60. SURFACE

/Max/

“It's as if my dad feels something different this year.
He's always been a hateful, intractable pain in the ass who was breathing down my neck, but this year more than the others. Maybe he sees that the car is stronger than in previous years, that the material to do well is there, unlike in previous seasons, and so he understands that if that's there, all I have to do is put my own into it and I can do it. The problem, though, is that he gets in the way.
How the fuck does he expect me to do it if he keeps pressuring me like I'm still that incompetent kid he was molding?
Races come and go and we at Red Bull are actually doing better than ever. Well, me more than anything. Sergio still has to adapt to the car, probably. Since he arrived this year, it's understandable.
I've had some excellent positions, always second apart from a few wins. Lewis is always above me or directly below me. It looks like he and I will battle it out this year, but it's too early to tell.
And here he comes. After all he always does it in Monaco.
He doesn't come to every race, but when he can, and in some in particular, he's there like a fly on the shit. Obviously, I'm the shit, judging by the way he talks to me.
From the third race onwards, he started to give a shit more than ever, but if he does that, I won't be able to enjoy this year as much as I promised myself.
I was thrilled with the car, which was promising, and Charles chasing me again—obviously a personal chase.
- Look, if you don't win, it's worth nothing. Second place if he's first is shit. What do we have to do to finish first, Max? A miracle? No, because maybe that's the only thing that could win you fucking Grand Prixs! We're not here to get on the podium or win a race every now and then. We're here to win fucking world championships. How many have you won, Max? Zero! How many Lewis? SEVEN! And how do you think he did it? BY WINNING GRAND PRIXES! He's cynical on the track. Cynical and precise as a Sniper. You're a raging chaos who can't catch what you aim for. You've never succeeded with anything and you keep going like that! It's not enough to want if you can't get it!
These are the things he's been talking about since this year. Each time there's a different one because, in fact, in other years it was clear that we didn't have what it takes to win the world championship, so he was pushing to win races. This year he's fixated on the entire world championship.
It's as if he's realized this is the right year, he feels it and he won't let go. Every race raises the bar of annoyance and since Monaco isn't really his actual home but where we both live, luckily separately, he's there.
So my week is starting off really shitty and it couldn't be shittier.
It's as if I'm split in two. On one hand, there's my enormous desire to enjoy it and have fun, because I know this year I can do well and get things off my chest, and then there's Charles who I feel close to, finally. On the other hand there's him, my father, who probably feels the same things about my season and is pissing me off more than ever. This ruins everything for me.
I arrive at the circuit without having to go through the hotel phase because those of us who live in the city don't need to find temporary alternative solutions.
So there are the usual commitments for our respective teams dictated by sponsors, media and similar bullshit, then the track walk, which I hate. In short, the usual stuff. 
But I'm already pissed off because I know that at some point that pain in the ass will show up and it won't be enough for him to be there on the phone every damn second, but he'll also need to be physically in front of me to tell me what to do, how to feel, what to think, how the fuck to drive.
Are YOU telling ME how to drive? Really? Which of the two of us is better? Do you think I need advice on how the hell to drive? Do you think so? I don't know, fuck you! But you can't imagine me telling him.
Answering my father would mean burying me and then my life would become impossible. 
Sometimes I wish I were nobody. A perfectly normal person who hated studying and started working as a mechanic or at a fucking gas station. Who can barely make ends meet, who has no ambition and hasn't accomplished a damn thing in life.
A fucking nobody.
Sometimes that's what I wish for.
Instead here I am, driving an F1 car chasing a dream that I no longer know if it's mine or his. Or rather, it's definitely his, but is it mine too?
I always thought it wasn't, then when I arrived at Red Bull, and also perhaps thanks to Daniel and the fact that my father had stepped back a bit compared to before, I finally felt good and happy and so I thought that after all I liked it too, that I also wanted to race and win.
But now that he's on top of me like that again, I feel suffocated and crazy and it doesn't let me enjoy a damn thing about what I used to like and excite me. Nor of the races, nor of Charles. And it's something I hate because in Bahrain he was a key element, he made me happy. He likes me and wants to win me back, what more could I want?
Now I'm just thinking about how to dump my dad quickly and how to put up with him.
He has the power to devastate me and now I hate racing again, I hate the tracks, I hate the cars and I hate this fucking World Championship.
I don't know if I hope to win it so I can get rid of him once and for all, or if I hope to become a jerk and be dumped by every team and still get what I want: for my dad to leave me alone.
Because he only brought me into the world to be what he couldn't be: a world champion. But isn't that a shitty reason to have a son?
I feel like I'm back to before Daniel and Red Bull saved me. I feel like I'm a teenager again, dealing with his dad's hair-pulling, screaming and insults.
