Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He doesn’t know where the determination to take over comes from, the clarity of the actions that must be taken, and in which order. It could be argued that it’s none of his business but it isn’t argued, because in fact, in crowd of people who seems absolutely unable to measure up, he is the one who is prepared. It seems like in the entire racing industry he was the only person with foresight on the possibility of Ayrton crashing. This puts him ahead and in the middle of the main conversations. First with the race director, because the smallest delay on the helicopter would be fatal, then with the medical team because he’s had enough friends die on the track to know what killed them, the smoke, the position they were trapped in, the minutes lost in the decision making.

He speeds to the Bologna hospital in the time it takes the rest of the paddock to decide if it’s their place or not to attend. He doesn’t stop to wonder how essential or not his presence might be, he just gets Niki’s car keys, and announces to a scrambling Williams team “I’m leaving now, I can take three of you, but we are going now.”
They arrive right after the helicopter lands, and someone makes a crass joke about Fastest Lap. He doesn’t deign it with a reply. He calls Viviane Da Silva Senna from the nurses’ station and informs her of the preliminary situation, then connects her with his agent to arrange their passes.

It’s him Sid looks for to discuss the options. He listens to the medical debrief, and afterwards shares the prognosis with team members, F1 officials and Ayrton’s agent. With an authority that no one particularly challenges, he weighs in.

Alain Prost decides the immediate future of Ayrton Senna, and his voice doesn’t waver in the delivery. There is little room to wonder about how entitled he is to this role, or about how much Ayrton would agree with his choices, he would respect them, but he might challenge him. He can almost hear his voice arguing about medical terms with the same ferocity he’s always defended his mechanics choices. No, thank you, wake up and I might listen to your yammer.
Other pilots descend upon the hospital by nightfall and the chaos ensues, journalists, photographers, engineers. They cordon the hospital and Alain spends the night in the waiting room by the ICU.

17 hours later Viviane lands in Italy, he is the first person she looks for.

After the 24-hour mark other considerations arise.

Alain doesn’t go back to the track or to any of his previous commitments. His agent tries to get through to him, although he suspects he wants to murder him.

“You are this close to be in breach of contract”

“Well then get me out of those contracts, Je m'en fous”

“Are you sure?”

“ Bien sûr”

“And, don’t pass me any more calls” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Nico, just him you can put through, d’accord? ”

Viviane leans heavily on him. Having been through this before, and with a decent of Italian, he is the most qualified to talk to the doctors, even with the family present. Soon he becomes an expert in intercranial trauma. At first, he translates accordingly and tries to stay neutral but Viviane doesn’t let him.

“What’s the best chance for Becco?”

Explaining the risks and probabilities of another surgery is not enough.

“Mr Prost, do you think we should or shouldn’t do it?”

Yes.

He squeezes her hand when they wheel Ayrton to the OR, and they wait together for the next 6 hours. Viviane bawls in relief when the surgeon announces it was a success, for his part he only allows himself a massive sigh, but he waits until they are alone again to excuse himself and goes looking for a toilet to puke in. In those days it becomes a habit. With the revolving door of nurses, family and even press, nobody notices, he’ll come back paler but even more composed than before, ready to discuss the procedures and Ayrton’s chances to survive them. He’s always been good at percentages and calculated risk.

When the hell of the first week is over the question becomes: Where should he continue his treatment? Bologna is no longer adequate. Brazil is out of the question. Ayrton’s whole family has arrived and everyone has different positions but in the end is he who makes the calls and arranges his move to the south of Paris.

“Ele deveria estar em casa! “ He should be at home Ayrton’s father complains.

Alain calmly explains why Paris it’s the best option, and why in Ayrton’s state moving him across the Atlantic would be effectively killing him. Though there is some initial resistance Viviane backs him up, and they proceed with his plan. It’s then that he realizes they are all a bit frightened of him, of his composure. Would this piss of Ayrton? Maybe, well then, he’ll have to wake up and fight Alain himself.

“Well, what about us? How are we supposed to go there?”

Alain buys a maison de ville 5 minutes from the hospital and arranges visas for each of the family members, even little Bruno. His agent really does want to murder him, so when he comes to meet him at the hospital Alain presents him with a big wad of cash, mafia style and asks him to work alongside Ayrton’s agent. There are more and more people involved, but Alain has final word on most matters.

The girl (he can only see her as such, she is 21 for god’s sake) arrives on their last day at Bologna, she waits outside for hours before someone informs him. He knows the Da Silva’s hate her, for what reason he can be quite sure, but he is not a monster. So, when he is sure that Neyde Senna has retired for the day, he brings in her through a more secluded entrance, and he allows her a few minutes alone in the patients’ room. A few minutes with an unconscious and depleted Ayrton, what good that will make?

Later they share a smoke.

“Why are you in charge?”

Her accent is thick with Portuguese and it makes Alain’s heart drop, he remembers when Ayrton used to speak like that, a good decade ago.

“I’m not, I’m just helping his family.”

“Bullshit, I’ve seen you… these past days”

Ah she is been here longer than he’d imagined.

“Well, I know what to do.”

She looks so very young and Alain wonders, not for the first time, for the nature of her relationship with his former teammate. He was, is, has been always rather naïve and childish but even so it’s a big age gap. Then again one could say that Ayrton’s life is composed of unlikely relationships, theirs included.

