88. IN THE WATER

/Max/

“For the first time, he's not the one teasing me and asking me questions about my father. For the first time, while he's massaging my back while sitting astride me on his yacht 'Monza,' where we're wonderfully alone in the middle of the sea, I bring up the subject alone. 
Not to tell some dirty story Charles wants to know, but to talk about him anyway. 
Maybe it's the July sun relaxing me, or his open thighs and his butt smeared on mine while his pianist hands glide delicately over my skin.
The excuse was to put on sunscreen to avoid burning my blond skin, but in the end it becomes an excuse to cuddle, and since our time together ranges between cuddling, sex, various games, activities at sea—if we're on a boat—and chatting, any excuse is good to touch, relax, or maybe have fun and tease each other. 
We never have enough time alone together; if it were up to me, I'd always be isolated with him, hidden away from everything and everyone. I'd stop being a driver right away and disappear with him if he came with me. But I know he'd be the one to refuse. He has to win a world championship more than me, and since he hasn't won one yet, he's pretty far behind, so imagine if he'd retire to live with me in hiding. 
The effect of this total bliss that overwhelms me and runs deep inside me, pushes me to speak of my own free will about what I know Charles holds so dear. 
But maybe I'm the one who wants it and I don't do it because I know he cares and won't let go until I tell him.
Maybe I'm just curious to see what will come of it. 
- In Abu Dhabi he admitted he'd been too hard on me, but he justified himself for the first time by saying he was convinced it was the only effective method with me. 
As soon as Charles realizes I'm talking about my father and that for the first time he hadn't brought up the subject, his hands slow down the application of a cream that I think is dry, unless it's mortar.
I continue without his prompting.
- That through me he had his redemption. I said I didn't want to disappoint him, he told me I never did. I said it's okay. 
I don't know why all of a sudden, maybe I feel safe and I feel like he'll understand. But I recently thought back to how I felt in Abu Dhabi, when I thought I was finally free and had made peace with him, and then how I feel now, time after time, with him still pushing me in those unbearable ways of his. 
Disappointed. That's how I felt. I thought I'd made it, but I didn’t. 
To free myself, I have to win another World Cup, to show him once again that I deserve and that he should leave me alone. 
Charles doesn't stop running his hands over my back, still without moving from his position astride my comfy ass. 
The cream is completely dry now, but he continues to caress me, and it relaxes me like hell. 
- But you know... that final answer I ended with is gnawing at me. Because it still burns inside me. No, it's not okay. And I'd like to tell him, but now that things are better than when I was little, it's almost all over... would it make sense to do it now?
The need to bombard me with questions about the details of my childhood is palpable through his fingertips, which hesitate in different places, digging in as if he were trying to penetrate my flesh. It feels like a decontracting massage, but it doesn't hurt; on the contrary, it sends strange shivers of pleasure through me. Despite this, he's trying to maintain control.
He's never had it with me; he's always let himself go, always brought out the real Charles, but now he's using everything he has to hold back. 
He's barely even breathing, so as not to interrupt me and to make me feel better. 
He's really worried about this, but I know what he's feeling right now is overwhelming. 
How much do you want to know? 
- It depends on you and how you feel. Can you bear the idea of not giving him the answer he deserved? How much does it sting you to never let him know? 
Suddenly, as soon as he says the word 'never,' something inside me screams and rebels. 
Never, really never? 
Will I ever let him know? 
I whirl around, twisting the upper part of my torso, the one free from his weight. Charles raises his hands and stops massaging me, the sun beating down on us on this day alone on the boat; it would fry us if we weren't totally focused on each other. 
My blue eyes focus on his, hidden by his sunglasses which he immediately removes so we can get a good look at each other. 
He remains sitting on me, displaying a calmness I didn't think he could maintain while hearing me talk about this. But maybe now I'm the one who's agitated. 
For the first time, I'm bringing up things I never imagined I'd bring up. 
- I always thought I'd never tell him about how he made me feel with that shitty method of his, but… - I hesitate and turn my head toward the railing of his yacht. The sea and the horizon are visible beyond it, and for a moment I lose myself, but then the blue it fades and my father's face comes, sending me into a turmoil as always. A feeling of annoyance. 
- But now I don't know. The idea of never letting him know what I feel and think, makes me feel sick.  
Charles gets up and lets me roll onto my stomach, then he straddles me again, takes more cream and squeezes it onto the front part. 
The cold liquid sliding over my warm skin makes my muscles tense abruptly and I hold my breath in surprise, but then his hands return to spreading it and the contact relaxes me again. 
I put on my sunglasses to protect myself from the sun hitting me full in the face and he does the same lowering his own. 
