51. PANDEMIC

/Charles/

“When the world changes, you don't realize it at the time. While you're experiencing that global change, you don't know it's real. You think it's just something strange and anomalous, but that soon everything will go back to normal. You don't understand right away.
Only later, a long time later, do you understand. But not right away.
That's why Covid arrives without any announcements, we don't immediately understand what it really means, what it really is.
At first, we're just annoyed by this exaggeration, then when things get serious, we all understand that no, it wasn't an exaggeration and that when Seb and Lewis said 'cash is king,' in response to the media's question about why everyone was stopping except F1, they were right.
It was one of the provocations that perhaps made the higher-ups think, or perhaps it was McLaren's withdrawal due to one of their members being infected, but in any case, whatever it was, in the end it went like this.
For us drivers the issue Covid begins like this, with F1 closing doors indefinitely for the first time in its history.
Races were initially suspended and then canceled.
No answer as to when it will resume, or even IF it will ever resume. Because at a certain point, as communications and legislative decrees begin to rain down everywhere and continuously, we all ask ourselves.
Will we ever go back to how we were before? Will we start again?
At a certain point, as I decide to self-isolate at my mother's house with my brother Arthur, I begin to wonder if this absurd, incredible lockdown of which we still do not really understand the extent, isn’t a divine message forcing me to look at myself once and for all.
Now I have nothing but this.
Myself and my black hole. Because that's what it is. This is how I suddenly see it as I look in the mirror after yet another question about how I'm doing. Why do they keep asking me this? I just don't understand, I don't have nothing's wrong. Why do they ask me this as if I clearly have something wrong?
That's how I notice. Looking in the mirror with my mask on.
A mask that leaves only my eyes uncovered.

Masks screw me over, because only my eyes remain visible and those are the only ones I can't involve with the few expressions I perhaps make.
When I smile, I do it with my mouth, not my eyes. It's thanks to that that I can divert people and distract them from the fact that it's not a real smile, but a partial one.
Now, having to wear a mask all the time, forces me to check my eyes too, or at least I try, but it's when people look at me perplexed and attentively to understand what I'm expressing, that I realize masks screw me over.
They really fuck me up.
And here's where my real drama begins.
If I had to say what forces me to do something concrete for myself and to heal myself, I think it's this damned Covid, but not because I take it and need to get healthy again. I'm taking care of myself because having to wear masks, my eyes actually speak and they reveal a fucking sad boy, to put it as Max would.
Fucking sad and probably depressed.
It's time to do something, if I want to be left alone, if I don't want them constantly asking me how I'm doing, why I'm so down, to be strong and so on.
It's time to heal myself.
It's time to push myself and really find a way.
Yes, a way. But which one?

I start taking pictures of myself while I think about expressing a certain feeling or emotion, to understand what I look like once and for all. It's the only way to see myself, so even if I look like a crazy narcissist, while I think I feel something or while I'm trying to express it, I immediately take pictures of myself or look in the mirror.
I look at myself after and not immediately after taking the picture, so I can objectively understand, with a cool head, whether others are right. Wasn't I expressing what I thought, what I felt or what I wanted? Am I ultimately mono-expressive with my eyes?
In the end it turns out that this is definitely not what I was feeling.
So do I have a problem showing expressions?
I try but I don't show it?
I knew I had problems of this kind, but I hadn't understood the entity of them.
However, after having concretely contemplated the extent of the problem and carefully inspected it, I'm back to square one: not knowing what to do about it.
I wasn't like that; that night Max confirmed it to me and I believe him. As a child I was normal. After Jules and my father died, I got stuck and was perhaps on the verge of rebooting, but then Anthoine died and instead I got worse just when I felt like I was improving.
My only question at this point is: how do I unblock myself? How do I reboot? How do I reset myself?
If I was once normal and happy and fully expressed emotions and feelings, why not now?
How can I simply go back to how I was before?
If I'd never been capable of it, that was one thing, but in reality I was. It's not that I was born defective and have to accept it, like autistic people, for example; that's what bothers me.
There's something blocking me and I don't know what.
What is this block? How can I let out what I feel once and for all?
I'm hurt by these thoughts as I'm locked in my old room with my mother and brother, lying in bed, eternally contemplating a ceiling that doesn't speak to me or give me answers. Days are all the same, one after another, without any of us really understanding how time passes.