“Paris then? Not Brazil”

God how much did the general public know? Then again, Adrienne wasn’t the general public, it made sense that one of Ayrton’s friends keep her on the loop, despite
Alain’s best efforts.

“Brazil is too far away.”

“Do you think he’d want that?”

No, he’d want to die in his country, the fool, but he’d also desperately want to live, so.

“I am not sure, but I’m doing everything I can so he’ll have a chance to tell me himself.”

She seems to consider his words, the distance between Bologna, Paris, Brazil, oceans and miles between. Didn’t she live with him in Monaco? Or in Sao Paulo? Both places will be unoccupied for the near future.

Silence grows in the Bologna night; it’s almost summer and the breeze of the evening is rather refreshing. Alain checks his watch, it’s the first time he’s stepped away for this long.

“We were over, you know? Término."

“Oh, I thought so.”

He’d thought Ayrton had hinted at it, somewhere along their winter phone calls. They’d been together in Bercy and looked fine, but relationships were deceiving, theirs included.

“Still, I love him.”

He nods, familiar with the sentiment.

“It’s good that it’s you, if he had to put his fate on someone’s hands, you know? Prost”

She leaves him with that cryptic message, the closest thing to a vote of confidence he can get.

The next morning, he moves the entire Da Silva family to Créteil, just outside of Paris, to a Maison de ville he’s never set eyes on. His agent had scrambled to get them an adequate place. Alain didn’t give him enough credit, because buying a house in France in less than a week was the most titanic bureaucratic struggle he could think of. The house is old and antiquate in its style but there are sufficient rooms, there are fans and air vents, the floors are a mix of wood and Portuguese tiles, and most importantly it’s a 5-minute walk to the new hospital.

Bruno starts calling him uncle and something inside him stirs up, he gets Nico to come over so that the boy will have some company. Though neither speak each other’s language they soon strike a friendship, bringing even more ruckus to the crowded house. His ex-wife fights him vehemently about Nico staying with the Da Silva’s.

“It’s not the right environment for a boy. What are you doing playing house with that family? He doesn’t even like you.”

He responds with something along the lines of “fight me in court” and “bite my ass” and his son stays. Honestly, he doesn’t think he could do this without the solace that the boys bring. Nico will often run to hug him at random times; he seems to sense when Alain has been crying. Bruno is adamant on teaching him Portuguese, so he’ll surprise his uncle when he wakes up. So far, he understands a few words, and the expression “Welcome back” Bem-vindo de volta. He wants to learn “You scared me fucking cunt how dare you?” but senses it might not be proper to ask.

When he is not at the hospital, he’s locks himself in the studio, by the phone in case there is an emergency, and does more research on Ayrton’s condition. There is a binder with every aspect of the diagnosis, the benchmark levels of everything that can be measured. An increase in a dose has 14% better absorption, but higher risk of long-term liver damage. A .05 variation in oxygenation concerns him. He goes over the details again, making sure nothing will be lost in the translation of records.
In a way this is Ayrton’s telemetry.

And then what can they expect if when he wakes up? What level of damage is it realistic to expect? Apart from two broken ribs on his right side there are no other injuries, only the blunt head trauma, one single blow. If when he wakes up then how long until he can race? Cognitive functions might be diminished. Fuck please don’t let Ayrton wake up as anything less than himself.

Hours of research vanish his appetite.

The townhouse is inundated with Brazilian cooking and Portuguese arguments, he can’t participate in either. There is a fair bit of praying too, and while he is never been a devout catholic, he does take part in Neyde’s prayers. She fervently reciting in Portuguese and him following along in French to the best of his abilities. He worried praying might be somber but the cacophony of languages is beautiful, full, and Neyde gives him a protective blessing at the end. Her dark brown eyes glistening with hope.

Viviane starts to bring him food directly to his studio, but he can’t bring himself to eat much. A few days after their arrival the prognosis starts to change, Ayrton’s vitals are much more stable, but he must wake up soon, otherwise, well. Alain doesn’t think too far into the future.

Journalists hound him capturing his “Pale but composed state”. Many articles have been written by then: “Senna’s former teammate and rival Alain Prost is deeply involved in his recovery”, “Taken over his former’s teammate health”, “What a strange turn of events”, “Not a single tear though” says a commentator (one he is even worked with) on television.

Qu’ils se font foutre.

He negotiates for the family (him and Nico included) to enter through a side door. He’s on the phone with the Williams team as well. If his opinion of the team was complex before he’s now mildly convinced that they are a bunch of babbling idiots, mon dieu! No, no, he doesn’t really think that, but every interaction gone askew diminishes his patience.

“Get them the fuck away, we are in no position to give interviews” The team seems to accept him as liaison too. In fact, by now nobody dares question his position in Ayrton’s life. He smiles when he thinks about that, then allows himself a moment to worry on the implications.

Niki calls often, comes to visit sometimes. Berger too, he asks and asks about his friend’s condition. Niki is interested in that, but he mostly asks Alain how he is doing, what he needs, and scoffs when Alain says he’s okay. He keeps him up to date with the main developments of the season. The crashes during the Imola weekend have stirred everything up, drivers and teams are lowkey revolting and the race directors and F1 board are trying applying damage control. “That’s probably the reason why there is such a media circus around here, they are trying to distract.” Apparently the F1 is not at all happy with the revival of the driver’s association.

