87. IMPETUOUS

/Charles/

Leading and managing things with Max isn't easy, because he's impetuous and reckless. He runs far beyond what makes sense, and in the end you find yourself following him even though you don't want to be so hasty. Maybe you'd like to manage the race differently, but he leaves you almost no choice.
It's as if he were driving, even though he then lets you take the wheel. It's strange.
I've always seen our relationship as an F1 race. First we each had a car and we raced against each other, then we got together and got into the same car. Max let me take the wheel because he needed to be driven, but the truth is he's always there telling me to accelerate, where and how to turn, basically, what I should do behind the wheel. 
So much so that sometimes I feel like saying, 'Hey, you drive, what the fuck do you want from me?' But then I know it wouldn't suit me, so I'll keep that damn steering wheel. If you want to, take it from me by force. It'll be fun fighting for it, but until then he'll let me have it, even though he's always there pushing me to do what he wants.
So having a relationship with Max is very strange: not difficult, I wouldn't say difficult.
Initially, I imagined it differently, but the truth is that it's easy and beautiful, and maybe that's why I feel like I'm racing much faster than I thought. 
I also wanted to get him to open up to me and tell me about his father and his complexities. At the beginning of the season, I almost succeeded, but then everything went by itself. We got carried away by the beautiful things we're experiencing, this euphoria of doing what we've always done, but doing it as a couple. 
How different is it now, doing what we've always done? Just because we're actually together now, it seems like a whole different thing. 
Even the races, when we compete against each other and we're wheel to wheel, we surpass each other and it's hard to prevail, like many of our races in the past. And yet these competitions seem different now.
Now they're so damned exhilarating, so damned beautiful. 
Especially because of all the time we spend afterwards explaining to each other about the passages that weren't clean or perfect, where maybe we touched, grazed, or pushed each other out. 
It's strange, we didn't do that before, or rather, we did. Maybe in certain races we did clarify things, but it was more of a technical issue.
Now it becomes a way to emphasize that even if we caused each other problems, we didn't want to ruin our race or risk taking each other out.
As soon as he makes a mistake or does something stupid, he runs to apologize and tell me he didn't mean to, because he just lost control, because it was incredibly difficult to hold the car in that specific spot and at a certain point he lost grip or who knows what. And I hasten to say the same, that for me too that spot was hellish, that the tires just wouldn't hold there. 
We spend hours talking about our cars and the races, highlighting the moments where we directly competed with each other, if there were any. 
It's extraordinary. 
It's also extraordinary because at the beginning of this season things were going incredibly well for me and I couldn't have asked for better, I won two out of three races and in the other I was second behind him, I hoped we'd be like that all season, it was legitimate to believe so. Him and I, fighting for the title? My dream.
I would have signed, I hoped it wasn't an illusion, a coincidence, a moment. I hoped it would be like this all year because it's what I've always dreamed of experiencing.
As I approached the GPs with such a strong and positive attitude, I felt like I'd never felt before. But then things started to change at Ferrari. Sometimes the car doesn't work, I don't feel it, and I can't deliver worthy performances, while other times it works great. So, let's say I'm feeling a bit less enthusiastic than I was at the start, but I'm still holding on to the hope that I can still have a great season and get back to where we started. 
I have to say that overall, compared to my other seasons in the past, this is still the best so far, and I can't complain.
I'm happy professionally, much happier than I ever have been. I've had some great successes as a driver, even if not enough. 
But he's much more consistent than me this year, and I'm quickly seeing the gap I didn't want to see between us on the track again.  
However, every now and then things go well, every now and then I catch up with him again. Every now and then everything goes great. Like today in Austria. 
It's what I always imagined he and I would experience as professional drivers, and this year we're more or less having it, and it excites me so much, it pushes me to give more, to strive for perfection, and to be focused in every race. To try anything to get back to being as competitive as I was at the start. 
Maybe that's what makes the difference today. My desire is more overflowing than ever. I want to get back to experiencing what I felt at the start of the season.  
I've always raced to win and overtake everyone, but I haven't always been able to do it. But this year, when I do, it's even better because I'm competing with Max, my lifelong rival, who is now also my boyfriend.
We're together and we love each other, and as soon as we step out of our cars after races like those in Saudi Arabia and Austria, we jump on each other, instantly stripping off our rival drivers' clothes and putting on with disconcerting ease those of aroused lovers who can't keep it in their pants.
Which, of course, is different if I'm the one winning; I get even more excited, and this time I'm the one who seeks him out and drags him into the first available bathroom, almost tearing his suit off so I can immediately put it inside him. 
