61. DEEP OPENINGS

/Charles/

“I don't know if they bother me more or please me more. I was prepared, to be honest, for the possibility that they wouldn't make it. I had all night to process it—not that I did it alone, but there was a tiny, tiny chance they'd make it, anyway I knew it was difficult. It's just that it's my race, right? It's not just my home race, it's MINE.
There's no circuit I care about as much; there are too many memories tied here. I've always wanted to race there and win. I started dreaming of being a driver watching the Monaco race.
This year I had a good chance, damn it, I got pole yesterday. If you get pole in Monaco, you're 90 percent guaranteed to win, unless you crash like I did. Too bad I did it yesterday right after recording my best time.
How much of an asshole was I?
My colleagues, many of these friends, follow one another to give me their support, to make me feel better.
Seb is very sweet, almost like an older brother or a father, but it doesn't bother me much. Normally this kind of behavior irritates me, but Seb doesn't do it on purpose like Binotto tries to do, and maybe that's why I don't like it with him.
It's kind of his natural role, for Seb. I see that he's affectionate and protective and willingly dispenses advice to all the youngsters. He genuinely cares about people; it's not opportunism, it's not forced.
His hand squeezes my shoulder, his face comes closer to mine to tell me he's sorry I can't start, that he knows how much I care, and having achieved pole position it's a real shame.
- You'll see, next year will be the good one. Mistakes help you improve, don't think of this year as a waste of time.
His wise, guru-like advice strikes me and makes me happy. He's right, I have to try to make sense of this shit.
After Seb, others also come to cheer me up. I think it's common knowledge that I care, just Max, that idiot, didn't know because he lives on another planet.
As the drivers gather for the opening anthem before the race, Max steps forward with his mask still down. His blue eyes under the peak of his cap are sincerely sorry, but they're also very knowing and intimate.
They communicate so much that I forget to stop at a safe distance and I get in front of him. We almost collide, but we manage to avoid  it at the last minute, leaving a few centimeters between us. Only our knuckles do it.
We should greet each other at a safe distance, which is at least a meter, and limit ourselves to fist bumps, the only thing allowed for now. And we should always wear masks. But we've just forgotten the rules, because this exchange of glances isn't a simple 'I'm sorry they didn't make it' like it is for all those who have comforted me now.
His, like mine, is a dive into tonight; the intimacy and the complicity arises from the memory of last night.
Something I certainly can't forget. I hope that in the midst of his little hell brought on by his father, what happened tonight will comfort him and help him run well, at least he can.
From this suffocating yet beautiful closeness, I feel the warmth I needed to endure the rest of the shittiest day in years. I'll watch my damned race on the screen in my garage and not drive. I can do this.
As I lose myself in this brief exchange with him, a few seconds in reality, the flashback of last night takes me back to yesterday as if we were still there together. And for a moment, I wish I could go back.

**

- Say you did it on purpose! - as soon as he says it, my hair stands on end, but not from shivers of pleasure or fear. They do because, recognizing his voice and his accusatory tone, even if tinged with mockery, I understand the meaning behind it and I immediately feel nervous, as if I didn't have enough of my own.
I turn around and Max is right next to me, doubling down on his statement with conviction. He's wearing a mask and a cap, but they're not enough to hide the idiotic look he gives when he says it.
- You crashed after recording your pole time just as I was doing mine! You knew I was about to steal your spot! Say you didn't crash on purpose!
I glare at him so fiercely that for once I'm sure I'm being very expressive.
- Don’t be idiot! - I hiss without accepting the joke. He knows I wouldn't crash on purpose. There are many drivers who would do that, but I don't because I'm too obsessed with rules and honest, well-done things. I wouldn't like to win like this, playing dirty. Winning isn't enough for me; I have to win by proving I'm the best; that's why I want to be ahead of everyone else.
He stares at me dumbfounded not expecting this venomous reaction from me, and to be clearer I add sharply: - The Monaco race is MY RACE. I would NEVER risk crashing the day before. I'm not that dickhead. I care too much.
After underlining this by clicking on 'MY' and 'NEVER', I go straight to avoid arguing with him. I'm ready to do it; that's all I need today after the wonderful news that I might not race tomorrow because the car is too wrecked.
What a dickhead I am. A real dickhead.
My nerves grow and the more I breathe, the more pissed off I feel.
How could I have thrown myself into the barrier like that?
You can't go wrong in Monaco. I finally get pole after years of trying and I crash?
Stupid idiot!
This isn't the right time, Max. This isn't the fucking right time for any fucking kind of game. I just can't do it today, damn it.

