NOTE: Sorry for the break, I got lost writing because I don't always have time to do it the way I'd like, and when I do, I get absorbed. We left off with Charles telling Max to spend three days alone together in Manama before the GP, and then with Jos calling Max right at that moment, temporarily ruining everything. So here comes the perfect opportunity for Charles to do what he seriously promised himself when he got together with Max: take proper care of him. Happy reading. Kisses, Akane

82. HERE FOR YOU

/Max/

“- Max, don't talk to me like that because you know I'm right. What will you do if you're still crap like always despite the 'same old stuff'? Do you think you can win just because of Lewis's bad races? What if Ferrari and Charles manage to be competitive this year? You know that boy will steal your victories sooner or later, he did it when he was little, he'll do it again. You must never be satisfied. It never ends, remember that!
The sound of Charles's name on his damned shitty mouth drives me crazy. For a moment I'm about to tell him to fuck off, I'm about to, but Charles' hand on the back of my neck, caressing me gently, makes me realize he's caught his name and that he's grasping the meaning of what we're saying, not thanks to the language he doesn't understand, but to the tone and my increasingly tense body.
Before answering, I look up at him in the mirror I've only just remembered, and notice that he's been looking at me the whole time. I stare into his eyes as if I were nailing my own, and instead of feeling overwhelmed by shame, anger, blushing and wanting to disappear, I lean on him physically and emotionally and suddenly I feel able to breathe, stand up straight and respond without finding myself buried.
- Yes, dad, I know. I'm not satisfied, but the season hasn't even started. Can you let me breathe at least until the first race?
- You'll breathe when you stop racing, Max! A racing career doesn't last forever, and you, who don't want to do anything, will surely make it last even less! So make sure you deserve at least one fucking world championship to show everyone who the fuck you really are! I assure you that if you don't, when you stop you'll be thinking about it! That your only world championship was thanks to a manager who made you win!
I tense every muscle in my body, I tighten my hand on Charles' back which I'm clinging to, and before telling him that 'fuck you' I've been thinking about and that's on the tip of my tongue, I bite my boyfriend's shoulder. He tenses, grimaces, but doesn't make a sound and doesn't fight back.
He keeps me close. He squeezes tighter, his hand still on the back of my neck, in my hair, our gazes locked through the mirror beside us. Despite his grimace, he's also serious, frowning and ready to speak, but I know he always knows what needs to be done, so I'm not afraid of him interfering.
I, in return, can breathe and close my eyes. When I do, I stop biting and respond coldly.
- Yes, thank you for reminding me of every damn failure in my life, even amidst the victories and achievements. I don't know what I'd do without you. Maybe I'd be happier, who knows. But happiness doesn't make  you win shit, right? See you later; I'm off to Manama first, minding my own fucking business.
With that, I cut off the Smart Watch with a flick of my wrist to my forehead and bury my face in his neck, turning it toward him. I escape from the mirror and his gaze, literally hiding and making myself small in his arms.
I need you to take me and make me yours, to guide me down an easy and beautiful road, to carry me for a moment and make me feel good again.
Charles, I need you.
My eyes are burning, but I hold them tight and nothing comes out. He's not worth it. That asshole isn't worth my tears. I've never cried from anger, hate, pain, or frustration. Only happiness that time a few months ago.
I can't do it now. I'm an adult, I've gotten over it, he's no longer in my life and he doesn't do anything to me that's worth getting angry and hurting about.
I don't want to give him all that power.
Charles holds me close, moving as if cradling me and kisses my neck where his mouth reaches. Shivers of pleasure run up my spine, helping me warm up and feel better. I'm reminded of what Daniel always did whenever I heard or saw my father. He took care of me, cuddled me, filled me with pleasure, and chased away the shadow of that man. I think Charles will do the same; besides, I don't see what else could be done.
- I’m sorry. - he murmurs with his beautiful French "r's," which I adore. Normally, I'd smile and jump on him, but now I need him to do it.
