89. OUT OF PRISON

/Charles/

Our intertwined fingers hang right in the middle of the side-by-side loungers on the end of my yacht, where we're lying sunbathing; we're face down turned toward each other, basking in the warmth of this wonderful day spent together that we wish would never end.
I know I'm trying everything with him, but since he started first, I think he's ready, or at least wants it. He's practically told me.
On the one hand, he wants to let it all out and vent, on the other, he doesn't want to because he feels ungrateful.
But it's him and me, even if he does, nothing will happen, it's not a matter of actually going to him and telling him who knows what.
Before in the water, it was clear to me: he needs to cry, but it's not something you can do on command, nor can you direct.
It's just that I know he needs this.
One of those big outbursts that end in tears and screams, not necessarily in his father's face, but he needs to do it for himself and for that child who endured only he knows what with that man.
So I bite my lip with some anxiety.
Pushing him now might be risky, but I think he's in the most open state of mind I've ever seen him; finding another perfect moment might be impossible.
- If you could go back now to that day in Abu Dhabi, what would you say to him?
I’ll take the long way around, because that's not what I want to know. I want to know what the hell he did to him, but a part of me knows that when I find out, I might discover a new side of me I didn't know I had.
I tighten our intertwined fingers and he lazily opens his eyes; I knew he wasn't asleep.
The boat rocks gently and almost imperceptibly, the sea today is beautiful and very calm, a truly perfect day.
His blue eyes fix on mine, initially misty, then unsure whether to give me rope or not; finally, perhaps partly because he wants to talk about it and partly because otherwise I'll never stop busting his balls, he makes up his mind.
His low, hoarse voice begins to rise, his eyes disappear beyond my head—the railing, the sea, the horizon, the sky. Exactly what I see when I go beyond his.
- It's not when he told me he knew he'd been too harsh on me, but that he was convinced only that method would be effective because I'm as stubborn as he is. I can share that, it’s okay, after all.
Max begins as if he's fire branded every single word said to him. I realize this because they seem too precise.
He'll never be able to forget them: not because of the words themselves, but because of the lack of response.
I don't interrupt him, but I'm surprised I don't have to prompt him.
- But when he said he lived his dream through me, I wanted to say, 'What about mine?'
That's what I said before; it must have hit him deeply.
I breathe slowly, afraid the magic we've created will break. As Max continues, I realize he’s a great desire to talk about it; maybe the fact that he doesn’t have to do it with him, but rather with me, is helping. I mean, he's finally understood that if he does it with me, there's no danger.
You have to start somewhere. I'm convinced he'll have to tell him that too, one day, but I also know from experience that you can't go from zero to one hundred just like that. There are the intermediate numbers first.
- And when he told me I hadn't disappointed him and that he just wanted to keep my motivation high, I wanted to ask him if words weren't enough, if punishments were also necessary.
When he says that, shivers run down my spine and I have a hell of a time not to blink.
It's a fleeting moment, a wave of anger hits me, but I stay still and don't move a muscle. I concentrate hard. Because I want to jump up and start acting crazy, but that wouldn't be my style. It's just that I feel like I need to do something now.
But I have to stay still or he'll shut down.
It's as if he can't fully accept what he himself has experienced. A bit like those who repress traumas for self-defense.
He doesn't repress them, but he downplays them. But now, with my constant stimulation, he's starting to understand and see them for what they are, but I sincerely hope that my eyes and face are now commendable.
I'm here for him, not to vent.
Punishment?
Stay still, Charles. Stay still. Shut up. Shut up and listen. He just wants to be heard, because it was fucking true.
He needed to talk about it. He wanted to.
- And when he said he knew they weren't good methods, I wanted to ask him, 'Really? So why did you use them anyway? Was it really that important to motivate me? Was your fucking shitty dream more important than your son's well-being? Are you saying punching me in the head when I failed in races or making me walk back from races where I sucked wasn't good methods?'
As if that were even possible. I remember all his go-kart races because we did them together, and he was always great—which really pissed me off. After that, he switched to single-seaters, but he only did it for one year, and without me he won every race. So I know what he's talking about, and he's never sucked so badly that he needed to be punished, and certainly not like that.
The rumors were true, and the reality far surpasses them.