“Even from the hospital bed Senna is still causing trouble” Niki sneers.

After this he keeps the press in total shutdown and instructs Ayrton's family to talk to no one. They’ll do a press conference when it’s adequate. There are frequent confrontations with Milton, Ayrton’s dad, and even though he’s managed to impose his views most of the time, it still drains him. Headaches become a daily annoyance.

The days mold into one and other. He sleeps on the couch in the studio, it’s old and fairly uncomfortable as he bought the place already furnished (he only added bunk beds to the guest room for Nico and Bruno). There is an endless procession of meetings and calls, medical issues, finances, breached contracts, and so on. Ayrton’s helmet sits on his desk at all times, he intends to give it back soon. He’s lost several kilos by then. Viviane brings up soup, and stays until he finishes it. He wonders if Niki put her up to it.

Since sleep escapes him most of the time he takes on the night shift. It’s easier to find some calmness in the hospital room than outside. In here there’s only the light that filters from the courtyard illuminating Ayrton’s frame, there is only the sound of machines and his quiet but steady breathing. Alain can only stay still here. Although whenever he looks at Ayrton, he feels like he is seeing through him, beyond, or behind to their shared past. The reality of him laying motionless is hard to process, someone as energetic and restless. His frame seems smaller, his skin paler. It’s not Ayrton, but a vessel of him, a momentary stand in, waiting for his return. He makes a point not to stare at the large scar on his head, the patch where his curls were razored short. It’s his fault really, he approved that operation, and the procedures before. If this is the last he sees of Ayrton it would be his fault that he looks anything less than his dashing self.

He makes a point of breaking down quietly in case the nurses might hear, trusting the beeping sounds of the machine to drown out his sobbing.

Chapter Text

He is away when Ayrton finally wakes up. It’s been somewhere along three weeks, maybe less, but it feels infinitely like more. It’s Milton Da Silva who’s present at the moment, but as soon he calls home the whole family mobilizes; Viviane combing Bruno’s hair with one hand and carrying one of the multiple medical binders with another, Neyde shouting in joy.

He heads straight for the nurse station. What doctor is on call and when will the resident be on? The nurses know him well by now and knew to have a general report ready. Pressure good, oxygenation good, sugar levels in order, his pupils are responsive and his sight is as expected, the heart sounds well and he has sensation in all his limbs, articulations strong as well. The patient is still pretty out of it but his cognitive functions seem unhurt.

Alain doesn’t have time to live the extent of his relief yet.

The treating resident arrives shorty and directs him in to conduct the full evaluation. He walks into the room but feels as if body and mind split upon crossing the door. He is there, of course, observing a mostly awake Ayrton groggily respond to the questions that the head nurse and the doctor pose. He trains his eyes beyond the bed, out the window, at the lapel on the physician’s robe, at the crisp white of the walls.

Prost speaks with the same authority he’s known for. Ponders about the medication doses, the possibility of infection and what signs to look for? the tests they should run, just to be safe.

“Still not out of danger” they say, but mostly yes, in a good road for recovery. French doctors are like that. They’ll remark on the slightly low iron levels and the importance to be level headed instead of shouting Bravo! Bravo! E vivo! like Italian doctors did. Hasn’t Alain been as level headed as humanly possible?

He can feel Ayrton’s eyes on him and doesn’t have to imagine the annoyed crease on his forehead, the frustration etched on his face. He knows brown eyes are looking for his but there is no time for that, Ayrton has to rest while he must make sure the treatment is on course. He’ll be back when everything is sorted out.

“Best not to overwhelm with too many visits, no more than two people at once.”

Viviane and Bruno go in, Nico hangs back with Neyde and Milton, and he makes a line to the toilets.

His head is spinning when he expels the little breakfast he had god-knows-how-many hours ago. His mouth tastes like acid all the time, but he carries a toothbrush now and is methodical about cleanliness. By the time he rejoins the waiting room he is fully put together. Since arriving to the hospital, he’s arranged for them to occupy the room next to Ayrton’s, effectively giving them their own private waiting room where Neyde and Viviane can rest, where the children can wait whenever they’re shushed away, and where he can panic in private. It’s comes useful when he needs to work, return calls, and have meetings with both his and Ayrton’s agent.

An hour passes.

He’s sitting on the couch by the window, with Nico resting his head on his shoulder, and he uses his fingers to draw circles on the boy’s hair, murmuring words of affection “mon petit” It’s a testament to Nico’s kindness how much he’ll allow his dad to baby him at his 13 years of age. Most teenagers would mock their parents and slide off at any given opportunity. Nico however seems to sense the depths of Alain’s despair, and is so sweet and attentive. He’s also been an immense comfort for Bruno, and Alain is determined to nourish that friendship until the end of his days. Let them have sweetness.

Outside the Parisian summer sky shines in hues of pink and purple. Someone shakes his arm. Viviane.

"Ele está perguntando por você.”

Nico all but pushes him up.