- And what's stopping you from telling him what you wanted that day in Abu Dhabi but kept to yourself? 
I shrug as his fingers reach my pectorals and nipples. 
- I don't know, what's always kept me from telling him to fuck off and rebelling, I think... 
Charles slows and almost stops completely. 
- What would that be?
I half-smile. He's dying of curiosity. 
Even though I'm talking about my father, and it's the only taboo subject in my life, he manages to make me smile, as well as make me talk about him spontaneously. 
At first I felt strange, almost upset, as if I regretted giving in, but then after so many failed attempts when I wanted to, I tried and then gave up in this usual battle with myself, I finally succeeded, and it's not bad. Maybe the problem is just getting started. But apart from being able to talk and say certain things I didn't even know how to feel, I don't know anything else. 
Was it even worth talking about, in the end? Was Charles really right to insist to make me open up about him? 
I don't know, but it's also true that I haven't told him many things yet. Maybe that's why. Or maybe it's just that I'm hard-headed and slow-witted about certain things. I'm so impulsive that I'm not used to thinking and reflecting, and when I have to I don't know what happens or how to do. 
- Well, the guilt. He made so many sacrifices and devoted his life entirely to making me a successful driver. 
- Yes, but he sacrificed yours too. 
Silence. 
When he says that, it's like he's cutting my legs off, even though they're still crushed beneath his open thighs.
It's a position that usually precedes sex, but now I'm not the least bit hard. 
His hands slide gently down my belly, and normally they'd tickle me, but now I feel nothing.
The moment he said that, I felt numb. 
I push my glasses up again and narrow my eyes adjusting to the sun. I search for his, still covered by the dark lenses, which he quickly removes raising them above his head as before. He goes back to massaging the now-absorbed cream on me; he doesn't stop, he doesn't lift his fingers from me. 
And yet I feel strange. 
- Would you ever have become a professional driver if you'd chosen on your own? 
I shrug, bowing my head as the nerves rise within me, not sure why. 
- I don't know. It's something I've never thought about enough. It's always been natural for me to become one. I liked racing and I was good at it, so why not do it for a living?
Charles purses his lips in annoyance and shakes his head, unable to control himself as well as before. 
I knew it, there's the real Charles. 
But maybe it's better this way. Maybe if he doesn't, I don't understand what I was trying to understand. Why does he insist on this point? What's so special about talking about these things? 
- It’s like saying you learned to swim because they threw you into the water as a child and abandoned you, and to avoid drowning, you started swimming on your own!
I think about his comparison. Maybe it's true. 
I bow my head and pout. 
- So what? I never really wanted it, but I never thought I wanted anything else, or didn't want to do it at all. 
- Yes, but it's not a free choice! - Charles stops touching me to gesticulate like a typical Italian. Sometimes I think he's more Italian than Monegasque.
I raise myself up on my elbows to get a better look at him, and he climbs down from me and the sun lounger, walking barefoot onto the wooden deck of his yacht. It's small compared to many others around, but very respectable for two. 
His hands on his hips are tight, indicating how nervous he’s about this topic, and I just don't understand why he always gets so worked up. I'm the one who's been through hell with that man; Charles doesn't know a lot. But I think he intuits it, and that's the point. 
- Max, there's a limit to gratitude. It's not the only thing. There are many other legitimate feelings you feel inside, and they're no less valid than gratitude for him giving you everything he could to make you a champion. You're grateful for the success, but are you happy for the complexes? For that way of driving you've always had, as if you were about to crash, as if you were running from the devil, for the anger you've always put into everything, always overreacting and overdoing things... what's there for those things? Not gratitude. And they're legitimate things you feel, and who knows how many others you feel that you don't want to talk about. 
I sit up putting my feet down as well; I stay here, gripping the edges of the padded bed I'm on. Suddenly the fury flows impetuously, it's a very brief moment. Every muscle tenses to the point of spasm, and I hold my breath completely, my lips pressed tightly together and turned downward. 
- There’s not only that! - I hiss through clenched teeth, remembering all the times I've won thanks to his terrible methods that taught me how to be a winner even against the grain. 
On top of everything he sacrificed to teach me how to be a good driver. All the miles driven in a van for one reason or another, traveling around Europe between races and everything else. 
I feel like I'm clinging to a life preserver with a hole in it. That's the feeling I have. I'm drowning and I'm trying to stay afloat with a device that won't last long. 
I don't move because I know it would be worse. 
- But it's there! - he insists, standing stiffly before me, his eyes glaring. He has no mercy. Suddenly he's realized that patience and gentleness don't work. Suddenly, my father was right.
Only the harsh work for me; it's my fault, the way I am. Flawed. 
- Oh, what the fuck do you know about me?