Now he doesn't raise his hands, he knows I'd respond. I wouldn't, but I could. And then I'm always in the spotlight too much, even though I don't want to and I hate that too.
But he makes up for it with words. His damned tongue is sharper and more forceful than ever.

- Do you know why you were so good when you raced against Leclerc? Because you hated him! You have so much respect for Hamilton, he has this divine aura, almost, but you have to hate him because you know he'll be your direct rival this year. And whether you like it or not, you have to hate him to beat him. Only then will you win the world championship.
When he tells me this, I can barely keep from rolling my eyes. He showed up at my house without asking to drive me to the track for free practice today. How wonderful. He talks to me in similar ways the whole way and when we arrive, of course, he continues to accompany me inside with his special pass–imagine if I didn't give it to him.
My blood pressure is rising; I can feel it clearly with every sentence he barks in Dutch.
As soon as I cross the threshold that separates the paddock area of ​​the Monaco street circuit from the rest of the city, my exasperated eyes accidentally land on Charles, who had just arrived on his bike. He's getting out and handing it over to one of his two guardian angels, whose names I'll never remember.
As soon as I see him, I instinctively light up to greet him. Our eyes meet and he lights up too, but my father rebukes me.
- I'm talking about this. You're their rival, you have to take them out, not befriend them! You were a murderer as a kid and won because of that, now you're trying to be too clean!
I stare at him realizing the profound meaning of what he's telling me; perhaps my perplexity is too obvious.
- You mean I have to push them off the track? - it's kind of my style when I do a certain kind of wheel-to-wheel, but it's not like I do it on purpose; he might have instilled this philosophy in me. After all, he's been telling me 'knock them down' since birth, referring to rivals. Maybe I took it literally. Now this aggressive driving style is too ingrained in me and I can't change it, but I think it's also an angry driving style directed at him. Sometimes I feel like I'm driving against my father and not against other drivers.
- No, obviously, but you shouldn't see the driver in the car, just the car.
Because that's who I am, right? A car! That's how you raised me.
I don't tell him, I bite my tongue, shake my head and carry on with him following me. I've lost contact with Charles and I don't know if he saw anything. I think since we mentioned my father, this is the first time he's actually seen me with him.
I wonder what he thought? Was I decent enough in controlling my face?
When I get to the Red Bull area, I manage to swerve away from my father with some excuse about preparing for today's first free practice; he's relegated, as always, to a part of our garage, but where he can't bother me.
Finally, they've got him out of me.
What a relief.
The Monaco circuit is different from the others. It's in the city and it's narrow. There's no room for shit, it's all squeezed in and crowded together, and there's not really much room to disappear and do your own thing, but obviously you can find it if you need it. The drivers still need to isolate themselves to prepare. Some have pre-race rituals, some don't, but there's always a designated space to hang out. I mutter something to Gianpiero and Brad, whom I'd just met, and disappear into one of those famous places where you can stay away from annoying people with cameras or general pains in the ass.
I'm not going there to look for Charles; if I wanted to, I would have written to him. I'm going there in the hope of shaking off my father, knowing I could have some shitty free practice.
If he does this all year, I won't be able to do it.
I sit on the ground leaning my back hunched against a wall, and put my hand on my cap, which I press firmly down on my face. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
Because if I go to one of my rooms, he comes straight to me. So I have to hide, you know?
What a shit.
I feel like I've gone backwards. How the hell did that happen?
Is this what crossing the finish line will be like? Me, who will hate that fucking victory, assuming it ever comes?
Why does it have to be like this? Couldn't it have been normal?
I think of Lewis and those beautiful scenes where he hugs his father while they cry happily after his World Championship victories, and I wonder... if I were to actually do that, would I be like this with my father too? Will I be able to hug him happy and moved?
I can't even imagine it...
- What the hell was he telling you before? - Charles's voice reaches me from above, inquisitive. I jump on the spot and tense up, looking at him as if caught out and also in disbelief that he's actually interested in me. Why wouldn't he?
Well, I'm not used to it and besides, I'm in a bit of a delusional state of mind.
- My father? - it's so obvious that he's asking about him.
Charles sits next to me without asking my permission, and this domineering and decisive gesture towards me finally gives me the first relief of the day.
I shake my head and shrug as if to say nothing.
- The usual...
But he stares at me, resting his head on his hand and his elbow on his bent knees. He raises his eyebrows impatiently, urging me on. It's strange to see him so interested in me. That time he surprised me, but now that it's happening again, he shocks me.
- And what would that be? - he doesn't know, actually. What's the usual? Do I want to do it now? Do I want to talk to him about it now?
Didn't I promise myself that if the right opportunity came along, I would do it? But is this the right opportunity?
Then I imagine myself racing in the same state of mind I'm in and facing an entire season like this, alone and in these conditions. Daniel isn't there to take the edge off anymore, and friends won't be enough. It's nice to have them and not be alone like when I was little, but they're not enough. More than anything, they're useless if they don't know.