I tighten my arms around him; he still doesn't flinch or show any signs of wanting to be let go. Then I realize I've bitten him and I pull away abruptly, grabbing his shoulders. I tug at the collar of his comfortable sweatshirt and reveal the shoulder where I hysterically sank my teeth.
- Sorry. I didn't mean to. Did I hurt you so much?
I'm ashamed. I'm so ashamed that if Charles didn't continue to hold me for the waist, I'd run and hide.
I've been acting like a psychopath.
Damn!
Now he'll run away, you'll see. I've never done anything like this to anyone, not even Daniel, who's heard me argue with him so many times.
This is different, what happened now is different. I don't know how.
I clung to Charles while I was arguing with him, it's absurd.
Charles shakes his head and takes my face in his hands to stop me and force me to look at him, but I can't. I keep my eyes down, unable to deal with what just happened. I didn't want to be seen like this. I didn't want to.
It's as if by showing this weak side of me, I'm forced to give it a real form, and I've never done that and I certainly don't want to start now. It's not something I want to worry about or even think about, because if I do it makes me feel worse. I just want to chase it away, forget it and put it in a corner of me so hidden that it becomes transparent.
I need to fuck Charles, but it's like he's a mirror.
Daniel didn't want to be there while I was fighting with dad and he left me alone to then console me afterwards and chase that asshole away, but Charles stuck with me from start to finish, even though he didn't understand a damn thing we were saying, and he even gave me the impression that this was exactly where he wanted to be. He wanted to see. He wanted to know.
Knowing him, I think it burns him that he didn't understand a damn thing we were saying. He stared at me intently and penetratingly the whole time through the mirror.
Maybe what he saw isn't enough for him. Maybe he wants to know more.
He doesn't want to chase my father away; he wants something else.
It's a ridiculous realization I have as his fingers on my chin force me to raise my eyes; when I connect them with his, I still feel like I'm on the verge of tears, but I concentrate not to.
- I’m fine, Maxie. - he then says, referring to the bite. He's very calm and very sweet. - What did he say to you?
His simple question is like a punch in the stomach. Instinctively, I open my eyes wide and look at him closely to see if he's serious, and as soon as he raises his eyebrows, underlining the seriousness of the question, I'm breathless and a wave of anxiety hits me.
I've never seen anyone go this far. No one, not even Daniel, has ever asked me what we said in our arguments, especially the obvious ones. It was always better for everyone not to know. Does he really want to know?
I'd already mentioned something to him last year, but I was vague, and he didn't elaborate. He didn't change the subject out of embarrassment, but he didn't insist on knowing more than I'd told him. I don't like talking about it, and he understood and accepted it, and I remember thinking, 'Good, at least he understands and respects me, he's not trying to do whatever the fuck he wants like always.'
This question seems casual, almost obligatory perhaps, but he continues to stare at me seriously and intensely, waiting for this answer. He holds me in his arms, one around me, holding me tightly, the other hand on my chin, forcing me to look at him; I remain still and silent, my head empty and my tongue unresponsive.
- Do you really want to know what we said? - I ask in a faint, surprised voice.
Charles nods, surprised that I'm asking.
- Of course. I want to know everything, you know. - In this "everything," I sense something beyond this discussion. Charles has never been very expressive, but in recent years he's started to be, and now, at least with me, he's enormously so. Now his eyes speak in so many ways, even without using many words.
Another punch in the stomach hits me, the air is knocked out of my lungs again, and I feel like I'm gasping. What the hell am I supposed to tell him? What does he want to know?
- Everything about what? - I ask, sounding more defensive than I thought.
Charles doesn't let go of me, but I feel suffocated and can no longer stand his inquisitive eyes. He's not questioning me, but my father. What does he think he's going to do?
- You know what. Everything. About now, about yesterday, about tomorrow. I want to know.
It's not a request, he's telling me he claims to know, and whether I agree or not, he'll piss me off for it.
Well, dear, for now I'm not obligated to indulge you if I don't want to, and anyway I'd better lower your expectations right away, otherwise this will end badly. 