The room is brighter than before, curtains are drawn and the last of the evening light comes through the window. Ayrton is sitting propped up with pillows. He looks tired, but his big brown eyes are open and they immediately find his. He doesn’t know what to expect, annoyance at his earlier behavior would be a given, but instead the corners of Ayrton’s mouth curve up into a tentative smile, it’s almost naïve.

He should say something but his throat is tight.

Ayrton regards him for a long while, and Alain had forgotten how contemplative he could be, how long he could take to say something, and then speak the most disconcerting things.

“Viviane says you’ve adopted them.”

Alain chuckles.

“I imagine you could say so”

He doesn’t advance into the room.

“She also says you are the reason I’m alive”

That’s too much.

“Ah, I’d thank the doctors first, there are a few surgeons who have a better claim.”

There is that inquisitive look of Ayrton’s.

“Two main surgeons, but I’m sure there was a team both times.”

Ayrton traces his fingers on his left temple, it’s no longer fully bandaged, and he can probably feel the scarring. There is some wonder in his expression. How about that eh?.

“I wouldn’t have had those surgeries if you hadn’t been there, no?” Ayrton’s voice might be raspy but his words are intentional and his eyes search Alain’s for confirmation, as much as Alain wants to look away, he doesn’t.

“I took a risk; I knew you’d prefer that” Better to die trying than to wither away.

It’s Ayrton who chuckles now.

“Thank you”

Alain thinks about what to say next but his throat tightens painfully and he realizes his eyes are welling up. A sob escapes him. Merde It takes him by surprise and he presses the back of his hand to his mouth.

“Alain” Ayrton’s brown eyes widen and his lips trembles. Is he going to cry too? He’s always been the crier of the pair; while he is pretty sure he’s never cried in front of Senna.

Alain looks away, quickly brushing his knuckles over his eyes. He laughs nervously but it comes out stifled. It’s been almost a month and he’s barely shed a tear in public. He’s sure journalists must have noted this in some tasteless article.

“She asked me about you”

“Ah?”

“Viviane”

“Oh” Had he overstepped? She couldn’t be regretful about that now, he certainly wasn’t.

“She thinks we are involved”

He is genuinely startled. His face feels hot, and why is Ayrton smiling so calmly?

“I, I didn’t” He coughs, pauses for a moment, then composes himself as much as he can “I don’t know what gave her that idea.”

Ayrton seems to consider this for a second, then let’s out a sigh.

“You look like shit”

“You are one to talk”

“I think I’ve lost less weight than you”

“Uhmm”

“Seriously” Ayrton frowns and studies him with a sort of appraising look.

He is feeling quite exposed.

“I’ve had other things on my mind. Turns out dealing with you is just as exhausting when you are dying.”

His words come punched out, and here he was trying to make a joke, but tears are spilling at a rather alarming rate and he is having trouble controlling his breath.

“Alain, come here.” He speaks with an expression that’s both guilty and tender, and in another perfect instance of doing the least expected thing, Senna pats the bed.

Alain ignores Ayrton gesture; he actually steps back to the door. He’s seen him, they’ve spoken. How pathetic would it be if he bolted? And is everybody still in the other room? He can’t hear them anymore.

“Please” Ayrton’s voice quivers slightly.

He can almost feel his hand on the doorknob.

“Please, I can’t exactly go to you, don’t be an asshole.”

It’s the irritation that draws him closer; they’ve always worked like magnets.

He forces himself to move and crosses the room but avoids his gaze. In Alain’s defense he can hardly see with the number of tears he is shedding.

But up close he can’t ignore him. Ayrton is sitting, swimming in bedsheets and the hideous hospital gown. He doesn’t look as good from here, paler, thinner, uncomfortable, with purple bruises under his eyes, but his eyes… his eyes are blown wide and brimming with emotion, two bottomless pits calling on him. Ayrton looks at him with as much determination as always and it’s disarming as always.

“Alain, I didn’t die, stop acting like I did.”

He feels a thunder of rage course through him. It’s been 3 weeks, give or take, since he’s done anything but tend to Senna, he’s not slept a full night, can’t remember the last proper meal he had (he knows it couldn’t have been at Imola). He has been running himself into the ground, mouth tastes like copper or acid depending on the hour, headaches find him the second sleep goes, worry has been become his basic setting. He thinks he might hit him, or walk out, but before he can pull himself away Ayrton grabs his hand.

The touch comes as a shock, it's a strong grip, albeit not as strong as before, but the reality of it. The grounding undeniable sensation of Ayrton’s hand on his is akin to a revelation. He didn’t die.

Ayrton tugs at him and Alain comes closer automatically. He’s startled when his hip hits the edge of the treatment bed, he is also surprised to feel his face still wet with tears. The hand holding his has the marks of past IV needles and old scratches from the wheel, but it’s heavy and warm and he can’t help but turn his wrist and clasp it tight.

The sound of shuffling sheets makes him look up. With great effort Ayrton is trying to shift his weight on the bed.

“Stop, the IV will come loose” He doesn’t want to have to call a nurse to fix it. He wants Ayrton all to himself for at least now.

“Alain shut up and come here.”

Oh

They’ve hardly ever been affective with each other. Even in 1988, as teammates, yes sure, there’d be banter and teasing, hands ruffing hair, fingers poking ribs, and odd hug on the high of the podium, leaning on each other after a night out; later on, fights could get physical, the shouting, the recriminations, throwing things around, and a few moments where things almost got out of hand, but. Even then, touch has been devoid of their dynamic.