Stay still, Charles. Don't move. Hold his hand the way he holds yours.
Be firm.
Your boyfriend needs you.
Stay here with him.
Don't move.
He used to beat him.
Don't say a word.
He made him walk home from the bad races.
Don't bat an eyelid.
Who knows how many other things he's not telling me.
- And then when he ended by saying he was proud of me and that he knew I could do it, I wish I'd said, 'Fuck you!' Instead of 'It's okay.' But I wanted to see an apology in those words, and I wanted to believe I was out of that prison and finally free. I needed it, so I clung to it even though I knew it wasn't good for shit, and that pretending to be a normal father when I become a world champion is actually pathetic. But you know, Charlie...
Here he hesitates and thinks about it, looking to the side, towards the sky. I lift my cheek from the pillow of the bed to look at him more carefully, while our hands remain gently intertwined, dangling in the middle.
I don't breathe, and finally he continues. 
- Sometimes you just need closure so badly that it doesn't matter even if it doesn't happen in a fair and satisfying way. You take what they offer you and accept it and see in it what you need it to be, just to feel better and move on. But the truth is, I've never freed myself from him and I really don't know what the fuck I can do to get rid of him. I just wish he'd truly be a father, and if he's not capable of that, then he'd leave me the fuck alone. 
He's finally said so much in a short while and I don't feel like delving into it to find out more, even though I'd like to. But I realize that's not possible now.  Now I have to be the boyfriend and hold him up, so I roll over onto my back, simultaneously pulling him with my usual overbearing manner. 
- Come here. - I mutter in a whisper, while the urge to scream and rant at that piece of shit fades because he's here now, coming above everything else. 
Max gets up without letting go of my hand and lies on top of me, face down. He rests on my chest like a child, the child who never had a happy childhood and who envied others'. 
- It’s okay, I'm here. You don't have to endure it alone, swallow it, ignore it, or stifle it. I'm here, I'll endure it with you. You'll see, it'll get easier. You're out of that prison, he just has to understand it too. But you know what? Little by little, we'll make him understand. We'll find a way that works and that's effective. 
As I say this with a calm and sweetness I don't know if I've ever had with anyone, I realize something.
I was so lucky we were alone here today and that his asshole father wasn't in my sight.
How fucking lucky.
- The only effective thing is harsh methods, he said it himself! - he says half bitter half ironic, in a grotesque attempt to lighten a very heavy moment.
- I’m here for you. - I continue to murmur, caressing him.
Max hides his face in my neck, and feeling his back burning from the sun he's just gotten, I grab the towel from his lounger and pull it over him to avoid a burn, given his delicate blond skin, which I'm more worried about than him.
Max lets me do it, he doesn't move or speak anymore. He doesn't try to joke, he doesn't rebel.
A cold shower. I could use a freezing shower. Or a dip in the freezing sea.
But it's my duty to stay here and support him, hug him and be with him.
I kiss his forehead and say nothing. I won't comment further. I'm not trying to get philosophical. Seb would know what to say, he'd probably say something similar to what my father would say.
Children aren't a reflection of their fathers. They're not their redemption, they're not a way to achieve what they missed. Children should just be happy.
But my mouth remains sealed, resting on his forehead, and my hands on his shoulders, his back, the nape of his neck.
- I’m here now, with you.
But this is truly like me. Because I'm so presumptuous to think I'm enough for him, so that's all I keep telling him. Everything that seems sensible to me and that I'd like to hear in a moment of collapse.”

/Max/

“If a meat grinder had run over me, it would have been better. It was less brutal than the 51G crash I had last year.
This... damn, this has the force of a tsunami.
You just drown, you don't try to survive, you don't even try to swim.
You just get swept away, and then afterward you try to figure out if you're still alive or if you're already dead.
Am I alive or dead?
Telling Charles what I wanted to tell my dad a few months ago in Abu Dhabi, was fucking cathartic. Not like telling him, I don't think I could do it, not as calmly as I did now.
Now I've done it because I was telling him, and it's incredible; as I'm lying on top of him like a cat stretching out on its human's belly, I realize it.
He was right again, but I'll never tell him!