- There’s nothing to say, he and I have been arguing forever and ever, and we won't stop. - I blurt out, pushing him away and darting from his arms. I do it so suddenly that Charles can't hold me back; he remains there, stunned, in the middle of the living room while I continue my angry, dry outburst.
- We have a love-hate relationship, there's nothing to talk about. If you think there's some dirty story, I'll have to disappoint you. It's nothing that billions of people don't experience. I'm not a victim, I never have been. Victims are other people, so there's nothing to say or share. I'm fine, I've always been fine. These are normal arguments with fathers.
My reaction is immediate and spontaneous; I haven't thought about it much. I just thought I didn't want to feel like I did as a child again, when I was the first to hide this pathetic state of mind from myself. There's nothing to say or hide. There's nothing. I'm normal, like everyone else. That's enough!
I'm walking around aimlessly like a lost soul, it seems like I have to do who knows what, but in reality I'm just bumping into chairs and furniture, moving them and kicking random things, mostly toys of P and the cats.
- A normal argument with your father doesn't make you bite your boyfriend just to keep from telling him to go fuck himself.
He emphasizes firmly, hands on hips, standing still, staring at me as I wander around the house like a lunatic. He's there, calm, confident and looks at me expectantly. He won't give up, I realize it now, and as I realize it, it's as if they've cut a thread, the one holding me up. The only one left.
My legs suddenly won't let me walk around the house in random circles; instead they buckle and I have to sit down abruptly on the couch. Charles just stands there, watching me. He doesn't seem to have any specific reaction, he's definitely not agitated. He seemed to be waiting for just this. He stands there for a while, waiting for something, then sighs as if to make a point and goes into the kitchen, returning with a small bottle of water from the fridge which he hands me open and places on my forehead.
Only after he does so do I realize I've been sitting hunched over, elbows on my knees, palms over my closed eyes.
He won't give up until he knows, and I don't even know what he wants me to say. There's nothing to say. Nothing. And yet I feel like I have to give up, like I have no choice. It's now or later, but I'll end up telling him what he wants to know.
The feeling of the cool water on my forehead gives me some initial relief, the rest is done by his hand on my back, caressing me as I straighten up to drink.
- Why do you want to know? Usually no one wants to know, in fact. Usually the less they know, the better. And then why now? Just because we're together, you feel obligated? You don't have to, you know? In the end, there's nothing worth saying. Arguments, the usual bullshit between fathers and sons. Nothing special. 
Charles sighs again and shrugs, looking down as if he were the one who was now ashamed of something, and I look at him in surprise, sitting there next to me.
- It’s not because we're together now and I don't feel obligated, no. It's just that… - Charles hesitates uncertainly, then finds the strength and the words by taking my hand, he firmly intertwines his fingers with mine and I can't push him away; slowly my defenses give way and I let him do it.
His soft voice continues speaking, he still looks at me with that same shameful look on his face.
- You know, it's what I've always done. I've always looked the other way, leaving your affairs to yourself, but when I realized there were actually serious things I didn't want to see, and I didn't want to see them on purpose precisely because they were serious, I was ashamed of this for months and couldn't get close to you as I wanted because of it, because I felt terrible and ashamed of myself. But now I want to make up for it...
Then he adds his other hand on my cheek; he looks at me more closely, right there beside me. The contact makes me shiver and warms me to the point that I feel better. I'd like to say I'm not a machine that needs fixing, but he concludes with absurd poetic intensity and, above all, without embarrassment: - I don't want to be ashamed of myself anymore and have reason to hide from you.
It makes me feel instantly better, like when Daniel fucked me after those arguments. Only Charles managed it without any physical penetration.
I cling to this warmth and even though I'd normally react badly by pushing everyone away, I speak weakly and submissively. As if I had done a long, exhausting race and now I couldn't continue any longer.
- I don't understand what you think there is to know. You're making up your mind, but you'll be disappointed.
I try to minimize something I never wanted to reach gigantic proportions, but he's not very convinced, and I still don't look at him, even though he's still holding my cheek and hand.