I sulk at him for the rest of the post-qualifying stuff—the usual press and various interviews—while he tries to make peace by asking if I took it seriously. Of course I took it seriously, damn it, and you don't have to follow me around to make you forgive me!
It's not because you were so crazy about your father yesterday that I can easily forgive you today. It doesn't work that way. You have to connect your tongue to your brain, it won't take long for me to send you back to where you were at the start of 2019, in the hate zone without exception.
It's my Grand Prix, how the fuck dare he think I crashed on purpose. He's been too close to me! Fuck him!

After nullifying him the entire time we were on the circuit, I go home sending everyone away. This isn't the night to enjoy the comfort of my home GP. Both Andrea and Joris understand, as does Charlotte, who thought she could spend the pre-race evening with me.
I've spent my entire short life trying to be normal, conforming to society's rules and doing what would make my father happy. To be as much like him as possible. Only to realize at 23—or maybe even earlier—that I'm not like him and following the rules won't make me normal. Maybe on the surface yes, and that's okay; at least out there I'll look it so they'll leave me alone and I can focus on what really matters to me.
Winning because I'm the best; I want everyone to know and see it.
But that's not the only thing that irritates me.
Maybe I won't run this race tomorrow. This one, exactly. Of all the races where I could mess up without it being a drama, this is the only one that will hurt.
I'm not like my father, but at least I hoped that winning our race would bring me a little closer to him. But that's not going to happen.
When I'm alone, my stomach barely filled from a meager dinner I couldn't stomach, the doorbell rings. I roll my eyes and huff.
It must be my brother, the only one who dares to go against my strict "leave me alone."
I open the door through the intercom without looking at the image on the screen, which is so dark and difficult to see.
I certainly can't send my brother away, but I'll tell him I need to be alone because normally, when I'm pre-race, I don't get crowded around.
Shit, leave me alone!
The front door opens because I had left it ajar as not to stand there waiting for the second bell, so I sit at the piano and strum nervously, not noticing what's coming out of my fingers, which are stiff and tense as if they were made of wood.
I swing my foot on the ground as if bitten by a venomous beast.
The door closes behind me and he enters, remaining silent, without even saying hello. Well, he's my brother, he must know exactly how I feel.
He shouldn't have come by, but he's definitely worried. Lorenzo usually follows Arthur, but today he was able to take advantage to spend more time with me. I appreciate it, really. I've been alone in races stuff since my father died. Nicolas was there whenever he could, but since Arthur also wants to be a driver, Lorenzo had to take our father's place and that's right. But I was alone and perhaps that was felt in the end.
The lack of that normal and wise figure, but also positive and calm in moments of tension, anxiety and pressure.
I've always handled them alone, I learned to do it, but perhaps to succeed I used too much of my desire to excel. It was a crutch to stay afloat, but not the best solution.
My fingers randomly tap on the deepest, lowest-sounding keys, a reflection of my state of mind. I've failed again. This is my fourth year competing in F1 and I still haven't achieved the one thing I've always truly dreamed of since I was a child with my father.
He approaches silently and places his hands delicately on my shoulders, but there's something that sends shivers down the back of my neck and down my spine.
He's not my brother; he would never touch me like that. Only one would do that.
As soon as I think of it, I straighten up and hold my breath, staring straight ahead with wide eyes; his low, scratchy voice speaks to me from behind.
- I'm sorry, Charlie, I didn't know it meant so much to you. If I'd known, I never would have joked about it.
My mouth hanging open in shock, I lift my fingers from the keyboard, my heart suddenly pounding in my throat while every emotion instantly burns beneath my skin, inflaming every nerve.
I'm no longer a tightrope on the verge of breaking, but I'm relaxed. I'm jelly. If I had to stand up now, I don't think I could.
His hands on my shoulders begin to massage softly and delicately. With every squeeze and release, the shivers increase and spread even further. I'm not even breathing, or maybe I'm breathing so slowly it feels like I'm not.
My head is blank and I can't figure out what I should say or do. So I just sit here, motionless, in the dim light of my living room, where I've left a corner light on, something that wouldn't disturb me in my destructive state of mind.
- You’re a persecution, Max. - I reply hoarsely and with difficulty, desperately trying to be my usual self. But then what would I usually be? Maybe I'd joke, or maybe I'd argue. Today I wanted to argue with Max, but I avoided it on purpose because it was him and we're in such a strange situation that I didn't want to take yet another step backwards.