He had it to insist so much about this thing about my dad. I didn't even tell him everything, I didn't get a lot of things out, but now I'm massacred like this, imagine if I have the strength to tell him anything else.
Now that he knows so much more, I feel him quivering beneath me; I felt before, and was precisely that tension coursing through his entire body and reaching me through our intertwined hands that gave me the strength to continue.
Because I think he was furious like I've never seen him, so much so that he was unrecognizable; and I know he actually has a complicated temperament. But he didn't move, he didn't bat an eyelid, at times he wasn't even breathing, but I knew. I knew he was beside himself, deeply touched and shocked by what I was telling him.
And what I told him isn’t even everything!
But I'll go slowly, little by little, both for myself and for him. These are things you need time and the strength to endure, as well as to talk about.
But I already feel so light and different.
He was fucking right, it made sense to tell someone. Sure, it couldn't work with just anyone, I think it works because it's him, the person I know very well I love. But I know that if I tell now I'll panic him, now is the wrong time to confess.
With a normal person there would be no problem, but Charles is not normal; he's always been afraid of not being able to feel emotions or of not being able to express them, so this love thing is definitely delicate, it's a field full of hidden mines.
Charles is my splendid minefield, but if he were just a simple flowery meadow it wouldn't be the same. Maybe I'm madly in love precisely because he's so damn different from everyone else, so complicated and delicate and strange.
No, if he were normal, I wouldn't love him so much.
But he cancels himself to be with me and understands what I need, and I had no doubt he could.
I just want him to be with me and that whatever comes out, he'll support me and be there for me.
I'm out of that prison, but I wasn't sure, and my father certainly isn't; he thinks he still holds the key that keeps me from leaving.
But I'm free; if Charlie tells me so, it's true.
I think back to when he said we'll find an effective way to make him understand that he can't control me anymore and treat me however the fuck he wants, that now I'm free and I have my own life to live.
It's easier said than done. An effective method with my father? There's only one, and we all know it.
I know I'll have a huge fight with him one day. That I'll throw up everything, absolutely everything, all over him.
Only before now I couldn't do it, I didn't want to and I wouldn't have been capable of it. Now I am, because Charles has finally freed me. That damned door was open, all I had to do was push it; he came in, took me by the hand and dragged me out.
I'm living my fucking life the way I want. And I'm fine. And I'm happy. And it's the life he wouldn't want me to live, but I live it anyway because it's mine and I'm free. I'm truly free. It's just that we didn't understand it.
But now, thanks to Charles, I've succeeded, and now we'll make that other idiot whose surname I share understand it too.
I nuzzle my face into his neck, the beating of his raging heart slowly calming.
He leaves me with many little kisses and gently caresses me from the nape of my neck to my back under the damp towel, filling me with shivers of pleasure.
I feel good again, but I want more.
I begin to rub myself slowly against him. By now our swimsuits are dry, and I use my fingers to slide both of them down with a certain skill, limiting myself to lifting my hips only as much as necessary.
Charles immediately understands what I want and moves from caressing the nape of my neck and neck to grabbing my bare hips and helping me direct myself onto him, while I move slowly but very explicitly.
The shivers increase, and from the silence we'd been in, our sighs now rise.
Our cocks rub against each other, hardening and throbbing. I circle his with mine, seeking more and more pleasure and enjoyment. Every time I move, I sink deeper as if I were fucking him, and Charles accompanies me leaving me free to move as I please.
I lift my head and lick his neck, which smells of salt, cream and sweat. I move up to his chin, sucking it where there's a bit of unkempt beard from recent days that makes him incredibly sexy. Then I make his lips mine, sucking them along with his tongue, and finally we kiss.
It's like sealing a declaration we didn't make. I love you, but you don't know it, so you could take it as a thank you. Or maybe as a please never leave me. Or I'd drown.
Either way, it's fine.
When I feel like neither of us can take it anymore, I stand up, completely removing my swimsuit, which I'd only pulled down so as not to detach myself from him. I leave it on the floor along with the towel, then I straddle him again, licking my hand generously and lubricating his cock.
Charles pushes his neck back moaning, digging his fingers into my thighs. When it feels slippery enough, I raise myself up on my knees and move until it's positioned between my buttocks, which I spread with my other hand.