He moves his fingers over my face, caressing me, and that still brings me relief.
- When you're ready, you'll tell me everything and you'll get it out yourself. But I want you to know that I'm here and that I want to know.
And here, suddenly, holding his hand in return, I understand and I do looking into his eyes again at this intoxicating closeness.
The truth is this is where I want to be, here with him, looked at like this. Scrutinized deeply. Truly seen. I don't even know what he might see, but I want him to never stop and never leave.
And so, even though I don't really know what to say, I begin with what he just witnessed, which apparently is something worth sharing. Even though I don't know how anyone would want to know such things.
Slowly, as if I were picking stones from a wound that constantly opens and closes, I tell in more detail about my phone call with him, evading much less than the other time in Monaco, when he caught me arguing with my father and I told him vaguely. I remember how he picked me up, how he stood close to me, how he squeezed my hand, how he let his shoulder support my tired head. I always thought I'd never experienced anything special and that I shouldn't think too much about it, because it was easier to bear, but every time I lean on Charles and mention something, I feel like I've been doing it all wrong. 
Now, just like that time, Charles listens attentively and seriously, without interrupting. While I speak, he doesn't even make a single expression. He doesn't want to influence me, as if he understands that I have a different perception of what's happened to me, different from others', and he doesn't want me to feel influenced and that I eventually say less or hide.
So, in complete silence and stillness, he listens holding my hand just like that infamous day, and simply drinks from the same bottle as me. Only as he swallows the water do I see his jaw muscles tense more than necessary and realize that Charles must actually be fucking furious. Realizing this, I feel stupidly better.
It doesn't matter what I think I've experienced or how I see it, what matters is that Charles is still on my side. Suddenly he's all I need; I don't need anything else. Suddenly I feel better again and I just want to think about these wonderful three days alone together in Manama. Our first little vacation as a couple, I dare say.
The first of a long series, I hope.
As I tell, my mind is distracted by this realization and everything takes on a less serious and dark connotation.
My father is just a disgusting, insipid parenthesis in my happiness. Happiness in which Charles is now the protagonist. Him and my successes in F1. But I dare say more him than F1.
I'm fine, I'm well again and maybe even better.
Who knows, maybe he's right. Maybe there is something to exorcise after all. But I'll see it calmly; I don't have to think about it and deal with it now. Calmly, later, with him.”

/Charles/

“I don't remember when I realized it, but I remember doing it.
I always thought Max was racing against demons and that those demons were his opponents, but in reality there was one demon and it was his father.
I think that's still the case, despite his various victories and the world championship.
Sure, it was a controversial world championship that will always be so, and many will see it as Lewis'—I myself honestly consider it Lewis' eighth—but all things considered, it ended up in Max's trophy cabinet, and that's what matters. In any case he was there, just one point away, so close that it would have been fair to award both of them.
It was extraordinary, especially because he dethroned the undisputed king, and his father still criticizes him. They are ways of doing, rather than being.
A flash of a conversation with Seb comes back to me as Max tells me about this phone call.
'There are fathers and fathers. Some people are convinced that the best way to raise their children is to constantly criticize them to push them to improve and strive for more. But this system shouldn't involve humiliation and free cruelty, and certainly no kind of violence, whether mental or physical. Obviously I can't know, only Max knows, but if I were a betting man, I'd say Jos used every single one of them on his son.'
Fathers and fathers.
My thoughts inevitably turned to mine, who, even though he wasn't there for long, gave me so much support and love that I can still use it to move forward. It's true, I miss him sometimes, and his absence weighed on me like a millstone, even as I tried to make him proud, despite being so different from his idea of a human being.
Until I made peace with my difference. I'm not the best person in the world, and maybe not the one he imagined I should be, but I'm doing my best to be a good person he can still be proud of one day. I may be different from what he wanted me to be, but I hope he'll like me just the same.
I started by looking at myself for who I really am and accepting myself. Now I'm trying to improve, but I think it's a long, slow journey.