Ayrton pulls him down.

“Alain, come lay with me”

Not sit, lay More than anything, hearing the commanding tone of stubbornness in Ayrton’s voice is a relief. He had wondered if he would ever hear it again. His eyes sting.

He still feels like he should fight this, but Ayrton’s gaze locks him in.

“Okay”

He climbs on to the bed, aware of every movement, trying not to rock it. Ayrton’s hand is still tightly grasped around his and it’s hard to maneuver. He tries to sit on the edge, but strong arms pull him close, this will definitely loosen up the IV.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“I’m hugging you, yes? It’s the least I can do”

“You don’t have to do this”

He shuffles around and winds up resting his head on Ayrton’s chest, good grace, so much for decorum. This bewildering situation should have distracted him but he is wheezing, if anything, he is crying more now, his whole-body rocking with sobs. He feels pathetic, it’s Senna who’s just survived an un-survivable crash (and lost all his chances at winning the championship), he should be distressed, not Alain.

“I told you. I want us to be close, didn´t I?”

He had, in the months after his retirement he’d said it many times, but the only occasion Prost can recall is in the garage at Imola, right before the race. Senna had been so earnest it had scared him. He was right to be frightened.

He properly chokes, unable to stop the sniffling or catch his breath. Ayrton draws him closer with what forces he has and Alain is so ashamed. He is acting like a madman, Ayrton’s barely woken up and here he is weeping, unable to control himself, clinging to him with a desperation he doesn’t recognize.

“Esta tudo bem, eu estou bem”

Listening to Ayrton’s heart is soothing, a grounding metronome. Alain feels dizzy but his breath does return to him, little by little. Ayrton's hand moves in gentle circles on his back, a soothing gesture he only now becomes aware of. He needs to collect himself; this is absurd.

“Distract me, please”

The hand on his back stops for a second.

“So, what is this that we live in Paris now?”

“Oh, that, yes, I apologize, couldn’t be helped”

Ayrton let’s out a giggle.

“Apparently Bruno loves it here.”

“It’s because of Nico, I don’t think we can separate them at this point”

“I think you’ll have to fight Viviane on this”

Viviane who seems to think they are in some sort of relationship? Would she deny her brother-in-law like that? He laughs to himself.

“Uhmm, I think I could win; Bruno says I’m the favorite tiozinho, besides you of course, but then again I don’t think I have the capacity to say no to him, so that might be it.”

Ayrton regards him with an impossibly tender gaze and rather than sustain it Alain closes his eyes.

At some point he falls asleep like that. He realizes so when a nurse walks in and politely asks him to stand up so she can check Ayrton’s signs. Pressure is good, meds are working, so far so good. It’s the first night though. He is not out of danger Senna needs to rest too; it would be more prudent to take a seat by the bed, he’s slept in that chair for the past week already.

Ayrton seems to read his mind because the second the nurse exits; he gestures for him to come back. Alain wants to refuse. In truth, getting up made him incredibly dizzy and the urge to relieve that sensation is tempting, but he is also scared he might start sobbing again, he might pass out if he sheds one more tear. Somehow Ayrton knows, his expression says as much. The sensation of being exposed returns at full force; a part of him wonders if Ayrton also knows about the third stall in the restroom down the hall, (below a loud vent so no one will hear).

When he speaks it’s almost a growl.

“Alain lay back, now.”

“Okay, okay” He shakes the images from his mind and arranges himself back down, as carefully as possible.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?”

Ayrton scoffs loudly.

“Alain you weigh less than a cat, I don’t think you could physically hurt me right now”

It supposed to be a joke but there’s worry laced in.

“Stop it, first the jokes about my height, must I endure teasing about my weight too?”

“You really do look like shit; Viviane says you don’t eat.”

He wants to say he’s been eating, but Ayrton’s stiff jaw tells him he’s had an extensive report by his sister. He doesn’t say anything. He’s been doing his best to take care of Senna, his family and (to a lesser extent) his business, attending to every detail in ever changing circumstances, figuring out the best treatments. It’s unfair to be put on the spot like this.

Aryton adjusts on the bed, inching closer. He brings his arm around Alain’s shoulders and brings them closer together. Alain gasps in surprise when he winds up in the crook of Ayrton’s neck. But it is weirdly therapeutic, the scent of Ayrton, even like this in a hospital bed, reminds him of better days.

“So how is the season going? Pai won’t tell me anything”

He sneers.

“Oh god it took you long enough.”

Strangely, it’s the image of the podium that flashes before his eyes. Michael Schumacher celebrating his win. He doesn’t want to ponder on that or he’ll be sick.

“Well, I didn’t want to upset you.” His eyes are sincere.

“I honestly don’t know about the standing. I’ve not watched anything or taken any calls regarding the championship, but I can ask Nikki or Gehrard, they’ve both been around you know?”

“Hum, yeah, call them tomorrow. I want to know if I still have a chance to-“

“I’m going to stop you there”

Again, the image of the podium and there is a distinct bitter taste on his mouth. Ayrton opens his mouth, and Alain raises a shaky hand.

“Arrête”

Ayrton must notice how upset he’s made him because he actually stops himself and instead moves to card his fingers through Alain’s curls. The soft pressure of fingertips on his scalp feels so good. Why is it him who is being comforted?

