47. SIMULATE

/Charles/

“And yet his words dig into me like a cancer.
Because I've always thought this, I've always been afraid of this and I don't know how long I've been in this state.
Has it always been like this, or was there a time when I was normal?
It's been some time since I realized I'm in a state of fog, but I thought I was suffering from depression over Jules and my father, that I was simply hiding behind this thick blanket that kept me perpetually asleep.
So I did everything to get out of it, I looked for emotions, things that would make me live and experience sensations, bursts of life, any technique to wake me up. Of course it was often traumatic, because when I woke up suddenly I lost my mind and I was scared then when I came back to myself, I realized I'd overdone it and that I'd screwed up; but now it's different.
Now the problem is different and I've been processing it in me for a while, even if I don't dare delve into it.
Perhaps what Pierre said before is true?
What if I'm incapable of feeling emotions? What if I fake them instead?
I'm not confused or depressed or in a constant dream.
It's not that I'm trying to react to my dramas.
I'm simply learning to fake emotions because I don't feel them. I don't know how to feel them.
That's all.
What if Pierre is right?
What if this is the whole truth?
The thought of being like this makes me feel like I’m going crazy.
Am I a psychopath? An unemotional person? Am I a fucking robot?
But yet, haven't I felt pleasure every time I fucked Pierre?
Don't I crave Max when he provokes me, when we get so close, so much so that I want to slam him against the wall like a madman?
Isn't my need to hug him every time I pass him genuine?
And when we were down there, at the end of the race, didn't I feel good when he treated me with consideration and kindness?
I feel something, don't I?
But maybe they're sensations. Physical sensations, not emotions. They're different things.
Have I ever been normal? Have I always been this way? Is it true that I'm faking it?
These doubts torment me like a metastatic cancer and as I drive to Monaco - after laboriously leaving Pierre to sleep - immersed in a night both external and internal, instead of heading for my house, I head straight for Max's.
I don't even realize I've gone there; only when I'm in front of the door of his building do I realize it and stare blankly at the doorbells, not knowing which one to ring, as if lost in a trance.
Lost in my unemotional world. The world where I fake emotions.
How do I know where he lives? I've never been there before. I dig into my mind to find out this insignificant detail, even before figuring out which doorbell I should ring.
Daniel's voice comes back to me. When he learned I was from Monaco and that I lived here, we exchanged addresses; he told me he lived in the same building as Max. I filed this information last year, memorizing in my mind where I might find them one day.
Where I might find HIM.
I stare, like a robot, at the long list of names in this building. Maybe he's not even here. He's already gone on vacation.
Well, we just got back from Abu Dhabi, so he's not necessarily gone yet; will he take a few days to organize?
I could have just called him, texted him, but how the hell did I know where I was going? I thought I was going home, but instead his address formed in my mind and I told it to the driver who dropped me off here.
I pick up my phone and scroll through my contacts.
Why the hell am I here?
Well, if I asked my mother if I was apathetic and unloving as a child, she'd tell me not to say stupid things, while my brothers would make fun of me like Alex and George.
Max is the only one who's known me since those days and who would be sincere, disgustingly sincere.
That's why.
Do you see? There's always a rational and logical reason for everything I do.
I'm about to call him when, reading the many names on the doorbells, I remember which one he had put on for him. Always thanks to Daniel, of course, who likes to talk and tell every bullshit at random.
I'm about to press the corresponding fake name, but at that moment the door I'm standing in front of opens to let someone out, so I take advantage and slip inside.
I'm an idiot, how do I know if he's home? But call him, no?
Oh sure, what if he's inside and doesn't open the door because he's fed up with me?
He said I'm bipolar and he's right. In fact, maybe he misdiagnosed me.
It's not bipolar.
It's psychopathy.
I'll tell him now.
I get in the elevator and press the corresponding floor, the second to last, still with Daniel's voice explaining to me that he was on the last floor while Max was below him. As if I had ever been interested and had ever asked him.
If he'd known that I'd somehow accidentally come between them, I don't think he'd have been so open to me. He thought Max and I were friends, knowing we were colleagues in the lower categories, so that’s why he told me so many things about him. Things I didn't think I'd filed away in my mind at the time, and yet here I am, digging them all up when needed.
As I think about it now, the elevator arrives and the aluminum doors open, letting me out. I walk outside like a robot and look. There are two doors, one opposite the other. I look at one bell and go toward the other, the name Daniel had told me that time.
Of course, if I don’t remember correctly, you know what a fool I'm making now.
I'd like to laugh to myself, to ease the tension, but you know what? I'm not tense.
I just have this damned cancer that I have to fight and only he can help me.
I ring the bell, hoping he's inside.
He can't refuse me this answer. He can't run away now, even if I would in his place. In his place, I would have already told myself to go fuck myself.