Max doesn't need asking twice, he laughs hoarsely as I try to free both of us from our suits and all the layers we’ve wearing, some of which are quite sweaty and sticky to our skin. 
His sexy laugh makes me even more dizzy, but fearing he might be heard, I put my hand over his mouth with my usual arrogance, and his eyes light up even more at this gesture. He provokes me easily and I fall for it like an idiot. 
I turn him around, pressing his face against the wall of the small bathroom we've locked ourselves in. I pull his hips back and lick my hand, briefly rubbing my already hard cock. I then briefly suck the fingers of my other hand and slide them inside him. 
His hole is already ready to welcome me; I don't have to force anything. It's already there, waiting for me.
Max arches and welcomes me shortly after. I can't resist. 
The shivers immediately increase as his buttocks squeeze me tightly and he engulfs me. I move inside him, holding his hips, thrusting with ever greater force and impetus; the adrenaline still pumping through me, the same adrenaline he has.
He's lost a close race against me; he's definitely not happy about it, or rather he shouldn't be, but it seems to me he doesn't really care. 
Maybe he likes the consolation more than the winner's cup. 
I remember for a moment that time he stole the title from me in the last go-kart championship we raced together. He was on top of me and I was burning inside. I swore that one day I'd make him pay, that I'd show him I was the strong one, that I'd give it all back. 
I can't say that a couple of race wins against him or a few direct confrontations on the track matters, but I think it's fucking satisfying now, being the one fucking him and owning him. 
It's a nice revenge too, although being on that top step while he's second is as good as an orgasm. 
I'm a better driver than you, that's something that needs to be clarified ASAP because I care about it and I owe it to that little Charles who swore it to him back in those distant days. 
How things turn. 
Now we're together, we like each other, we fuck and we're practically addicted to each other. 
Life is so fucking beautiful and crazy, I don't want to stop, I don't want to wake up, I don't want anything to be ruined. 
We come quickly together, one of the fastest times because we were both already so excited. 
Our bodies tense and tremble together as the pleasure explodes in both of us, flowing out. 
I collapse on him, wrapping my arms around his waist, I lean against his sweaty back and he's against the wall, panting with his mouth open as exhausted as I am. Both of us are wet and shaken by shivers of pleasure that take away our strength. Both of us are fulfilled and in total bliss. 
I kiss his shoulder where only the tight shirt we've wearing under our tracksuits remains, my hands slide underneath, over his stomach, and I move up until I reach his nipples. I take them between my fingers and twist them. He gives a mischievous smile and turns his head, twisting as much as he can to reach me and my face. We kiss, the only sweet and delicate act between us, considering both the race and the fuck. 
We haven't spoken, we haven't said a word, we've commented on the race and a few crucial moments as usual, we complimented each other and then there was only this, on our minds. Finding a place and a time for ourselves. 
Luckily, we were quick. 
- Congratulations. - he says hoarsely. Hearing his low, scratchy voice, a spontaneous moan escapes me. Now I'll start again. 
- Great race… - I repeat what I told him earlier as soon as we got out of the cars. But it's as if these compliments are for the performance we just had, just as the explicit exchange of glances earlier was an all-too-obvious invitation to end up here and do this. 
He lets me do what he wants, making me believe I'm the one in charge and making the decisions. 
It makes me impetuous, hasty and take risks like crazy.
If anyone catches us fucking here on an F1 circuit, we're finished; we ended first and second and fucked in a bathroom. 
These are things only he would do, but it feels so good to have done it. It feels so good to feel so alive and excited. 
I have to regain some control. 
Max straightens up, turning in my arms and pressing himself against me, our pelvises resting contentedly and warmly against each other, wet with cum and sweat. We'll need a shower, but now we're smearing each other more, even sweatier and smelling like cars, fatigue and sex. 
We kiss again and instead of composing ourselves and hurrying back to our winning duties, we embrace each other more tightly. 
The feeling of his solid body against mine relaxes me instantly, and I feel like I've just grabbed my prize for today. 
- I want it to be like this for the rest of the year. - I say, stopping kissing him to look in the eyes. Both of our eyes are glazed over with pleasure, and he returns the embrace, squeezing my waist. Then he gives me a wry smile. 
- Beating me or banging me? - the pun is silly but perfect at the same time, and I laugh again, filled with euphoria. 
- Both! 
- I thought so! - but then, raising his eyebrows wryly, he adds decisively: - Forget it! You can bang me, but I'm unbeatable this year! My rightful place is on the top step of the podium! 
I was about to kiss him again, but this boastful outburst, which I fear is pure truth, gives me the strength to pull away and compose myself. In doing so, I push him. 
- Your rightful place is beneath me. Always and under all circumstances!
Here comes my bossy side, which he likes so much. 
Max laughs and lets out a funny stadium boo while he indulges me and regains his composure. 
We walk out, still laughing and talking nonsense before they come looking for us. 
I'm so happy. 

