off, what the hell do you do when you really like someone?
You act like a heartless asshole who wants to have fun, free practice here and there and then you'd be the first to settle down if you had the right person in your hands.
But you know these things don't happen, especially if Pierre doesn't get the fuck out of here.
But now he has to give me something, I'm not talking about his cock or his tongue, but he has to give me something.
My heart is in my throat like a teenager and I know that as soon as we get out of here, everything will pass and I'll lose sight of him, that every opportunity will go down, so as soon as we get up my head is just full of 'Come on, Max, do something, it doesn't matter what, do something!'
As always, when I should think I can't, and punctual as clockwork I dive in, knowing that I don't really have a plan in mind. Because I never make plans. I always go by instinct.
I just have to do something. Something with him.
So as soon as we cross the threshold leaving the conference room with Lewis and whoever led us, I grab Charles's wrist and quickly pull him away toward the bathrooms just outside.
Charles, completely taken aback, has no choice but to follow me and soon finds himself locked in this place with me.
There's a moment, as we look at each other, not excessively close but not sidereal either. My hand on his wrist is slowly sliding across his palm, searching for his fingers, and my mind is blank searching for something to say.
What the hell do you bring him here for, Max?
What the hell do you think you're doing, now that you're alone here?
Now that you're about to grab his hand like some pathetic, fucking lover?
My heart is racing so fast it feels like splitting my throat in two. I know my heart isn't beating in my throat, but it feels that that now and I fucking don't know what to say.
Oh, damn it!
I take a step toward him and just then the door opens and before I see who it is, with exceptional reflexes on both of us, we separate, turn around and he goes to the sink to wash his hands, while I go to pee.
I don't even see who it is; I don't care, definitely inappropriate.
When the door opens letting Charles out, I turn around with an irritated look and see a perplexed Lewis approaching one of the wall urinals where I am, staring at me circumspect and embarrassed.
For a moment he seems unsure whether to say something or not, then, when it seems he's about to give up to concentrate on peeing, he speaks with his typical politeness and kindness.
- Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt.
My eyes widen as I tidy up for my unnecessary pee and I stare at him, blushing like an idiot.
- You didn't interrupt anything... - I grumble realizing that, in fact, it was. It was about to happen, but it didn't. Fuck.
Lewis purses his lips and doesn't look at me, but he doesn't say anything else, leaving me with the illusion that I've convinced him. What the hell could he have seen? Why did we look like we were about to do something? What?
But I prefer not to delve into it and do what Charles did, evade and run away.
As soon as I get out, I'll spend the rest of my time here in Abu Dhabi chasing him again and finding another opportunity.
Another. It doesn't matter that I don't have the faintest idea what the fuck to say or do to him, but I can't let him go like this.
Chase me too, Charles. Look for me.
It's the last race of the season, am I the only one who doesn't want to separate from you like this?
Hasn't there been something in the last months? Something intense that drastically changed our relationship?
Damn, we went from openly hating each other to wanting to fuck each other. Something happened and you can't just end the year pretending nothing happened.
But it's precisely during the umpteenth search for him like a madman, while I'm running away from the final goodbyes and the final photo of the end of the year, as well as the podium I reached, while I search for him without finding him, that I realize it's a hopeless undertaking.
Maybe I'll text him...
I pick up my phone as I pass by his garage to check it, but at this point I give up.
- Max, damn it, I've been looking for you for ages! I just pretended to be looking for Alex to say hello, even if it wasn't true!
Charles's irritated, princely voice reaches me from behind, making me jump and almost drop the phone.
I look at him, presumably with a burgundy face.
I'm pathetic.
PATHETIC.
- Where the hell have you been, damn it! I've been looking for you since...
But as I say it, I realize how pathetic we both truly are.
We've been looking for each other.
Wait a minute, Charles was looking for me? He, the king of escapes? He had the great escape served up on a silver platter and instead he looked for me?
- Shall we go somewhere a little quieter?
When he says it I see his embarrassment and tension, and I don't know how I can say it, but I'm sure he doesn't want to tell me anything nice, nothing I'm hoping for. But the fact is also that until just now, I didn't know what to do myself.
He's throwing me into such chaos, this guy, that maybe I'd do well to leave him.
Why the hell do I have to lose myself and my mind like this?
I nod obediently and follow him like a puppy.
You're pathetic, pathetic, Max.
Now what are you going to do? Are you going to jump after him? Maybe even wag your tail?
I don't even know where this is leading me.
Why have I never been rational? Why have I never had any brains? Why have I always jumped right in without thinking about anything?
And if he dumps me now, what do I do?