In this half-awake state, I hear something for the first time since I've been here with them.
A sound.
A piano.
As I hear it far away through the door, I remember that we've always had a piano and I also remember that our mother was keen for the three of us to learn to play, but the only one she had an impact on was Arthur, who I assume is the one playing it, although it could also be mom.
First there are chords, then a harmonious and melancholy melody rises, but it's not classical. I concentrate, enraptured by this sound and as it slowly flows into a heartbreaking crescendo, I immediately feel myself relaxing.
The anxiety and agitation that I felt along with the nervousness of these days for not understanding how to get out of this unshakeable shell of mine, melts away and my nerves are no longer on edge, nor is my heart racing.
Everything calms down inside me and I'm no longer terrified of not being normal and not making it.
Something is starting to move me, while the song on the piano, familiar but unfocused, makes me get out of bed remaining attentive and totally focused.
It's wonderful. The sound, the song... it's all beautiful, but there's something wrong inside me and it's not my brother.
As if hypnotized, I follow the melody as it increases in intensity. When I reach it, the sound is louder and pauses, slowing down, then picking up again in a continuous up-and-down that feels like me.
I don't realize I'm sitting in the living room watching Arthur play, completely enthralled. I don't move an inch the whole time his fingers move over the black and white keys and I feel hot and burning, but there's always something. Something that's not as it should be.
A reminder, yes.
When Arthur finishes, he looks at me and smiles at me embarrassedly.
- Sorry, I didn't mean to be a pain, but I wanted to play... I'm starting to go crazy without being able to do anything... - he justifies himself.
Living together after a while is strange. We've both tried not to bother each other wondering how long the forced isolation would last, but now it's hard to move forward in this uncertainty.
I smile slightly waking up from my torpor and shake my head.
- What song was that? - I ask as if that were the wrong note inside me.
- ‘Experience' by Einaudi. It's very famous and popular, but it lacks the violin and other instruments. Only the piano and done by me, it doesn't sound the same.
That's not it. That's not what's wrong.
- It's very beautiful, from what I understand, you did it well.
Arthur nods proudly at the compliment. I bite my lip, the impatience from before returning and even the annoyance.
- Are you still playing? - I ask carefully masking the need I feel, but he knows me well and just by the fact that I'm asking for something like that, he understands I must have something.
- Any special requests?
I raise my shoulders and I shake my head.
- Coldplay?
So he starts seemingly at random with an old song of theirs that we used to listen to a lot during a certain period. Towards our father's death.
There's a playlist for that period and it's full of Coldplay songs because we both like them. I'm not surprised he knows them, I'm surprised he plays those.
'Trouble' begins in its melancholy, taking me back to the days of my grief, to the days when I listened to this one when Jules died and then when Anthoine died.
This one and the one he plays next when I ask him to continue. Maybe this time it shows that it's a necessity.
He continues with 'In My Place' and 'Hymn for the Weekend'.
After an inestimable amount of time spent playing, Arthur stops and looks at me, his fingers loosening. Only now do I realize how much time has passed. They seemed like random songs, but knowing him, they weren't.
He must have noticed something; after all, he knows me well.
We stare at each other for a while, saddened by the end of the private concert, and he smiles sweetly at me.
- You know, playing is different than listening. - when he says this, I stare at him stunned. I'd like to take a picture to see if I'm showing this astonishment now, but I stay here and watch him as something clicks inside me.
How did he know I was out of tune? That I was asking him to continue seeking satisfaction?
- I don't remember much about playing, maybe the basics, but... - I start with logical and rational excuses and he waves me away as if to belittle what I'm saying.
- You don't need anything special, you don't have to play someone else's melodies or follow a score. If you have the basics, just sit down and everything will fall into place.
I still look at him doubtfully, not at all convinced of what he's saying, and so he sits back partly in the long seat and motions for me to join him with his hand and an amused, confident smile.
- I'll give you a lesson, then you'll see that when you let your fingers run free, you'll learn on your own and feel better. Playing is different than listening. Especially with the piano.
This time he seems the elder of us, and I'm amazed that he knows. Perhaps he's always seen this discomfort in me and was waiting to understand how to help me. I have no idea, but I look at the piano and the keys and in the end I can't resist this call, which now seems like a kind of wedding march, almost. As if it were exactly what I was meant to do. Sit here and play.