The door opens shortly afterward and Max's astonished face appears in the doorway.
I don't know what time it is; just looking at his comfy boxers and wrinkled T-shirt, I realize it might be late.
Was he asleep?
- Charles? - when his low, hoarse voice reaches my ears, it sounds like he's trying to figure out if he's dreaming.
I'm sorry, but I can't take it anymore; I have to find this answer, otherwise I might go crazy. I can't go on without really knowing.
- How do you remember me as a child? 
The question seems like a madman's and as soon as Max focuses on it, he frowns and doesn't hide the fact that it's exactly what he thinks.
That I've gone crazy.
- Have you been drinking? - his question is straightforward and not joking. He genuinely thinks I've been drinking and I'm not surprised. But at this point, I grab the side doorframe and squeeze until my knuckles turn white. I have no idea what I look like, but I don't feel like I'm making any expressions. I'm not faking or forcing emotions. I'm a blank, white page.
Or maybe black.
What color is my page now?
I don't even know if I'm awake or asleep.
I've never understood anything about myself.
- I haven't been drinking, I just need you to remember what I was like as a kid. What did I look like to you? - I ask through clenched teeth and forcefully. I'm fed up, I'm so damn fed up. Now I do feel something, but I assume it can't be seen from the outside.
- Asshole and full of yourself, a spoiled, happy, snobbish child!
At his frank and sincere answer, I start to feel better, but an urge grips me and I lean toward him. We're still standing in his doorway and neither of us seems to want to move. He's shocked, taken aback by what's happening and I'm so desperate to know. For my sanity.
- Did I really seem happy to you? Did I look truly happy from the outside, or was I just pretending to be?
- How do I know, Charles? We weren't friends, I just hated you! - he retorts, stiffening and cornered. He certainly doesn't like this exchange.
But sorry, that's not enough. Without thinking, I snap and grab him by the shirt pulling him toward me with anger, need, urgency and maybe even madness.
- Why the fuck did you hate me?
Max frowns, takes my wrist but doesn't push me away, remains there rooted to the door and answers immediately.
- Because you were so fucking happy! You had a perfect life that I envied, a wonderful and good father, friends who adored you, you were fucking good and you were fucking happy, you didn't have a damn problem in your life and mine sucked, with my father treating me like shit and no one I could count on, everyone looking at me like I was a fucking crappy lunatic! I hated you because I envied you! Charles, what the fuck is wrong with you?
When he explodes with all this, before I breathe and reemerge from this empty page, I grab him with my other hand and lean completely against him; he holds me without the slightest hesitation, even though he remains there, staring at me shocked.
- Really? Did I really seem happy to you? Did I seem so, or was I faking it, in your opinion? Max, you're the only one who can give me this honest answer, please, tell me!
My voice is shaking, tense and mad; it's as if a part of me is breaking away and realizing it, and there's another part hidden somewhere inside that's telling me something else, something I don't hear, I don't understand.
Cry, maybe? Is that what he's telling me?
But I don't listen, so I stay against him. He lets go my wrists and suddenly wraps his arms around me, holding me close. One hand sinks into the back of my neck and presses my face against his neck. While he hugs me in this full, warm and suffocating way, he whispers against my ear: - Charles, of course you were truly happy. You were a normal boy, cheerful, happy and full of life. I envied you so much, you were the person I wanted to be, you had the life I wanted and I understand if since that life was taken away from you, now you miss it to the point of being so lost. I understand. I'd be like that too.
When he says that, the air rushes into my lungs. I close my eyes and abandon myself to him, to his arms, to his mouth against my ear, to his warm, inviting neck. I hide my face right there, close my eyes and relax. I relax completely. I let my arms fold between our pressed bodies, I no longer tighten my grip on his shirt, no longer pulling anything. My hands rest on his chest and I finally feel better.
- It’s been since that time... - I whisper to myself slowly resurfacing, with the warmth and comfort of his warm body supporting and holding me. He pulls me inside and closes the door, but I don't realize it. I let myself do it as I close my eyes and continue talking to myself. 
- I was normal before. I've been like this ever since they died. I've been faking it since that time. But before that, I was normal. - maybe I can go back to being that...
But as I say it, Max understands what I mean. He understands perfectly. And he probably doesn't like what I say, given his reaction.”

/Max/

“I certainly wouldn't have expected Charles to show up at my house in the middle of the night, in the midst of an existential crisis. Not that I was asleep; I was playing some online races, but finding him here in this state is definitely one of those things I never imagined could happen.
For a moment, I feel like I'm in Japan, in that typhoon.
When will he decide to get help, instead of imploding and squeezing everything inside ignoring it as if he didn't have a fucking problem?
A pretty serious problem, I'd say.