So, staring at the ground, I take a deep breath.
- At that moment he was telling me I should hate my opponents instead of respecting and esteeming them. That I have to be a murderer to beat my rivals, that as a kid I won because of this and now I suck because I try to be too clean and proper and I respect those around me too much.
The discussion was broader, but to summarize it was this.
When I dare glance at the extraordinarily silent Charles, I notice he's shocked and perhaps thinks I'm making fun of him, so I burst out laughing bitterly and look away again, hiding my eyes in the brim of my cap, in a nervous gesture of discomfort.
How will he look at me from now on? I've only just begun to scratch the surface and show him what's underneath, but believe me, this is nothing compared to the rest.
I don't know what the fuck I've got in my head. I'm crazy. An idiot. Do I want to make him feel sorry for me? I'll make him run away! In his place, I'd run away. I'm too problematic.
Oh God, not that he's any less. He was about to commit suicide just to find a hit of life. I don't think he can tell me anything, but still...
- But that's not knowing how to drive! If the only way to beat others is to knock them out like you've always done, yes, maybe you win and get results, but isn't it irritating to do it while driving badly?
His statement surprises me. I was expecting something moralistic or a great escape of some sort. Maybe even a cuddle, some consolation. But he's standing here next to me, staring at me, annoyed by my father's philosophy. At this point, I feel like laughing. Charles, so perfect and obsessed with things done well, more Lewis-like in fact, dealing with my father like this, really makes me laugh. What a devastating combination!
And me in the middle!
- You mean I win because I don't know how to drive and I do it badly? - I tease him, willingly distracting myself from the initial subject; he nods, surprised that I'm asking.
- You know I've always thought that! You drive like a dirty driver. To beat your rivals, you push them off the track. You always have. Not because you lose control, but because you don't want them near you. If you gave them the space you should, they'd overtake you and you know it.
At his calmly delivered statement, I raise my visor to get a better look, convinced I'd misunderstood.
- And isn't that what my asshole father says?
He shrugs.
- Maybe. But I'm not encouraging you to drive like that just to win. I like when you're competitive and drive well.
- But I've always driven 'dirty,' as you say.
- I know better than you how you drive, what do you think? - Charles blurts out decisively, sitting next to me, elbow to elbow. He has very clear ideas and isn't afraid to tell me.
- So you don't like racing against me? - I ask uncertainly, torn between disappointment and amusement.
- Of course I like it. - he says surprised that I ask.
- Well, when have I been competitive while driving well, then? - I insist dotting the i's and crossing the t's. I'm not really offended, I don't think he's right, but I'm curious about his perspective on things. How he sees me and the fact that even if it's not a pretty view, he still likes me. He sees me as a terrible driver and maybe even a terrible element in general, a broken machine, but does he still like me?
Daniel liked me because he saw something different in me beneath the ugly surface. Does Charles like me just the way I am on this surface, full of flaws? Is that possible?
Charles rolls his eyes thinking about it more carefully, then nods and answers again more calmly and precisely.
- I expressed myself badly. I'd like you to be competitive while driving well, but I like driving against you the way you always have, because beating a bad driver is incredibly satisfying. To beat someone who drives like you, over the limit and in a dirty way, you have to be damn good and in the end, believe me, it's really nice. I've never felt with anyone what I feel when I drive with you. Of course, when it ends well for me.
At the end he chuckles amusedly, He doesn't think he said anything special, but I look at him simultaneously captivated and shocked and I don't realize it at all, but I'm trembling with emotion and... what is this warmth I feel inside?
Well-being? Joy?
Does he really like me, wrong as I am? Really?
To win him over, do I really not have to show him the little bit of good that I hide out of shame?
I don't believe it.
I stare at him stunned and probably emotional; I purse my lips and can't say anything else. It seems like he's said who knows what, but he delicately and skillfully sidestepped my father while still talking about what he said, as if to help me indirectly. Because he saw that I wasn't ready to talk anymore, so he indulged me.
I'm shocked and happy.
I know what I promised myself, but I can't do it.
I close halfway my eyes, take off my hat and holding it in front of our faces to shield the unlikely prying glances. Then I lean toward him and give a tender, awkward kiss on the cheek. 
The warmth flows immediately.
I sigh and smile, holding this wonderful feeling close. I want to hold on to it for the rest of the weekend.
- Thank you. - I whisper, still perhaps too fragile and weak, but for the first time not full of shame.
Then I rest my head on his shoulder and hold the hat over my face, leaving it there so that it acts as a barrier between me and the world. The only one who can now have free access to me and overcome that barrier is here at my side, supporting my head with his shoulder.
- I’ll always be here, Maxie. - he finally says softly, resting his head on mine.