It's all a fucking mess.
- I know, if I set my sights on something, I won't give up until I reach it. - he whispers behind me, continuing to massage me. The giant sweatshirt is a considerable obstacle between me and him and I don't even have a zipper to undo to give him more space on my skin.
- Am I your target? - I ask ironically, turning my head only a quarter of the way toward him. The truth is, I'm so full of shivers of pleasure and relaxed that I don't really want to move, so I do it as little as possible.
- Your forgiveness. - he replies even lower and more persuasively, his breath in my ear tickling me and letting me know he's leaned closer to speak to me. Instinctively I tilt my head to the side, taken aback as the shivers intensify.
Shivers that now all gather there in my groin.
Why are you so sweet and sensual at the same time? You're a damned asshole. Not even the grace to stay pissed off!
I wanted to crucify and punish myself for my stupidity, but you won't let me. How do I explain all this to you? How do I do it?
It's barely clear to me...
I close my eyes and relax my shoulders, leaning into him as he embraces me from behind. His hands slide down my chest and he clasps me under the chin in this sweet embrace that feels like a couple of lovers and not just friends, if we were ever just friends.
We've gone from hating each other to being attracted to each other; we never got past the friendship stage, but maybe it's time to get that, now.
His mouth slides across my cheek like yesterday and leaves me the same tender kiss, but this time it's something so full of delicacy that I understand he's doing it for me and not as a thank you.
I abandon myself to him, to this embrace and this tenderness that warms me directly to the core.
My eyes closed, I'm finally relaxed and warm. No more cold and tension.
- Do you forgive me?
I nod.
- If you ask me like this, how can I deny you? - I reply vaguely ironic. But maybe I'm more absorbed in him than ironic. I don't think I'm ironic at all, just the intention that hasn't developed into action.
Max tightens his grip from behind, pulling me tighter.
- Can you play me something? I'm curious about this magical therapy that's helped you so much... - he says still leaning against me, speaking to me with his cheek pressed to mine, and I can't remember what we are. I don't remember to the point that I'm about to turn my head and kiss him, so confused I am, but instead, mesmerized by him, I nod and put my hands on the keyboard.
Max straightens up behind me, but remains with his hands on my neck and chin; he caresses me lightly, transmitting such pleasure and relaxation that I can't remember how I felt before. So much so that in the empty, blackboard that is my head, gray now arrives and as it turns white, a melody forms. A new melody, one that I've never tried to reproduce, nor have I ever heard.
So, while Max leans against me and gently caresses the sensitive skin on my face, slipping his fingers under the neckline of my giant black sweatshirt, I close my eyes and make a new sound. A sound that will always remind me of him. Him and my father, because it's him I'm talking about now, explaining why I care so much about this Grand Prix.
I hear my voice distant because I'm more focused on the sound, but I know I'm speaking sensibly, as if in a trance.
- As a child, I started dreaming of becoming an F1 driver watching the Monaco race from my parents' terrace. I was always with my dad watching it and I  had a little red car with me and I asked my dad if I could do it too; every time he said yes, that I could if I worked hard and had talent. - my fingers keep running, I keep talking.
- Only later, as I grew up, did I realize it wasn't easy for him. He made many sacrifices to make that childhood dream of mine come true, so I've always taken this very seriously. My dream wasn't just to drive the red car in F1, but to win everything I could. - I sigh, a pause. I frown, then continue, my voice almost breaking.
- When my father died, I swore to him I'd make it. I'd win this race and then the world championship. This is one of those promises you have to keep; I won't rest until I win here in Monaco. At least here.
It's not something you say just for the sake of it. I mean it and only when I realize I've spoken longer than I originally intended do, I lift my fingers because they're numb from repeating the same sound. An imperfect sound, one that doesn't yet satisfy me. There's something missing from that sound, something that will come with time, I assume.
- I'm sure you'll make it. You'll win this Grand Prix. Maybe it won't be tomorrow, but maybe next year or the year after, but you'll win it, Charlie.
Every time he calls me that, my heart calms in my chest, as if I find peace just from the way he mentions me.
I move my hands from the keyboard to his on my neck. 
I bring them to my lips where I kiss them, then I slip my fingers between his and we stay like that. I rest my head on his stomach and close my eyes, dreaming of this victory in this race with the red car. Once again, it will only be a dream, but one day it will come true.