Some things don't just go away, you have to work on them.
As soon as I understand what he's saying, as soon as I understand the point about faking it, the outburst I have is on par with the one he just had. I grab him roughly by the shoulders and try to pull him away, but since he remains anchored to my neck, I cup his face in my hands, pull him up and force him to look at me.
- What are you faking? - I hiss through clenched teeth, on a war footing.
Anger rises inside me. What the fuck is he convinced of now?
What the hell could have happened to put him in this state?
- Emotions.
- Are you crazy? - and saying something like that to someone who's probably having a nervous breakdown isn't wise, but what can I do? I'm an idiot who never thinks!
- How the hell did this come to you now?
His eyes are so beautiful in their heartbreaking drama. Always filled with an abyss where there's still no light. Would I be able to give him some of that?
A little serenity, tranquility and maybe even happiness.
He's frowning and gloomy and doesn't seem to be able to get out of it.
Charles shakes his head as if to say it doesn't matter, but now I fucking want to know. How the hell did this come to him now?
It's not normal to think of faking emotions!
He came all the way to me to ask me how he was when he was little!
Why me? Why not his brothers, his mother, or Alex and George?
A thousand questions swirl around me, but he won't give me answers, because he's always the same, he'll never eradicate this damned habit.
- If only you'd talk, if only you'd decide to open up and vent like normal people! - I say through gritted teeth, angry and exasperated, still holding his face in my hands and looking at him closely. He's abandoned to me, our bodies in direct contact, warm, soft. My groin is immediately ready to react to his, separated by my comfortable boxers and his loose, baggy trousers.
His hands on my chest are now pushing to free himself, so as not to answer anything.
- Did you just come to ask? No answer, instead, if I'm the one asking? - I insist argumentative, unnerved, on a war footing.
Sometimes you reach limits, but it's not for me, it's not a personal discomfort of mine. Even though that's there.
It's for him; he's unwell, he's getting worse and I don't want to leave him alone with the risk that what happened in Japan will happen again.
Charles just shakes his head and pushes harder to slip away, but at this point I let go of his head and grab his hips; holding against mine more determined than before, I growl through gritted teeth, on the verge of screaming and exploding: - Charles, listen to me carefully, whatever happened, you don't fake your emotions. I don't know how it came to you, but you're a normal person. You're just afraid to show them, maybe, but don't think you're crazy.
Charles, however, still frowns turning his head to the side so as not to look at me, trying to escape me without success. Well, if he wanted, he could free himself from my hands, but I think he actually likes being here because I'm warm, I'm real and maybe somehow I transmit something that makes him feel alive. That's why he looked for me. Maybe I make him feel alive.
- So what about me, who can't keep a damn emotion inside me? That I have to let it all out, even the worst of the worst, and no matter how, no matter if I hurt others? That's not okay either, right?
- You're wonderful, Max! - he finally snaps, as exasperated as I am, but obviously trying to contain it.
He contains, contains everything. But let it go, let it go!
- Me? - I ask derisive and incredulous, still trying to catch his gaze that he keeps down. I can't let go of him, if I did, he'd go away. His hands are still on my chest.
- Yes, you are magnificent, Max, in this ability of yours to express and let out everything you feel, no matter the cost.
- It's not what you think. I'm not that good. I keep certain things to myself.
Then Charles finally looks at me, suddenly and surprising me.
- I know. - he blurts out. His eyes pierce me again, green, dark, direct as two blades. - You hide the best things. But you still express most of what you feel, no matter what it is. I fake it, Max. I fake emotions. I fake what I think I should feel, what I think I feel and I try to express it, but I definitely do it bad and a lot of people notice. I thought I was capable, at least with the people who matter, but in the end that's not the case. Maybe I fake it better with them, but the truth is, I don't feel anything, ever. Not anymore. It's all gone. Everything gone. Everything.
With that he presses his face against my neck and slides down, his knees bend and I find myself holding him up.
It's a constant rollercoaster and I can't help but constantly improvise based on what he's doing and how he's feeling.
Charles finally surrenders to me and stops fighting, it's as if I've cut his strings, as if he couldn’t take it anymore and didn’t have the strength anymore.
The silence remains for a while, while I embrace him. I wrap my arms around his waist, my hands on his back, one up to the nape of his neck, through his hair. My mouth moves down, I kiss his temple and then I go down to find his ear. I kiss that, too. He shivers.
- It's not true that you don't feel anything. - I whisper softly. He stays silent, letting me do it, not pushing, not trying to pull away. - Why did you come to me if you don't feel anything?
- You’re the only one who would have answered me honestly. I needed to know if I was like this when I was little. - he replies like a robot. Feeling his lips move against my skin, I shiver from head to toe; I squeeze my eyes and try to keep from licking him.