With that I stand up not knowing what to do; he responds immediately without hesitation, equally harsh and direct. 
- Nothing, just what I've seen since I've known you, and that's a long time! But maybe you could tell me what I don't know, so I could... 
But I don't let him finish. With a sharp: - Fuck off! - I throw my glasses to the floor and with a short stride I dive from the stern of the yacht, where we usually jumps. 
The sea closes over me, freezing, and I feel myself sinking like before. 
At least now my state of mind reflects what I'm seriously doing.
For a moment I think okay, stay down here forever. It would all be over and I wouldn't have to fight yet another fucking battle of my life!”

/Charles/

“Obviously I didn't want to go this way, but at the same time I knew it would end badly!
With him shutting himself off and us arguing. Even if him jumping into the water to avoid arguing can't be considered a real argument, but it's not a constructive or normal way to have a conversation either. 
I remain at the far end of the boat where he left to dive. 
The bubbles where he disappeared surface for a while, then it ends without giving me back his imbecile head, which I want to hit with a hammer. 
Why the hell does he have to do this?
Either he runs away, or he doesn't talk about it at all, or he just gives me a consolation to keep me quiet... what the fuck am I supposed to do with him?
Now he's the one who brought up the subject, so obviously he wants to talk about it. Why did he talk about it if he didn't want to? 
It's like he's bipolar! 
He wants two things at once, two things that are in conflict with each other.
He should make up his own mind, don’t you think? 
I stay with my hands on my hips and my feet firmly planted in the boat; Tthen, seeing that he's not coming back up, I roll my eyes, throw my glasses on one of the two loungers, and immediately jump in.
Of course he doesn't want to drown; he's probably swimming along the bottom, sneaking away like a piece-of-shit coward!
He doesn't want to argue with me and doesn't even want to talk about it, but he can't keep going like this forever, especially since he's literally asking for it! 
Once the cold water closes over me, I wait a few seconds to regain control; then, when I do, I open my eyes and try to see where he's splashed. 
Without my diving goggles, it's not easy, but I see a shadow swimming along the bottom, as I expected, and so I start chasing him without hesitation. 
I'm going to drown him now! 
He's really pissing me off! 
Having more air than him, I quickly catch up because his was coming to an end and he was about to head back up.
I grab his foot and yank violently, not being gentle at all. 
I was before, and it didn't suit him! 
Max turns toward me suddenly, his last breath escaping, and looks at me. From down here, our view isn't good; we can barely see each other. I let go his foot and throw my arms out in a questioning, argumentative gesture, but he ignores me and rises to the surface. 
I follow him and for a moment I feel like we're back on the track. For a change, he and I are racing against each other. So strange!
The air hits us and we both fill our lungs, quickly moving to stay afloat; then I turns him toward me grabbing his shoulder. As soon as we look at each other, I immediately attack like a shark, beside myself. 
- You started it! I wouldn't have pissed you off with your dad! What the hell do you want, Max? 
I get straight to the point and do it in a way that won't let him escape.
Max, cornered, shakes his head with a frown and alienated expression, while he moves his arms and legs to stay afloat like me. He bites his mouth so hard that for a moment I think it might bleed. I don't know whether to slap him or hug him. 
- I don't know, damn it! - he blurts out, not knowing what to say. Here I stop abruptly and he waves his arms splashing water to the side, not at me. 
He spins around completely and then comes back at me, furious and delirious. 
- I don't know what the fuck I want, okay? On the one hand, I want to talk about it and give you some rope and see what happens if I do it, because I've never done it before and maybe you're right, who knows? You've had it on so many things, what the fuck do I know? On the other hand, I don't... I can't, okay? I can't do it! I want to do it, but I'm afraid that if I start venting and telling everything, then I'll be a fucking ungrateful piece of shit! It's to him that I owe the F1 champion I am today, I know that very well! Don't I just owe him a thank you? Isn't it better for me to keep quiet? 
His voice cracks as he shouts in his first real outburst on this subject that I've been trying to get him to talk about for months, and realizing he's hurting, I hug him. 
When I realize he's about to cry, and as I hold him tight with one arm because I have to move the other to stay up, he buries his face against my cheek and neck until he's almost underwater again, but with one hand he clings to my back, accepting me like a life preserver. Finally accepting my help. 
As I hold him close, pressing his wet face against mine without saying anything for a few moments, I understand what he needs.
It's like a revelation that comes to illuminate a very long, dark night. 
He needs to cry. 
Max needs to cry. Cry for himself. Crying and railing against his father who, despite the good he did for him, also hurt him. And for that, he owes him nothing.