When I do it, even if I'm close to him, for a moment everything fades away. Him too.
It's me and these black and white keys. Like me. Like my life.
In black and white. Without the colors.
My heart suddenly accelerates, like when I'm in a car or on the track.
Every function in me increases in intensity, I feel all my senses sharpening and the adrenaline rushes through me furiously.
A strange joy and excitement overflow and my hands feel hot, my fingers tingle and I feel like I'm going crazy, for a moment.
And maybe I am going crazy, in fact.
But I place my fingers on the keys and touch them, then I caress and finally I press them randomly. A sound. My heart thumps.
I press another nearby, another sound, air fills my lungs. Another key, my eyes burn.
It was this.
It was exactly this.
He was right.
It was playing, not listening.
How can you feel a call for something I've never really done, for which I've never had a passion? A crazy call, almost like that of the car.
How is this possible?
Am I really crazy? Am I possessed?
But I can't help it, my fingers continue to produce random sounds, Arthur next to me doesn't move and waits patiently and I can't stop, because with every sound, something adds to me.
Emotions?
What is it? What is this burning sensation?
I have no idea and I don't even know if all this is useful or makes sense. I know it's just the first step, just the beginning, and maybe later I'll understand. It might not even be useful, but from the way I feel just hitting the keys, I think it won't hurt.
Melodies form in my head, unfamiliar melodies, not taken from other songs. Random melodies that I don't know how to produce, but now that I'm sitting here, I feel the need to play.
It's a real need.
I don't think I'll stop until I've brought those melodies out and when I do, maybe I'll understand something more about myself. Who knows.
But I want to start from here. With my fingers on the piano.”

/Max/

"What the hell do you mean you can't go out?
Who am I going to fuck now?
I'd decided to tell Charles to fuck off and how the hell am I going to do that if I can't fuck anyone else?
Damn!
How long must this torture last where I'm alone with myself, alone like a dog with no one?
The only thing I like about this forced isolation is that I can't see my father and that brings me a certain joy. Too bad he's bothering me with homework to keep me in shape.
Go to the gym, you don't do much, you should do a lot more. A physically athletic driver has an extra gear, greater resistance in tough conditions. Follow a proper diet, you eat badly and haphazardly. You've always done whatever the fuck you wanted, but now you can't anymore because you won't be moving for who knows how long. Do exercises with your trainer, get some you can do on your own.
I don't know how much bullshit he's told me. Why does he have to bother me anyway? I'm at home, we can't race, we can't do shit. Of course I exercise, I'm not an idiot!
Why the fuck does he have to tell me that?
I start jumping rope while I think about it and only when I'm panting, tongue hanging out and dying do I realize how furiously I did it and especially for how long.
I feel better now; at least the hormones give me a sense of relief.
I've never been passionate about the gym; in fact, my body isn't athletic and I hate it. As soon as I stop racing and go on vacation, my belly rises, I have the skin of a corpse and I'm not at all attractive. I hate looking at myself. I can't find anything I like.
I could fix my physique, workout like crazy and eat right. There are those who live for their physique and they're incredible. Look at Lewis and Daniel; they care about their physique, they workout regularly and they're fucking hot.
It’s certainly useful and right to exercise and be fit and now that I'm stuck here for who knows how long, before I go truly crazy, I'd better focus on this aspect of my daily life.
I'll get some equipment, ask how to set up a small gym, maybe on my terrace. It's big enough, it should be able to hold a couple of machines. I don't want anything special, maybe an exercise bike, a barbell; what the fuck do I know? 
But that's not who I am. I don't give a damn about my how I look or I would have cared much more and much sooner.
It's just that now I have time alone with myself and there's absolutely nothing I can do to distract me from thinking about how much I don't like myself.
I sigh impatiently wiping my face with the towel, while I look in the mirror ferociously, my face half covered.
Now we'll only be wearing masks, who knows how much longer we'll have them. In my opinion, much more than everyone thinks and says.
A couple of weeks and then it's over? Nah, this pandemic thing is much bigger than everyone thinks.
The only thing I like about this torture is that I'll only show my eyes, the best part of me. There's literally nothing else I like and having my face mostly covered leaves me at least a little more at peace. I think we could keep masks on forever.