He, lying straight beneath me, guides me and helps me by holding my hips; while he does so, we look at each other for a moment. I feel him big under my hand as I try to peck at my hole, ready for him.
He wants it like crazy after the treatment, but I really need it. So after finding the right spot, I slide down with a fluid, decisive movement.
His cock tries to enter, but then slips away because I tense with an unconditioned reflex; so Charles slips his hand between us and helps me slide it in better. Together we manage, laughing excitedly and nervously, before trying again.
The position isn't comfortable or practical because he can't help much and the movements are limited, especially if you're not very agile, but then I manage to slide down on him well, and this time he stays inside.
I pause for a moment to get used to it and shortly after I begin to move fluidly, arching forward and pressing myself against him, then carefully rising until I find the right, sensual movements. Like a perpetual wave that gradually builds until it becomes a high, surging wave.
But it's not the kind you're afraid of. It's the kind you surrender to, like when you ride it while surfing.
Charles and I are finally perfectly synchronized: he's fucking me, but it's actually like I'm doing it and it's strange, it's beautiful. For the first time, he's letting me do it and it's driving me so crazy that if I weren't so emotionally distraught, I probably would have fucked him this time.
And I think he wants it too.
The thought of it turns me on like crazy and I increase my movements while I ride him like a raging wave. He holds my hips guiding me, trying to make me go harder and deeper, but since I don't seem to be satisfying him enough, his majesty switches to vocal commands, effectively coming to his senses, which I love.
- Maxie, harder. Harder and faster. I'm going crazy...
When you fuck, you dictate the pace. It's hard to stay passive underneath, and I understand that. But for me it's the first time we've done it like this, and it's shockingly good. So good that I want to do it again.
Or rather, I want to fuck him.
I satisfy him by increasing both the movements and the force with which I ride him; soon I’m straightening up, shivers running through us increasing the pleasure immeasurably to the point that while I'm getting fucked while I'm fucking him, I'm jerking off unable to take it anymore.
My hard cock is finally satisfied and when I squirt all over his chest and tanned belly, Charles watches, then with a loud moan rolls his eyes back, arches, tenses and comes inside me.
I feel him flooding me with heat, and he does so by digging his nails into my thighs.
I've never seen him so engaged and charged with eroticism. He's pure sex, he's the most beautiful being I've ever seen.
I can tell he enjoyed it more than usual, perhaps because it was as if I were in charge.
Panting more exhausted than ever, I collapse onto him leaning against his chest, then I kiss him sucking his chin and lip. Charles opens his mouth and comes towards me, even though he's still in ecstasy and exhausted.
We don't say anything to each other; we wouldn't be able to, but he laboriously lifts his arms and wraps them around my neck; he digs his fingers into my hair and holds me against him forcefully.
Yes, I'm still his, and it's the most beautiful thing in the world.
Being wanted like this is wonderful, and I'm free to feel like this whenever I fucking want.
I'm never going back to that fucking prison.
I'm free. Fucking free. And I love Charles. I love him like crazy.”

NOTE: Whenever I talk about what Max went through as a child, it's always difficult. I've partly taken what's known—some punishments are unfortunately public knowledge—other things are clearly the product of my imagination. I can't stress this enough: it's just a story about real people, inspired by some true events, but mostly fictional.
From a psychological standpoint, those who have suffered abuse—meaning a particularly harsh childhood—react in various ways. One of these is to withdraw and minimize painful events in order to survive; in some cases, they even erase them. These are typical defense mechanisms. In Max's case, I thought he remembers them all well, but he always minimized to normalize them and feel as close to others as possible, convincing himself that it was common for children to be treated so harshly by their fathers. Opening up and talking about it, is very difficult for him now, and it's something he does slowly and in small doses. But the whole iceberg will emerge.
Throughout the fic, I've used the way they have sex as a means of expressing their internal growth processes and their moods. Every time they do it in a particular way, there's a connection to what they're going through emotionally. Here, for instance, the fact that it is Max who directs the sexual act—even though he remains fundamentally passive—demonstrates his desire to emerge from his cocoon; these are the first attempts that are beginning to bear fruit.
Thanks, as always, to those who read and comment. See you next time. Kisses, Akane