A few minutes go by. His stomach doesn’t feel as upset anymore.

“I’m still running again you know?”

“Yes, you will, and given a better car and better conditions you’ll probably win. You’ll go back to Imola at some point too. But not yet. D’accord?”

He can feel headache returning with malice, maybe he shouldn’t have skipped lunch.

“Yes proffeseur”

They both laugh.

He wants to kiss him, hold him, bring him home, make sure he gets better. Help him win his fucking championship. He must be delirious with the lack of sleep and food, and dehydrated after such a heavy crying session because although he’s never admitted these things to himself, they don’t come so much as a shock.

“What did you tell your sister?”

“Uh?”

“About her…questions”

Ayrton makes a long pause and Alain almost loses track of the conversation, he’s disoriented with sleep or maybe just giddy with relief.

“I told her she was getting ahead” There is a level of uncertainty on Ayrton’s words that moves him. As if there could be any doubt of Alain’s devotion right now, laying as he is on bed next to Senna, practically draping his body around him, and having just cried himself to sleep not an hour ago.

“Ah”

Alain moves his hand, gingerly tracing Ayrton’s chest with his knuckles. It feels oddly more intimate than what they are already doing. He feels Ayrton let a small huff out and there is another kind of tension in this, the light touch being more pointed than the expansive hug they are in. While Alain enjoys this kind of warmth, it’s not the time for this. He takes back his hand and readjusts himself. Dawn is creeping outside. The faint sound of birds rising up reaches the hospital room. Alain doesn’t think he’s heard birds since the 1st of May. He is warm and incredibly comfortable, his nose in the crook of Ayrton’s neck, their bodies pressed together.

It’s Viviane who nudges Alain awake hours later. Her eyes have a twinkle when he looks up, Senna is grinning like an idiot and Alain wants to go back to sleep and avoid whatever teasing is brewing between the siblings. The sun is high in the sky. He hasn’t slept as well in a month, probably longer.

“I brought Bruno and Nico”

He rubs his eyes, besides him Ayrton yawns out loud.

“Ah that’s good. I should go back and return some phone calls. I don’t think we’ll be able to keep the press away for much longer”

He gets up with effort, his body refusing to move and part with the warmth of their embrace. He should be more ashamed of Viviane seeing them like that, but he is too grateful and tired for that.

He looks back at Ayrton. “Still not out of danger” echoes in his mind, but the first night is over.

“I’ll call if we need anything” Viviane says reassuring.

“Yes”

“Alain?” Ayrton call him.

“Yeah?”

“Eat something please”

He simply nods because he doesn’t have a good argument against this and maybe he’ll be able to keep something down at last.

Outside the birds are properly chanting. Ayrton Senna is alive.

When he gets back, he realizes they’ll need to prepare the house to receive Ayrton. The master bedroom has been left unused as everybody assumed this was Alain’s room. He wonders if he didn’t claim it secretly hoping it would become Senna’s upon awaking. Well, it will do now. There are some stairs as it’s on a second floor, but he figures they can probably carry Ayrton once and install him there.

The afternoon drags on terribly slow. He returns calls, tells Gehrard and then Nikki about the good news. Nikki still asks him how he is doing, and this time the answer is more sincere “Much better, thank you.” Still, he only had a croissant and some ridiculously mild French painkillers. He calls the Williams team and approves a short and vague press release.

“Awake and stable, not out of danger.” His head spins a bit by the time the phone clicks. Is he speaking on Ayrton’s behalf? His family? He has definitely taken up a role without checking with them, but then again no one else is doing these things, and they must be done. He tries to focus on other tasks (there are surprisingly many things to attend to when a pilot crashes) but he is unable to make any progress. Eventually he picks up the phone.

“Alô?” The fact that it’s Ayrton who answers calms something deep within him. He is laughing on the line and sounds much stronger than just a few hours ago. Senna is truly a force to be reckoned with.

“Just wanted to check on you. Do you want me to bring you anything from home?” Home? His home? His family’s home? He should probably send for his things in Monaco, he makes a mental note.

“Uhm yeah actually, have you got a pen?”

Ayrton asks him to bring a long list of random items that go from fresh underwear to the latest racing magazines, and it’s good Alain is a rich man who can send people on errands because he refuses to face a full stand of newspapers.

“Have you eaten?

“You know how many things I have to attend to? All things about you by the way”

“Alain” It’s that Don’t ignore me tone.

“I’ll do it as soon as we hang up”

“Do it now, but don’t hang up”

“I don’t think the phone reaches the kitchen”

“Oh, but I’ve been informed that there is a line on the kitchen, go I’ll wait.” Maybe he’s been more observed than he realized. Is the whole family aware of his habit? He guesses you can only refuse delicious meals one too many times before people suspect something is adrift. He really hopes Nico hasn't noticed.

“Okay”

Alain goes downstairs and evaluates his options on the frigo before picking the line by the kitchen bar.

“Mãe says there is feijoada and rice”

“Don’t take this the wrong way but that might kill me at this moment”

He hears a hearty laugh on the other side of the line and some banter. Muito magro, Muito magro!

“Okay, make some pasta, bring me some later, would you?”