We continue like this, taking on all the first and second-place duties until we've completed them, getting permission to wash up, get changed and get the hell out of here. All the time filling ourselves with nonsense, double-entendre jokes, and above all with explanations about the race and our time together on the track, as if there were nothing else to discuss and the world began and ended here. 
Today we're both happy and we don't want anything to change or be different, we just want it to always be this way. 
We continue like this until we separate to go to our own motorhomes to wash up and get changed. When I stop near my Ferrari, I see his dad in the distance coming towards him from the Red Bull one, and he slows down as soon as he sees him. 
Instinctively, I stop and watch them. Now most people have left and almost everything has already been cleared away, so there's not the usual chaos; it's possible to hear something. Maybe the tones, not the exact words.
Even if I heard them, I still wouldn't understand.
Jos Verstappen approaches him with a stern expression, making gestures that indicate he's late, along with something else I don't know. 
All that's clear is that he's scolding him for something, his face is hard, and Max goes from being on cloud nine with me, to crashing to the ground in an instant.
For a moment I wonder if I should make myself noticed by shouting something at him, using any excuse, to calm him down and remind him I'm there, or if I should feign indifference so as not to embarrass him. 
The fact that his father is there is holding me back; the last thing I want is to make his life difficult with him. I need to find a way to make it better, not worse. 
I sigh and roll my eyes shaking my head, then turn toward the red motorhome, picking up my phone. 
I open our chat and text him: ‘If you end up in jail, you can't try to beat me on the track anymore.'
With an obvious subtext that plays down the whole thing, involving the concept of "don't kill him." 
Max replies shortly after: 'But we'd have conjugal visits!'
'We still have conjugal visits, except now I can beat you on the track!'
Max makes a series of laughing faces, and I feel better, relieved. I get in the shower feeling more at peace, knowing I've managed to distract him and make him feel better. 
I give him time to wash up and get himself ready before asking, 'What did he want?' ' 
As if I’d ever give up, baby!’

/Max/

“Honestly, I expected it. I counted the minutes it took him to ask me this question. 
Because he cares.
He cares about me. It's not morbid curiosity or a need to stick his nose in everything. 
He really does care about me, I know because he always asks me about him and what he tells me every time. 
He's a pointing dog. Once he spots his prey, you can't budge him from the spot.
I've gotten to the point of telling him something in these months just to appease him, because I know him and I know that if I don't satisfy him, he won't give up; Charles is the most stubborn person in the world. 
I don't know what he thinks he's doing, maybe he thinks it’ll help me feel better. Talking to someone helps, maybe he believes that, but for me it’s not like that. 
I don't really feel better when I explain the bullshit my father tells me, so I tend to evade, be hasty and not very thorough when I tell him. I only do it because I've decided to trust him and go along with him, but at the same time I can't completely do it.
What I want is different from what I can do. It's like if my impulse prevailed over my will and my reason. I can't talk about it in depth; if I do it too much, I feel more pathetic and a loser. 
Or ungrateful, perhaps. 
I owe all my success to my father, and even if he used bastard methods, I can't spit on the plate I ate from. He transformed me into the champion I am today; how dare I shit on him? 
I can't, right?
Yet every time Charles asks me about him, I feel more and increasingly driven to truly please him and give him what he wants. A fucking good vent.
I really want to do it, because I'm curious to see if he's right in believing there's something behind it. 
But above all, I'm curious to see if I'd really feel better afterwards, if it would be worth it. 
But I'm also afraid. 
It's as if I knew deep down that if I let go the brakes, I'd plummet and end up crashing. 
I have this feeling.
When I won the world championship last year, I felt free and happy. I could stop fighting. My wars were over, the chains were loose. But maybe it was an illusion. 
I needed to believe it. But isn't it true that, in his own way, he apologized? 
Shouldn't that be enough for me to close everything and file everything away, move on, forget?
Or maybe I saw it as an apology because I needed one, and instead it was just justifications, admissions of guilt? Because in reality, there's a difference between a true apology and an admission of guilt, right?
Also because, despite everything, he always comes around and gives me shit about something. Today, for example, I didn't win, but I'm happy with a second place finish and I shouldn't have been celebrating like that on the podium with Charles, who beat me. What was I so happy about? This is the year of consecration, and if I don't win the title again, last year's will be forgotten and worthless. 
Why does he always manage to ruin everything?
Why can't he just leave me alone? 
What the fuck do I have to do to be truly free from him? 
Maybe this is what I need to talk to Charles about; his perspective and his advice could help me, instead of sitting here bombarding me with stupid, unanswered questions. Questions that gnaw at me and make me feel like shit. 
Maybe this is what Charles wants and what I should do. Maybe I should stop being afraid of crashing. When have I ever raced with the fear of crashing and causing disaster? If I'd had that fear, I wouldn't have gotten anywhere. 
In fact, sometimes I even hoped for it. 
One big crash and everything would be over. Of those who would have gotten that asshole off my back for good. 
Every now and then, in the worst moments, I think I've thought that. And I think my reckless driving style is due to this. 
Yet another hasty reply to Charles before boarding my jet, I already know it won't be enough for him, or maybe it won't be enough for me. It's already like that.
'I shouldn't have been so happy to be second to you.'
The jet lifts off and the memory of before, of Parc Ferme and the podium in Austria where I joyfully washed Charles, laughing a lot and having a blast, comes back, making me feel better; although immediately afterwards, the presence of my father reminds me that I'm not free for shit yet, and this disconcerting realization hits me and my eyes start burning, my heart hammers in my throat and my head explodes. 
Ever since Charles started bombarding me with questions about my dad, I've been thinking about what I should tell him, because I know he won't give up until he's satisfied, and he won't be until I've thoroughly vented. Every now and then, a hypothesis comes to mind. 
Maybe I took this risky and reckless driving style as a child to escape my father. To escape for good.  
Is this what I should tell Charles? 
But isn't that a big thing to say? Even if these are things from a distant past, and now I'm fine and happy and want to race just to go to my boyfriend and see him again—or to win, isn't that saying too much?
As I think about it, I realize I'm starting to see things I hadn't noticed before. 
How am I supposed to hide it from him? It was one thing not to notice before, it's another thing now that I glimpse it. 
Charles knows me too well by now. He'll immediately understand that I've found something to tell him, that I have an admission, a revelation; that I do indeed have a vent about my father, after all. Even if I wanted to hide it, I won't be able to. 
When have I ever managed to hide anything from him? 