Well, to dump me, we'd have to be a couple and it turns out we're nothing, so what the hell does he have to say to me?”

/Charles/

“I wasn't sure what to do, but when he pulled me into the bathroom, I realized I wanted something from him before I left. I wasn't sure what, but I definitely didn't want to just leave without even saying goodbye.
But I'd already realized this during the press conference on Thursday, when I touched his foot under the table, almost as if I were asking, 'Hey, are you still interested in me?'
He spent the entire press conference trying to make me laugh, as if it were so important, and I know I don't have the best smile, but I tried anyway only because he tried so hard.
He was extraordinarily sweet, so much so that by touching his foot, I tried to tell him to keep going and not give up. A little provocation of mine to get a reaction.
Disappointment, he didn't do anything. What the hell is wrong with him now, that he respects me too much? Maybe he's tired of me and my obsessions; it would be understandable, it would be right. But luckily, he pulled me into the bathroom unexpectedly, when I'd given up. I was happy again, I was hit by a wave of joy and absurd excitement, as his hand on my wrist slid to take mine.
I don't know what he wanted to do, but that famous something I wanted so much was about to happen and I was so excited, inside me, that I told myself I wouldn't back down.
There was a sort of certainty, in that moment.
But then Lewis came in and put an end to everything, I got confused and ran away. As if someone from above wanted to tell me it's not destiny, I shouldn't, it's not time, I still have one important thing to do.
Pierre.
I ran away instinctively, old habits, but when I was out carrying out my duties as usual, I was irritated and annoyed.
No, shit. I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye properly. At least that, right?
Okay, okay, if it was just to say goodbye, there was no need to take him to my private room.
I lead him to my Ferrari motorhome, where my clothes and things are, with whom I intend to change before leaving.
It couldn't be more private than this; no one will bother us here.
Good, and now that I'm here alone with him?
Well, he was the one who grabbed me first to tell me something. Now he can do it.
He hasn't done anything special towards me in a long time. He doesn't try anything anymore, he doesn't provoke me, he doesn't pressure me.
And to think that I was expecting it. I expected it to the point that I didn't act evasive as I usually do, running away early.
I was always around, greeting him, talking to him if the opportunity arose, and he was always there, but with such delicacy and kindness that it didn't seem like himself.
He hasn't tried anything anymore, he hasn't stressed me or thrown stones.
Nothing.
It's as if he's completely changed direction, to the point that this week, in this last race of the year, I wondered if by chance he'd changed his mind about us.
I'm too complicated, after all. Why would he wait for me and keep teasing me to keep me 'warm'? To get what?
I'm such a psychopath that as soon as someone pushes me too hard, I run away and look for a powerful shock to keep me from losing control or to regain it.
How could he want me?
The truth is I was scared. I was scared he was fed up, so I didn't know what to do because on the one hand I thought it was better this way, and on the other I was disappointed and hurt and didn't want it. I didn't want it, damn it.
So when he unexpectedly grabbed me and pulled me into the bathroom, I revived like I did on Thursday in press, when I touched his toe with mine because he'd been so sweet the whole time, trying to make me laugh at all costs. So sweet.
When I found myself in the bathroom with him, our hands about to grab each other, I felt alive and happy. Exactly how I hoped I would be. So is he still interested in me? In what way? What does he want from me? What is it? What does he expect?
I was going crazy trying to get that answer. I had to find a chance to be alone and it wasn't easy with all the things we have to do with our teams. I searched like an idiot but couldn't find him, luckily I finally managed it.
I just couldn't let it go. I just couldn't let him go like this, not this time.
I close the door of my room, where the color red prevails. There's a bit of chaos around because it's full of my things: my clothes I have to wear, a backpack with something I need to get ready, other things for when I'm here during the race.
Looking at my clothes ready to wear, I realize I still have my suit and that I should change; now that I'm here, it would be ideal.
Now that I'm here with him.
My clothes are here, I'm here. When should I change? I've finished all the various tasks, I have the green light to go away.
We've been quiet since we met before down in front of my garage, he waits for me to say something, after all I'm the one that dragged him here.
I'm waiting for him to do it, since he dragged me into the bathroom first.
The result is me unzipping my suit sliding it down my shoulders and arms. As soon as I look up at Max, I can tell from his face that I'm the more provocative one of us. Provocative and an asshole. And maybe tantalizing, from the way he looks at me.
Max is surprised and interested. What's my point? That's what he's asking himself and I love his expressiveness. With him you always know what he's thinking; you never have the doubt that he's thinking something else, like with me.