 - You don't have to say anything to him, Maxie. You don't have to go to him and talk to him if you don't want to. You just have to release what you feel for him, instead of stifling it so you don't feel ungrateful. It's between you and me, no one will know anything, no one will judge you or tell you how to feel or what to feel! If you feel something, just let it out! It'll be okay, it'll be right.
I can't say 'cry' to someone who's never done it. I haven't always been with him, but I'm pretty sure that's one of the things he and I have in common. 
Not crying. If I've never done it, I don't think he's ever done it either. 
But it hurts, and I know it. And now he wanted it, he wanted it so badly, because he's been holding it in for so long, he's reached the breaking point. 
- It’s just… - he says against my wet skin, almost on the surface of the water. He turns his head more gently and touches his lips to my ear, sending shivers down my spine at the most inappropriate time of all. - It's just that I'd deluded myself in Abu Dhabi. That I was free. That I'd finally gotten out of it. And yet I'm still here. I don't know if I'll ever get out of it. 
But out from what, Maxie? What will you never get out of? 
From prison? 
- You’re here with me now. You're no longer there with him. Can't you see that this year you're racing like you've never done before? 
I don't know how it came to me, but I'm grateful for the intuition I had, although talking about such profound things in the water after breath-hold swim like that isn't easy. But since we’re athletic and go to the gym, we're well trained.
Max moves in sync with me using his legs and one of his arms, while the other holds on to me like I do with him. 
He separates a bit, staying anyway close to me so he can look me. His gaze is extremely confused, but desperate to understand. 
- How? - he asks. 
- You’ve always raced like shit, like the devil was on your tail. Now you race great, Max. You've never raced so well and I'm sure you'll improve. It hurts to say this, because until a few weeks ago I was in the lead and I felt great up there above you, and I still have hope that in the second half we'll improve and get back to where we were at the beginning, but regardless of us, Max... this year more than ever, you seem unbeatable. And believe me, I'm not telling you this because we're together. I'm telling you this because it's true. You are free, believe me. 
When I say it, it's as if he truly understands it. He doesn't hesitate to believe me, he doesn't question my perception of his driving as a driver, he believes it immediately and he understands that I'm right for a specific reason that he doesn't hesitate to share. 
- I drive better because I'm happy. This year I'm finally happy. My happiness surpasses the frustration I've always felt because of him, the one that made me race like crazy. And I owe my happiness to you! 
And that's how you drown someone while trying to stay afloat. For a moment, my feelings overwhelm me and I think crystal clear... he just told me he loves me without saying it directly; and if he meant it, if he said these exact words to me now, I wouldn't know how to respond. Because I don't know if I'm truly capable of love.
I think there's a difference between feeling emotions, caring for someone, and loving someone. I need more time to understand the level of my humanity. I haven't had time to think about it because I'm taken by him, but if he told me now and I had to respond... would it be true? Would I be convincing? Would I be capable of it? Not saying it, but truly feeling it. 
Would I know how to love? Do I know how to love? Have I reached that point, or is it still off limits to me? 
But luckily for me, Max doesn't feel ready to tell me and is too overwhelmed by the myriad emotions he feels, so he doesn't say it; so I kiss him softly and everything is fine again. 
We'll still have time to see about certain things. Slowly.
Now I have to focus on him, on helping him feel good, really good. 
I have to pull him out of this water before he seriously drowns without even realizing it. 
- I’m happy with you too, and thanks to you, Maxie. - I then whisper against his lips, smiling sweetly. My hand moves from the nape of his neck to his cheek. I rest my forehead against his. 
It's true, this. I'm happy with you and thanks to you. 
Do I love you? It depends. It depends on whether I'm capable of it. 
But I'm happy. Happy as hell, now, thanks to you. Isn't that enough? 
- Shall we go back up? - I ask softly. 
He nods and smiles, a mixture of surrender and relief, placing another kiss on my lips.
Right now, his eyes are like the sea we're immersed in, and they're stunning. I've never seen them so beautiful and so close, and they're filled with the same depth that lies beneath us. 
You still hide so many things you feel guilty about. Your chains are now held by yourself, because your father left them, you just don't realize it. But I will help you understand that you are truly free and that if you want to vent and tell him 'thank you for what you did for me, but fuck you for the pain you caused me,' there is nothing wrong with that and, in fact, it is legitimate.”

NOTE: A particularly intense chapter (but there are even more intense ones to come). Max is a man of many small steps, because I see him as very closed off about certain personal things, and those so closed off are hard to let go, it takes time and effort. But Charles is stubborn and slowly begins to see results. I'm particularly sure they often use their private yachts. I'm writing about Charles' because are the most famous, but Max surely has some too. 
As always, thanks to those who read and comment. I always enjoy reading what my chapters leave. Kisses, Akane.