I squeeze my eyes shut at the name he uses to call me; it’s the first time he's done it, hopefully not the last. No one's ever used that nickname. It's so beautiful, so ours.
His tone is so sweet.
You're doing well, Charlie, on your journey. I hope I can keep up with you. 
For the first time, I want to get out of it too.”

/Charles/

“It's like a punch in the gut. When I saw him arrive with his father, I obviously didn't understand what they were saying because it was their language, but Max's face was so explicit that I didn't need to know.
It was the first time I'd seen them together since he told me in Bahrain that things weren't right between them. Since then, I've desperately tried to remember the details of that time at his house, what he told me about him and why he envied me.
Did his father beat him as a child? I can't be sure because I was completely out of my mind and didn't remember much of that time. It annoys me not to remember, I'd like to ask him, but he'd never repeat it to me and I can't say, 'Listen, did he beat you?'
I remember the rumors about him when I was kid, there were so many stories going around. That his father was hard on Max is well known, but honestly, I've always tried to distance myself from certain stories; it's easy to exaggerate bullshit.
But seeing how he's been acting now as an adult, I think their relationship isn't just complicated. It's truly destructive. I don't know how much yet, but the idea of ​​leaving him alone now that I know and can sense what's beneath the surface of the iceberg, almost makes me feel sick.
Maybe he doesn't want to talk about it yet and isn't ready, but when will he be? If I let him feel like it he'll never talk, but I think it's good for him to do so. The sooner he does, the better, but I certainly can't force him. With Max, if you force him, you get the opposite effect.
Concentrating on him makes me feel absurdly good, even though I feel sorry for him.
When I find him and sit with him, I immediately understand that he's exhausted. I was hoping he'd hide here. There aren't many places in Monaco to isolate yourself before getting in the car and I'm a master at finding them, because I always need to retreat into myself for a moment.
The hunched shoulders, the bowed head, the hat covering his face more than ever.
When I manage to get something out of him, I realize it's some kind of miracle, even though knowing what it was feels like a punch in the gut.
It's just a quick sentence, certainly not the worst he could have said to him.
How fucking bad is the guy sitting next to me, really?
Now I understand his angry, desperate driving.
I always thought Max was driving against a demon, but I thought it was his way of viewing his opponents. That he was just an extremely competitive guy who wanted to stay ahead of everyone at all costs, that seeing someone trying to steal his position drove him crazy, but that was it.
In reality, the demon he's racing against is his father.
It's only the surface I'm starting to see, but now it's clear that there's a dark abyss down there; how long has he been down there?
How the hell does he swim in there?
When he kisses my cheek tenderly, I feel his trembling and his deep gratitude, as if clinging to a life preserver.
Am I that life preserver?
He thanks me.
The shoulder where his hat-covered head rests burns with the heat he transmits. It's not him that's warm, nor is this place, although obviously it's not cold here. On the contrary.
It's this gesture of surrender.
He's asking me for help, he just doesn't know how.
I've been so damn self-centered, up until now, that I haven't understood, that I haven't seen.
Thank you for what, then? I didn't do anything. I just tried not to make him feel bad about the little confession he managed to get from me and didn't force him to make any more.
You don't have to be ashamed of your problems, Max.
The name I call him comes naturally and has never occurred to me before.
Maxie.
Did he like it?
I lean my head against his and stay like this. If they see us, they'll know it's us from our shirts. There's no point in hiding his face, but it's obvious he's not doing it for fun. He does it because he's ashamed of himself and of having problems.
But what do you have to be ashamed of? You saw me in Japan opening the French windows in the face of a typhoon, right? And you should be ashamed? But I'll hold your head as long as you need and if they look for us, patience.
If I think about what he said to him before I feel so bad. But it's not even the what, but the how. Max's face was emblematic. He couldn't take it anymore. How long has he been suffering? And what, above all?
I'm not a violent person, but right now my hands are itching; it's his head on my shoulder that's pushing me to find another way to react, and without thinking I reach for his hand, left here between us. I take it and intertwine our fingers like that night together, in his bed.
That memory warms me and I feel him relax a little more.
I'd like to say something to him, but the words won't come out right now and maybe it's better for him this way. Silence. For once, I'll give you my shoulder and my hand. But know that I will never give up on you. I will not disappear.”

NOTES: I don't know if there's actually a place where they could hide out, somewhere among the various team garages. I suppose there might be, but I've decided to be vague because I don't really know. If someone wants to, always find a way to hide with whoever they want and do what they want.
As I've often said, this fic dramatizes and exaggerates everything about Charles and Max. I take inspiration from more or less real events, as far as we know, and I exaggerate them. The whole fic will be like that. It's also full of continuous insights and introspection. That's why it's so long. I hope it's decent. See you next time. Kisses, Akane