There is no way he is bringing outside food to a hospital patient but he doesn’t say anything. Just gets on to prepare a rather simple butter spaghetti and it actually makes his mouth water. He eats while they talk, and they talk a lot. Ayrton has many questions about the championship that he doesn’t know the answer to, but still, it’s something they can talk for a long time. He tells him about the chaos on the F1, the conversations that Nikki’s relayed, the rule from the marshals on the safety of the track. Senna asks about Ruben’s recovery and Ratzenberger’s funeral, and he is pleased to know that Alain sent flowers on his behalf.

It’s sunset when he hears Ayrton yawn on the line.

“Get over here, will you?”

This time they sleep through the entire night, aside from the mandatory nurse check-ins that is.

Chapter Text

Ayrton stays for another week at the hospital, his progress is good. The suture is healing and all tests show his brain is no longer inflamed, and there is no bleeding. Good pressure, good oxygenation, normal bowel movements, he is eating reasonably and sleeping well. As recoveries go, his is excellent. If anything, he is getting restless walking around the hospital, flirting with the nurses (Alain has no opinion about this), going to the hospital’s chapel and even visiting the pediatric area, cheering up the crianças, causing too much excitement that the overworked interns and nurses have to somehow handle. But the doctors are clear: he is not to be cleared yet, so Alain is pretty firm.

After the first nights he tries to go back to sleeping on the hospital chair, the nurses are kind enough to prepare it every night, but Ayrton has none of it. “I told you I want us to be close, yeah?” Alain didn’t realize that close meant pressed to each other and while it makes him nervous (on many levels) it’s a fight he doesn’t want to actually win. They do get an alarm clock though.

Alain doesn’t cry again, but Senna does, when Berger comes to visit and explains the championship standings; Schumacher and Hill are now fighting for first and second. It’s been 5 races while Senna is out, even if his recovery was hashed up (and it won’t be) he’d have to win 9 races against the Benneton, and all while driving the unstable William’s car. Senna understands this, so even though he talks to his friend in hopeful terms, he can’t help but get emotional. It pains Alain to see him in such a state, but he doesn’t dare console him with Berger, who happens to detest him, standing right there.

It's easier to step out, leave them to it. The season is coming to a break before France, there will be many more of these conversations, drivers, teams and maybe even F1 officials and sponsors will come by. Inevitably Senna will convince himself that he can indeed go back behind the wheel soon enough to retake the lead, and Alain has to save his energy for that discussion. He can almost hear them fighting already, the muscle memory kicking in, and the sharp pinch of a headache begins.
In any case he is so much more concerned about the number of accidents that have followed Senna’s: Wendlinger, Lamy, Montermini. Even with Niki’s efforts, this season has been a blood bath. He wonders if there will be a time when the track isn’t blessed with champions spill, and if people will still find the races exciting. For his part he’s seen too much of this, lost too many people, colleagues and friends. Sometimes he can’t even stare at old pictures, there’s a reason why he doesn’t keep F1 memorabilia.

When Berger leaves, though, he doesn’t hesitate to hop on the bed and hold Ayrton while the tears roll down his face. Unlike Alain he is not ashamed to cry, it’s both unnerving and sweet the way he looks at him, big brown eyes filled with distress and frustration, trusting him to understand. He tries. Alain’s always wanted to protect Ayrton, ever since their days at McClaren (that’s partially why everything had hurt so keenly) but he’s never had the opportunity to really show him.

Now he cups his face, letting his fingers brush his cheeks gently. Ayrton closes his eyes with such surrender that Alain can’t stop himself tracing his face with his hands, following the path of tears and wiping them as he goes. When his thumb reaches Ayrton’s eyelashes he leans over and kisses them, slowly, deliberate tasting his sadness. A tiny gasp escapes Ayrton and the want to properly kiss him is maddening but he manages to restrain himself. He doesn’t know where he gets the strength to resist from. Not yet. Not here.

They’ve not discussed any of these physical demonstrations of affection, but they’ve indulged nightly to a point where it’s difficult to draw the lines. They’ve always gravitated to each other but now it’s like they can’t keep their hands off each other, even in public: when he is fixing Ayrton’s pillows and passes a hand through the messy hospital hair, when he is checking the IV for leaks and caresses his hand, when Ayrton pinches his hip teasing about his weight, sitting pressed together, sleeping, a hand on his waist, arms around his shoulders, and then even more. When Senna is nauseous with the aftermath of a medical test and Alain massages his temples and shoulders, causing him to moan quietly in relief. When Alain gets off the phone with the TF1 network yelling obscenities in French and Ayrton practically pushes him onto his lap to distract him; they dissolve in laughter when the door opens and Alain has to jump off the bed, falling rather dramatically in the process. Viviane looks at them like she knows what they’ve been doing, but they can’t help themselves.

As the week goes by the press begins to truly get out of hand. Both Viviane and Alain have already been subject of disturbingly long articles dissecting their lives.

“They have no right to information about my marriage, what does it have to do with anything? This is ridiculous.”

“Ah but they don’t care about that. Anything close to Senna is news right now” He doesn’t tell her that it is only intensified by the FIA’s attempt to distract the sports media from the unrest and squabbles inside Formula 1, that would probably just make her angrier, and they can’t do much about it at the moment. Eventually he’ll have to get involved, and Senna obviously, but right now the focus is on his recovery, nothing else.