**

We didn't do anything, we stayed home for a while and started watching a crazy movie on my couch, our legs stretched out on the coffee table, leaning against each other, my head on his shoulder and his on mine, in a similar but reversed pose on Friday. When we were about to fall asleep, to send him home I caressed his cheek without looking at him.
It's the best memory I have with him so far and I must say I have many good memories, but last night, in that way, I fully discovered Max's profound essence.
We didn't talk about his father; I didn't force him and he didn't want to ruin the beautiful atmosphere by mentioning him.
His eyes right now, his face softened into a smile filled with sincere loving sorrow which, superimposed on last night, make me realize how sweet this boy really is; he who on the surface seems like a crazy, heartless asshole.
In reality he's just doing everything he can to protect himself, but the truth is you can fall in love with him so easily, that the world that criticizes him is missing out on something extraordinary. But it's better this way. It means he'll be all mine.
I smile through my mask, I separate my hand from his. We don't talk, it's pointless. Everything to say is there in his blue and in my green, and that's okay.
Not this year, but one day. One day, I'll make my and my father's dream come true. And Max will be there, happy for me, that day.
Meanwhile, thank you for being there, Maxie.”

/Max/

“Getting his forgiveness made me completely put aside my father's constant presence throughout every single part of this weekend. I was even bitter, joking with Charles like a fool, even though in my defense I didn't know how much he cared about this GP—even though apparently everyone knew it, given how they're all circling around him today to cheer him up like a depressed little prince.
In fact it's the impression he gives.
He holds himself together and smiles at everyone, trying not to appear on the verge of suicide, but now that I know, and perhaps better than the others, I understand.
I was nervous yesterday because I was about to take pole and he crashed preventing me, and my dad was there and he said to me 'The usual bad timing.' And when I said to him 'What the fuck is my fault if he crashes?' 'Sure, because you couldn't so it before that time, right? You have to reduce yourself at the last minute!'
I was ready to tear someone to pieces and I didn't think I really thought Charles had crashed on purpose, even though many people thought so and joked about it—and some without jokingly—but I tried to ease my frustration and dump my hateful father by clinging to him. After what had happened the day before, I expected something from him, some consideration, I don't know, but instead he almost relegated me to the role of hateful number one. I don't know, I was left like shit. Only later did I realize that for some reason he really cared so much about this race.
I can't understand, I never will, but when he explained to me, it was clear how he felt.
It was nice to know.
My fingers ran over the warm, smooth skin of his neck and face as he played and told me. It was like a trance and I ended up there with him, in those days as a child with his father on their terrace watching the Monaco GP and dreaming of racing.
I can't understand because I never dreamed or really wanted to become a driver. I was forced into it, then I like it and it's my thing, but it was my father who chose the dream, while for Charles it was himself, watching this GP.
It struck me.
As he played with such melancholy, recalling those distant moments, I felt light years away from him, even though somehow I was there at the same time. Right there with him.
Close yet distant.
Everything about us has been the opposite of each other. He dreamed of being a driver, I was forced to. He has a GP he cares about like nothing else, for me they are all the same. He has such a sensitive soul that to express he needs an instrument as complex and wonderful as the piano. For me, words, which are usually insults, are enough. Art and I are polar opposites.