Most people wear them even if they don't have them. They've been wearing them for a long time, some since birth, some less, but they always have them on.
I was probably the only idiot who didn't wear them and look how I got fucked.
My thoughts automatically turn to Charles. I wonder how he is and how he's experiences this strange condition. Forced to be almost completely alone, locked in the house without being able to do anything. Finally forced to analyze himself, to look inside himself, to understand himself and take care of himself. Because in a condition like this, he definitely will.
He'll take care of himself, finally.
The thought of him doing it, even if I don't know how, makes me feel stupidly better and a smile forms on my face, three-quarters of which remains covered by the towel.
My eyes curl into a hidden smile that I inevitably show it with every part of my face.
I wonder what Charles's smiles look like with his mask on?
He'll only show his eyes; surely no one will tell the difference between his smiles and his serious expressions.
I sigh and shake my head.
I should stop thinking about him.
I take a quick shower, which is a huge relief after all the exercise.
It's just a fucking patch covering a huge tear.
The hormones released with physical exercise, a refreshing shower, maybe even a guilt-free beer, but then what?
Then, as soon as the effects of the activity pass, I'll go back to being like usual.
Alone, frustrated, delusional and needing to fuck.
I throw myself onto the sofa in my loose-fitting house suit I practically always wear now and I grab my phone. My beard is already long, what's the point? I can't let anyone see me, I can't go out. I can't do anything.
My hair is also long and wild, I haven't even combed it, I've just let it dry haphazardly as it pleases.
I know what I need.
I know exactly what I need.
I need a dick. I need an orgasm, a fuck. It's the only thing that can help me.
I should go out, go dancing, drink gin and tonics and get so stoned until I can't remember my name and then I should get fucked.
I scroll through the folders and find the one I've locked with a special password.
There's only one photo in that folder.
As soon as it opens, my hand slides under my sweatpants where I didn't even bother putting on my boxers. What's the point anyway? I'm home alone and I'm not going to do anything.
That's exactly why I take my dick and rub it while looking at Charles's photo, the best part of him after his beautiful face.
He was so fucking excited that night at the idea of ​​taking a picture to convince me to keep my mouth shut. But I really don't think he made any sacrifices at all.
I think he actually couldn't wait to do something so crazy, to let himself go, to break the habit. I really think he had a lot of fun.
I bite my mouth thinking about Charles, about when he took this photo, about how he surely jerked off the same way I was jerking off that time and that I'm jerking off now.
He must have sighed, trying not to make any noise because he was locked in the bathroom with Pierre sleeping in the bedroom. He's a damned whore, that's what he is, only he can't admit it because the rules they've instilled in him prevent him from being one, but that's really who he is. He likes to please and drive others crazy, making them enjoy themselves like hell with just his body and his presence.
You'll see that as soon as you accept yourself, you'll be absolutely spectacular and you'll enjoy life.
I think back to how he was in that club in Monza celebrating his second win in a row.
How happy was he? How free was he? How damn wonderful, vindictive and seductive. How did you try to get my dick hard? How much did you provoke me? You hoped I'd do something, you pushed me to the limit in every way and you enjoyed the feeling of my hand sliding into your pants from behind, while you were tongue-tied to poor Pierre.
You're such a total asshole, Charles, and I like you for that.
Insane.
But all this will never evolve because I'm sick of being dumped and rejected and I can't take it anymore. I just can't take it anymore.
I have to fuck someone in person. I move my eyes toward the door and think of Daniel. He's the only one I could go to without getting caught and by chance I could fuck him. But I promised I wouldn't use him like that to scratch my fucking itches anymore.
I promised, I owe him.
Fuck, why does it have to be so difficult?
Fucking pandemic.
It's like it's inside me and not out there. A disease spreading and driving me crazy, something I can't contain or manage.
How long do I have to stay like this?

Being alone makes more sense than I thought.
Alone and isolated, forced to take care of myself, at least to keep myself occupied in some way.
I haven't become a gym fanatic, but the little I've started doing, which makes my trainer proud, has helped me, I must say.
But aside from that and the more athletic diet, it's being able to go out again, albeit with a thousand restrictions, after so much time spent alone like a dog, isolated and alienated, forced to do the same things. Always the same things. Only the same things.