So I satisfy him and give the answer. I don't know where I want to go, but I have to get changed anyway, so I do.
That's not why I dragged you here, but it seems like you like watching me undress, and you've been so respectful towards me these past few weeks that it worries me. Maybe you're no longer interested in me? I should know for sure before I move on with my life, right? I have a lot going on, I need to know exactly what I'm dealing with.
His gaze is completely intrigued and after lowering the top of my suit, I continue pushing it down past my hips until it's off my feet. To remove it completely, I have to sit down on the messy cot. I calmly take off my shoes and he sits down in the chair after moving the backpack off it. He crosses his legs and folds his arms over his chest with obvious interest.
It's not that I change after the race, it's that I do it in front of him without saying anything.
He's there, curious to see what the hell I'm doing. As if I knew, right?
Is that what I look like?
Do I look like I know what I'm doing?
After freeing myself from the suit, I stand up again and take a half step toward him. The room is small and we barely stand face to face. Close. Almost touching.
I watch him standing and he's sitting with only his eyes raised to mine. Then I reach for the high, tight collar of my long-sleeved shirt and pull it over my head; before disappearing, I give him one last piercing look. It's an invitation, I think, from how I feel.
An invitation not to just stay here doing nothing.
I try to pull the shirt over my head, but I'm so sweaty it won't come off and I get stuck inside. I knew this would happen; I never take this kind of shirt off like that when I'm sweaty. I grab it from my waist, lift it up and take off first my arms, then my head.
I deliberately get stuck inside, biting my lip. How long will it take you to do something, you idiot?
Do I have to order you explicitly?
Finally, though, the idiot wakes up and I feel his hands grabbing my damned sweaty shirt, grabbing it from underneath and pulling it up over my head and raised arms.
When I resurface my arms are high and he's holding my shirt in his hand, which he absentmindedly drops to the floor. He's standing in front of me and now we're just inches apart, here we remain. I'm wearing only my tight boxers and the need to shower.
I look at him; he's still wearing his suit, but his was already open and pulled down to his waist. He still needs to change and wash. For a moment, I mischievously contemplate the idea of ​​suggesting we shower together, but I should lend him my clothes. At this absurd thought, I remember that in the end I never gave him back his clothes which he lent me in Japan.
I have no intention of giving them back.
I undressed without thinking too much, but I think it's something we're used to. Me undressing for him.
I think about my boxers, the only thing left, but he doesn't seem interested in my body or what's still covered, given that he's staring so closely at my face. My eyes.
Max is completely enchanted by mine, as if I'd hypnotized him. He has a mischievousness and a wonderful light of excitement, he still desires me and as always he doesn't disappoint. He always lets me know what he's feeling and thinking and luckily he's cleared up my doubts. His attraction for me hasn't faded.
With stupid relief, we stare at each other hungrily, like we just turned on after being off all the time. Those are the typical sparks we make when we cross paths too closely.
If we get close, this happens, and I was afraid it was all over, but with relief I realize it's always like this. Everything is still like this. Beautiful, hot, warm. One of the few things that make me realize I'm still alive.
We look at each other in silence, mischievous, expecting a lot of things and then he raises his eyebrows in a silent question.
'Well?' he asks me. And here I realize he's expecting something from me and that maybe, indeed, something is really up to me.
- I thought you weren't interested in me anymore.
- Huh? - Max asks spontaneously, followed by an even clearer: - What the fuck are you talking about?
Max emerges from the erotic trance I'd thrown him into and does it the way I like it so much; he goes back to being the hasty, direct and provocative way I like.
Clearly annoyed and pouting, he grabs me by the hips, right where the waistband of my boxers ends and my warm, still-sweaty skin begins. He doesn't seem to care that I'm not clean. This contact fills me with electricity and excitement, which is immediately visible even in his barely-covered groin.
I raise my eyebrows provocatively, with feigned innocence, as if I don't understand what he's upset about. As if I were inviting him to take over and break the rules he's been keeping too long within.
Maybe that's what I wanted to tell him so badly.
Thank you for respecting me, but you don't always have to do it. Every now and then, you can break those damned rules I've confined you behind. I did it knowing you wouldn't stay there and I think I was fine with that.
I rub my lips looking shamelessly at his. I don't know what I really want, but I know I want him to never stop trying to get with me.
That's all.
I'm the usual selfish guy.
- You haven't come forward anymore, you respected me so much. I thought you weren't interested in me anymore, I didn't know what to think. - I mutter brazenly, still feigning innocence and never taking my eyes off him. I don't touch him, my hands remain at my sides while his are right where I'm burning.