I smile as I settle in to get into my car with which I will place myself in his pole position, in Charles's place. Ahead of everyone. Right in the GP where the point where you start matters everything, because you start where you end up.
I listened to my dad, who thinks I couldn't do it without his precious fucking advice, and I didn't get upset.
Maybe most of the time he says things that are right or useful from a practical standpoint, but it's always been his tone and everything else about him that irritates me. But then I also reminded myself every time how many sacrifices he's made, and even if he actually made them for himself and not for me, I'm still the one who benefits. I certainly can't say I have a bad life or that I do something I hate. In the end I like racing.
But usually there's always a part of him, of what he does and says, that leaves a mark on me and makes me nervous, which is why Christian always tries to limit his presence, because he knows it's not really good for me, but he can't stop him from being there either. He's my father and in some ways he represents me, even if I have a manager who isn't him.
Yet today it doesn't matter.
I get in the car once I'm fully prepared and let the boys complete the final things.
Today nothing matters, father or no father, past or no past. Today, it doesn't matter.
Today, I'm happy.
Last night was beautiful and even though Charles and I are polar opposites in many ways, we've never been as close as tonight.
His warm skin under my fingers as he played for me and shared his story so intimately, was the most beautiful thing. His head on my shoulder before going home, watching a movie I don't even know what it was. Mine on his, like Friday, only backwards.
It's as if we were already a couple, it's just that we're missing one last thing, that little step I don't know exactly how to take, but I want to get there at all costs.

The victory is sweet and just as I imagined it. All it took was a good drive and it would have been mine. Pole position in Monaco is everything and one way or another, I got there.
As my father says, the result counts, although the way you get it is often important too.
For Charles, it's everything, of course, but in the end the victory is mine; the rest matters little.
While I'm celebrating and hugging everyone who comes to congratulate me, she arrives.
The answer to the previous question.
How can I make that final move with Charles to make him want to really be with me?
Kelly, beautiful as a goddess, throws herself into my arms, takes my face in her hands and kisses me passionately. Without thinking for a second, I grab her and lift her around; I receive her soft lips here in front of everyone, knowing that if he doesn't see me in person, the photographers will help.
I won HIS Grand Prix and I'm celebrating by kissing another woman. He'll be furious.
I think winning without risking anything wouldn't actually be really fun.
It's the risk that gives me the taste of victory. In Charles's case, I know I'm taking a big risk in teasing him, but I didn't really plan it. It was simply obvious that Kelly would hug me and I certainly couldn't avoid it.
I couldn't do much about it.
He'll do the same with his ‘her’ when he wins a race. I can't blame him. Can I?
As soon as I separate from her to go and do the usual rituals I'm obligated to do, I can't help but look around for his eyes which I imagine are fierce.
Will he be jealous? Will he say something to me, or will he hide feigning indifference?
After last night, it's hard to predict and it's usually not easy already.
An amused smile plays on my lips, under the mask I still have on.
I feel like I've just put on hard tires in a pouring rain. I'm really crazy.”

NOTES: I'm perfectly aware that that brief but intense exchange between Max and Charles takes place after qualifying and not before Sunday's race, but for writing reasons, I needed to place it after because that way the scene had a lot of effect. They needed to have a profound connection, one more, and when I saw that photo, regardless of when it took place, I understood that their bond in that moment was real and wonderful. Then I had to exploit Kelly's existence; it was so obvious that I would eventually use her somehow. Until next time. Kisses, Akane