The first and most important step will definitely be to never have reason to be ashamed of myself again.
I hold Max's hand in mine, our fingers intertwined as he finishes his story, and I hold back. I can barely bring myself to call that asshole and insult him.
For a moment, I wonder what I should say, what he expects, or what's best, but then my father comes to mind again and I have no more doubts.
Without saying a word, I lean toward him and lightly touch his lips. Max immediately clings to mine, as if he were waiting for nothing else; so I part my lips, fuse them together, and deepen the kiss with our tongues.
I try to put in all the sweetness I'd used earlier when playing piano at home, and other melodic parts come to mind to add to those songs. I hope I remember them.
Max relaxes distinctly against me; not only are his lips and his kiss less nervous and desperate, but his hand also holds mine less obsessively, and relieved I kiss him longer.
When I feel him calm, I separate from his mouth, rest my forehead against his and add a hand to his cheek, gently caressing it.
I open my eyes waiting for him to do the same, and when he does, he shows me his intense blue eyes, filled with so many emotions I couldn't even translate them all.
He's not simply nervous or upset or confused; he's all there at once. He's so wonderful and I wish one day I could express so much at the same time.
- You arrived at the final day with the same points as the best driver in history. It doesn't matter how the last race went or what it would have been like if Masi hadn't done anything. You made history even before that race. In the end it would have been wrong to exclude either of you from the final victory anyway. It’s the season everyone will remember forever. Everyone can have their own opinion and consider Lewis the real winner, but the facts speak for themselves, and the facts say that before the last race of the year, you were tied for points with the best ever. No one will ever be able to dispute that.
Max, hearing my opinion on the matter, breaks into a surprised smile. It was a version he'd never considered, and he probably talks as little as possible about that famous race precisely because everyone talks about it so much.
There were many opinions on the matter, but maybe he missed mine because I don't think he even remembers the congratulations I gave him that night, and then afterward I just emphasized that I was jealous of him winning a world championship before me, so I had to apologize for that.
Knowing how I feel and that my opinion is so valid, relaxes him and pushes his father away.
As we do that, as we push him aside, I realize I was wrong.
I shouldn't have pushed him aside; first he expected us to fuck so he wouldn't think about him anymore, but I started talking and so he did. I hope he felt a little better for doing so, but in the end I didn't want to help him push his father away again.
I wanted to exorcise him. It's just that I was caught off guard; I didn't expect it to happen now. Next time, I'll be ready. He needs to talk about him and root him out, not push him aside.
Max kisses me again and I accept, then pull away to repeat: - I’ll always be here for you. I want you to talk to me about him.
Max nods and finally stops saying there's nothing to say. Maybe he realized that there is, and maybe that was his biggest problem so far.
He didn't want to see that there was actually a problem, now he seems to have figured it out and maybe this is the first step in helping him. The others will come slowly, we're in no rush, there's no deadline.
I let go of his hands so I can hug him and start kissing him again more warmly, until he himself slides fragilely against my neck and chest. He settles there, letting me envelop him, and other very sweet notes come to mind, for my compositions.
I really hope I remember them.
Max, I'll take care of you. Not to forget, but to remember and let it out.
You’ll bring out not only painful memories and thunderous outbursts, you’ll also bring out the very pain that I'm sure, knowing you, you've never acknowledged and eviscerated.
I’ll make you feel good, truly good. Because what I feel for you is growing to the point that I'll have to give it an appropriate name, but while I find the courage to do so, I’ll take care of you and your happiness.
I don't want anything or anyone to upset you.
I don't know what this feeling is called, I really don't know, but it's overpowering and growing and warm just like you.
I'm happy, I don't want to be anywhere else but here by your side, and these three days alone in Manama will be extraordinary because I'll be with the only person in the world I care about more than anything else.
I don't deserve to tell you how I feel for you, but one day I will, when I feel better about myself and my conscience. When the shame of never wanting to see your discomfort and pain disappears and is no longer stronger than the feeling I have for you.”