And being alone.
Talking on the computer or phone with someone else, unable to have anyone truly in front of me.
This makes me appreciate going out and seeing people again, whoever they are, no matter who. Even my father I'm happy to see again, at a certain point.
He's strangely proud that I followed his orders and didn't ignore him. I don't tell him it's a coincidence, I let him believe I was obedient for once. My father happy is a rare gift.
I also see my mother and sister again, and with them it's a more sincere and profound pleasure.
But it's also the simple fact of having to take care of myself again, which helps me and I enjoy; I never cared, but now it was nice. I shaved with pleasure and attention, I went to get my hair cut, which was shapeless and obscene, and it was nice to talk to the hairdresser, even though I never cared about him.
I laughed and chatted, I felt fucking euphoric. I started to enjoy the little things I didn't give a damn about and that I used to do with annoyance.
It was nice to put on the perfume Charles loves again and think about what it would be like to see him again, whether the smell of it on me again will affect him or whether he'll have forgotten me by now.
We haven't started racing again yet, but something is starting to move. Rumors say it will resume, that they're working on a system.
The idea of ​​getting back on track actually fills me with joy.
Enjoying what we previously took for granted, what was sometimes even a nuisance or went unnoticed.
Doing the same things as always but with more happiness, appreciating them, I dare say.
Putting on clothes to go out and not shapeless sweatpants to stay home alone. My tight jeans, a T-shirt that matches my pale complexion and my blue eyes, checking if my face is smooth and then trying on the masks and looking at myself in the mirror to see if they suit me or if I look more disgusting.
I like wearing the mask, just like I imagined; I think I look better. 
But it’s nice, underneath it, to have smooth, well-groomed facial skin, a scented neck and well-cut hair, to be neat.
I'm not saying I like myself now, but I enjoy taking care of myself, whereas before I thought it was a waste of time and it bothered me because I didn't know how to do it and it was pointless, because it always the same shitty result. But now I like doing it, even if the result still sucks. It's a different thing.
It's nice to be back in the world after being isolated. I've always hated everything and everyone, they bothered me, I couldn't really get along with anyone. I tolerated some, I even liked some, I discovered people I could perhaps vaguely consider friends. I also have true friends, few but good, the ones I now realize are such, friends I had taken for granted and struggled to call such, but who instead made themselves heard all the time and who now, being able to see again, makes me fucking happy; this joy exudes from everything I can proudly show of myself.
My eyes thank me today for leaving home and immersing myself once again in the same world I didn't even notice until a few months ago. A world that bored me and that I didn't like.
Now, however, I'm happy out here, among others, and I don't want to go back to isolating myself. I really don't want to spend hours alone. I want people. I want life.”

NOTES: I felt it was a necessary moment this 2020 pandemic, because it marked an era and affected everyone, changing us in some way. I wanted to use it to show its effects on Max and Charles and also to demonstrate how different they are from experiencing the same things. The mask issue was an example that struck me as I looked at their photos from that period. Charles wasn't like he is now, very expressive. Back then, his eyes were always the same, always sad, no matter what his expression, and when he put on the masks it was very noticeable. Max, on the other hand, has his strong point in his eyes; he's hyper-expressive and I liked this contrast between them. Beyond that, I wanted to include a bit of what we all experienced during that period: some of us, isolated, went on psychological journeys within ourselves; some became hysterical in solitude; some were filled with anxiety when it came time to go out into the world because they actually felt better alone; and some, on the contrary, rediscovered the pleasure of being with others and taking care of themselves. I wanted to include in these few chapters a little of everything each of us experienced during that period, because it seemed right to me.
I know Charles started playing the piano during that time and knowing that his brother Arthur has always played it well, I imagined they spent the isolation period together and that he taught him to play. Analyzing Charles from a psychological perspective (from someone who doesn't know him personally and can only observe what's visible from afar), he has had a noticeable change over the years, where he's learned to open up, be himself and let go. Knowing that he started playing the piano during the pandemic, and knowing how attached he’s to it now, I decided to use it as a self-help tool. You'll see how it develops over the course of the chapters. Sorry for the length of the notes. The chapters full of key situations will come again, but I've alternated them with reflective ones. Until next time. Kisses, Akane