- That’s what you told yourself. - I say delicately, changing my tone due to the harmful sensations he makes me feel when he's on me like this.
- We both know the truth. You came here because I'm the only one who makes you feel something. Something beautiful. Pleasure, desire. - I continue, whispering softly against his ear.
I feel him breathing deeply and slowly, as if to concentrate and remain steady.
- Let go, for once. You'll see that you actually feel, you absolutely do. You just hold it back or push it away. Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to control everything?
My hands now caress him from the nape of his neck to his back, all the way to the waistband of his pants. I don't go any further there, I move up and continue caressing him and he lets me do it, leaning completely against me, abandoning himself. Is his eyes closed? What's his expression?
- I don't know what you're talking about. - he replies softly, almost inaudibly. His lips against my neck still ravage me, I get even more excited and my hard erection presses against him. I want him like crazy.
Slowly a hand creeps under, over the belt; his loose pants allow me to enter like that night at the club, and I immediately slip past the waistband of his boxers.
Since you insist, I'll show you now.
My fingers reach the firm curve of his ass and I immediately  slip in the crack that I'd targeted that night, but which he prevented me from achieving with a feline thrust. But this time he doesn't do anything, he stays here in my arms and while a finger finds his hole, I rub my cock against his, circling it, pressing myself, going up and down and making him feel how big and hard it is and how much I want him. He reacts the same way too, it's like a dance. A dance full of desire.
He wants it like crazy.
Charles sighs against my skin, my finger enters and moves in sync with the movements of my pelvis, I lick his ear; I feel him shiver with pleasure.
He moans and sighs; he doesn't wriggle free, he doesn't stop me, he doesn't block me. His hands grip my shirt and finally he says my name hoarsely, arching his back to ask for more while simultaneously rubbing himself against my cock, seeking more.
He's all shivering and together we can't resist any longer.
- Oh, Max... - he moans again.
- Charles... - I answer in the same way. hoarse, charged.
Hearing my voice, Charles comes and wets his pants, throbbing like crazy. The hot cum reaches my cock, which is sensitive and ready, shooting equally through the light fabric.
We tremble together, we enjoy together and it's the first orgasm we've finally reach together and not each closed in our own rooms, aided by forbidden fantasies.
I move down kissing his ear, reaching his face and then seeking his mouth, but at this point Charles shakes his head and hides his face in my neck again to prevent me from kissing him.
He crouches there, his hands tugging at my shirt again and he clings to me without pushing me away or trying to escape; he still leans as I hold him. His legs can no longer support him and I pull my hand out of his pants, hug him with all my strength and drag him toward the couch.
- The fears are there, but that doesn't mean they're real. - I murmur softly, pushing him gently until he sits down. - We’re not objective with ourselves. - I continue calmly, simultaneously sitting down next to him. - No one is.
- Not even you to yourself. - he replies without moving from where he's glued. Even though we're sitting on the couch now, he remains anchored to me; both of us with our torsos rotated toward each other, me holding him by the waist, he's on my chest, his face on my neck.
He's smelling me now, as if he were just now coming back to life, desperately searching for the scent he loves and can now smell thanks to the shower gel I've been using all along, Armani. I'm not a brand obsessed, but ever since I realized he liked this shower and perfume combo, I haven't stopped using it.
He seems to come to his senses when he smells it, rubbing his face, especially his nose, and moaning in appreciation. I smile slyly satisfied with how I'm bringing him back to reality. Practically by gluttony.
- Probably. - I reply, trying to stay steady and not brutally grab his face and force my tongue into his mouth.
You have no idea how hard I'm trying not to slam you horizontally onto this couch, damn it. You just don't!
Soft and excruciatingly slowly, he resurfaces and detaches himself from my neck. He raises his head and we look at each other. Our eyes up close meet dreamily; we still exude desire, but we're both much calmer than before thanks to the orgasm we've just had. Our senses are at peace and there's no frenzy to make us feel like we're on the verge of madness.
We're fine, I know he's like this now too; I can see it in his eyes, which are no longer dark, sullen and tormented like before, but he seems to be trying to figure out whether to kiss me or not.
And here, as we finally look at each other closely, without the need to explode or jump on each other, with incredible calm, I ask him directly and without hesitation, a sort of low blow, because now his defenses are down.
- You talked to Pierre and it went badly, right?
His eyes widen and it's as if he's abruptly returned to Earth after a session of heavenly levitation.
So, even without needing a direct admission, I understand that this is the case.”

NOTES: I hope it's clear that these are just their perspectives, not necessarily reality and that one or the other is right about their perceptions (especially about themselves). Charles's journey has just begun and he’ll have the space he needs. Will Max be able to provide the right support, or will he also be put to the test?
See you next time. Kisses, Akane