Max bites his lip because I'm staring at him and I'm desiring him, and he does it because he surely notices it, but he's still shocked; he doesn't believe what I'm saying and he shakes his head.
- You’re bipolar! You seemed crazy just because Pierre and I pressured you and now that we've left you alone, you're asking for it?
Now I'm hard and horny, completely at his mercy after having purposely provoked him.
I like, I absolutely love being desired by him, because he desires me with such intensity that it makes me drunk.
It makes me feel so good.
- I know, sorry. But I missed contact with you. You were very sweet to wait for my convenience. I didn't think you'd do that.
This, however, sounds like a thank you. A delicate and sincere thank you, and the tone I use is very different from the one I've used so far, in complete contrast to what I've just said. Yes, maybe he's right, I'm bipolar.
That thank you I didn't imagine was exactly what I wanted to say.
Max was perhaps about to kiss me, fed up with my push and pull, my games and my uncertainties, but in the end he stops at the best part and I curse myself a little, but I understand that it's not time yet.
Because I'm still with Pierre and I don't want to cheat on him, even if we're not a real couple because I've wanted to leave him ever since we got together.
As soon as I say it, it's like I'm pulling a plug on him. Max looks at me confused, not understanding what happened, when we switched from one mode to the other. What game am I playing? His face, always very expressive, seems to be asking this and I understand. He's right. I don't know what's wrong with me either.
- You really are bipolar. - He repeats submissively, but no longer angry. He's calm again, almost resigned. His gaze caresses me slightly amused and I give him a brief, apologetic smile, realizing that anyone in his place would tell me to fuck off. Instead he ultimately waits and I don't know why he does it. If it's just for a fuck, this patience is too much, especially since he's famous for not having any.
In this moment, looking into his eyes so closely, I realize that this behavior of his is not at all normal by his standards, that it would be fair to assume it's not just about sex. But maybe I'm just the usual presumptuous person.
- Sorry. - I say knowing he's right. - But anyway thanks for the patience you don't have to have. These past few weeks you've really been... - As I think of the right word, I raise my eyes and then return to his. - Sweet. - I finish delicately.
Max, still holding me in his hands, our bodies still warm and charged with excitement, looks at me embarrassed and surprised. Uncomfortable.
He's sweet? What am I saying? Such an adjective could never have been associated with him. He seems to think this and until a moment ago I would have agreed, but now that's truly the right word.
Sweet.
Max blushes tenderly and starts to withdraw his hands from my hips, but at this point I take them and hold him back. I hold them in mine doing what he was about to do earlier in the bathroom.
I smile slightly, still grateful, then add: - I'll take these months off to think carefully about what I want and what I feel. Why it's taking me so long to sort things out with Pierre and what your role is in my life.
Max, struck by my clarity and sincerity, nods still embarrassed and uncomfortable, but at the same time melting like a popsicle in the sun.
If he receives affection, is he so docile and cute?
I would never have said it. This side of himself that he hides so well is wonderful and suddenly, caught off guard by something I never imagined he could possess, I adore him and intoxicates me.
What else is there in you that you hide so well?
I want to know. I really want to know.
Will you ever show it to me?
Well, maybe if I devoted myself completely to you, maybe you'd take that risk and show it to me. Maybe, who knows...
At the thought of it happening, I feel the push I was looking for, that I needed. That push.
- Do what you have to. - he murmurs hoarsely, a little disappointed but absurdly understanding, tightening his grip on mine.
- I didn't think you were so patient... - I whisper. For a moment I think about kissing him, but I know I'd stop at the best moment and that would be worse. Because Pierre is still in my life and not as my best friend.
So I rub my thumbs over the backs of his hands, while he returns the squeeze. Electricity and warmth run through me and I feel so good now that I'd like to feel like this again.
I really want it.
- Me neither. - he replies softly. We laugh at this together, though not too heatedly. It's more like easing the tension and finding the strength to say goodbye.
It's time to go. It's time to do what needs to be done. But this, like everything I've done in my life, I want to do well and without hurting Pierre.
Forgive me, but you need to be patient a little longer.”

NOTES: Some chapters are slower than others because sometimes juicy things happen, other times less so. This is a medium, but I think the reflective and, let's say, preparatory parts are equally important. Otherwise, it would be a long fic full of shocking and high-tension sequences that would lose their importance because there are too many of them overall. Furthermore, one of the things that happens throughout the entire story is the slow but constant growth of the two protagonists, as well as the evolution of their relationship. It's all slow but constant. Thanks for reading. In the next chapter, there's the same final scene from Max's POV because I wanted to show it from his perspective as well. See you next time. Kisses, Akane.