When I get off and come back online on my phone, Charles's texts arrive shortly afterward. No one's happy with my last reply. 
‘You're winning almost every race, and yet he's still annoying you because you dare be happy if you shower your boyfriend?’
This finally makes me laugh and I relax after a tense moment.
‘He doesn't know you're my boyfriend, and he has to keep it that way!’
As I laugh as I reply, confirming once again how dependent I am on him for my well-being, a nervous breakdown hits me again. 
We both live in Monte Carlo, we race in the same races, I have a private jet, is it possible we can't travel together?
If my dad isn't there, Kelly is, and he almost never flies alone; sometimes it's hard being a couple. He has Carlos to help him out if he needs to make up some excuse with the team, I have Checo for that too, who knows about me and Charles, but I can't foist my dad or Kelly to keep them at bay. 
It's unnerving. At least before, we weren't a real couple and we weren't even thinking about moving in together. Now, if it were up to us, we'd never separate, but we just can't.
Duties, always duties of some sort. Things to remember, things to avoid, things to say, things to be forbidden!
My dad has put me back into nervous mode. Before I was ecstatic about the competition and the sex and Charles in general, but if I take a break from him for even a second, it ends like this. Are my mood, my happiness, so dependent on Charles? Am I like this?
'If you want, we can come out to him so you don't have to put up with him anymore!'
At the absurd idea of telling him I'm with Charles, the potential consequences play before my eyes like a movie, each one worse than the last. Although in the end, they all end up not so terrible...
'In the end, he'd take away my last name, and I'd be so disgusting to him that he'd at least get the hell out of my balls! Actually, it's not a bad option!' 
With this I laugh and again, as always, I feel better only thanks to Charles. 
If we were to break up I honestly don't know what I'd do. I shudder to think about it and shake my head, immediately asking him what he's doing this week without race, immediately needing to organize something with him and see him. Essential, I dare say.”

NOTE: We're back to regular chapters. We're in the midst of the wonderful Austria 22 race, as you've probably guessed, and we're still on Max's complicated journey. Just as it took Charles a long time (and is it over?), it certainly couldn't be easier for Max. I've always thought his extreme, on-the-limit (and sometimes beyond) driving style is due to his childhood experiences, because that's where the true driver is born. 
I liked to lose myself a little in showing the difference between courting and liking each other, and actually being together; because when you take that step, things inevitably change, and when I write long fic, I like to show and explore all the aspects: this is one of them. 
The question of roles within a couple isn't as clear-cut for me as some people think, especially in their case. It's true that I've always thought of Max as the top, but when I wrote, this version came to me and I decided to follow my instincts and see where I would end up. As it turns out, there's no clear line between them that really defines their roles (and by roles, I mean not just in bed, but in a complete way within their relationship) I hope I've conveyed my idea well. 
Thanks so much to everyone who reads the fic. I'm really happy to read the comments and know you like it. See you next time.
Kisses, Akane.