“Que se fodam!”

Keeping the kids away from the front pages is also a team effort that requires using multiple hospital entrances, and some rather silly stunts like teasing that Senna is being discharged on a different day or even that his famous ex-girlfriend is due a visit. Alain doesn’t particularly enjoy this mess, but he is good at it, then again media training in the paddock is one thing, but this isn’t sports media alone, and French tabloids can be vicious. He still has flashbacks of cars burning outside his house; right now, he is doing his best to shield them all from that madness, but he suspects he will inevitably fail.

So, when Ayrton wants to give a press conference he initially resists, it might just be adding fuel to the fire. Senna likes to be candid; but Alain is thinking further ahead. They go back and forth on this for a while, both sides are somewhat right.

“I’m just thinking about the privacy”

“Mine?”

“All of us, I’m here, my son is here too.”

“Not saying anything makes people wonder the most, you know how it is.”

After a picture of a convalescing Ayrton on his hospital robe appears plastered on every major newspaper across Europe, he has to give in. Apart from everything else, he is more than a little paranoid that they’ll be seen cuddling on bed. What a gift to the sports media of the world that’d be. The scoop would cost millions (it would cost them much more). They are already having a ball with “Ardent rival Alain Prost never leaving Senna’s bedside” or “L'homme qui a ramassé après l'accident”, they make it sound like he picked Ayrton off the tarmac and operated on him himself. He is happy that Senna’s family doesn’t read French newspapers because the whole situation it’s mortifying. There are even nasty segments suggesting that their feud was always a media stunt designed to sell F1 tickets. As if years of hurtful fights could have been for show.

In the end they coordinate it for the day Senna is cleared from the hospital. That way they can do it outside and they have a good excuse to make it brief. You can’t clog a hospital entrance for too long, even if it’s technically out of the way.

It is supposed to be brief. Senna giving a short speech, a representative from Williams taking care of the questions relating to F1 and him and the treating doctor relaying basic information about the medical aspects, but naturally it derails.

What is supposed to be a controlled affair becomes a spectacle. Alain is again reminded that Senna isn’t only a racing driver, he is a celebrity, and to the Brazilians he is a hero. More than a dozen journalists travelled all the way from Brazil, along with all the French and some international media, and there are at least a hundred fans waiting outside, hoping to get a glimpse of their hero, alive. Getting away from the crowd will be a feat. It’s not the first time he regrets having bought a house so close to the hospital, but it is the first time he wonders if Anne Marie was right? Was he exposing Nico in an unnecessary manner?

Senna goes off script because of course he fucking does, and there winds up being extensive talk about the crash. Ayrton begins talking about the conditions in Imola, the problems with the regulations and how that affected the car. Then he speaks on Rubens accident. His voice turns solemn when he talks of Ratzenberg and Alain doesn’t have to look to know his eyes are shinning when he calls for a minute of silence.

Didier, Gilles and Elio inevitably come to mind. The crowd is compelled to silence and even the cameras cease their snaps for a moment, but he hears rain.

“Mr Senna, will you tell us about the crash?”

So, he talks about what happened and how it felt, the feeling of losing control, the swirl of the car, the sensation of the impact. He is measured when he speaks, considering every word and it’s like so many other times: the press are enraptured, hitching their breath on every single one of Ayrton’s words; but Alain’s ears ring with the sound of raindrops, the buzz of the motor and metal hitting concrete. He is grateful for so many years of media training and interactions, otherwise he would puke right then and there.

Senna speaks in English and at some point, in Portuguese, and Alain doesn’t only have to listen, but translate for the French press himself. He recounts Senna’s words as faithfully as possible and even has to double check a couple of times. “What word did you use to describe the pain? Oh d’accord” “Muro? Ah as in the wall”. The nausea gnaws at his throat, creeps through the pit of his stomach, he is surprised his hands aren’t shaking. At least he doesn’t barf on camera. He answers questions about the surgeries with his typical calm demeanor, and even softens some of Ayrton’s accusations about the car (no that he doesn’t agree, but he knows it will be taken out of context).

Someone asks about God and Senna has the decency to reply in English so that he can disassociate in peace for a few minutes.

“Monsieur Prost, nous sommes tous choqués de vous voir ici.” we are all shocked to see you here

“I don’t hear a question” In his annoyance he reverts to English. Maybe he wants Ayrton to understand.

“Well, what made you the right person to take over Mr. Senna’s recovery? Comment cela s’est-il passé?”

“After you’ve watched enough of your friends die you do something about it” He answers with such a polite smile that even he can feel the dissonance; and anyway, that’s not true. Black smoke lingers on his mind, Elio’s accident; a single young doctor who arrived too late and didn’t understand English, he had to translate that day too.

Well, that’s the thing we all were under the impression that you weren’t friends

“That’s the past, that ended when Alain retired, and it is a private matter.”

He wonders if Ayrton feels it too.

But it's him who puts an end to the event, reminding everyone that Senna is very much still convalescing and needs rest.

It’s the first time he’s been properly upset at Ayrton since the accident. He stays back to discuss a few things with the press team and to thank once again the hospital delegates and the treating doctor. He doesn’t look at Senna when he and his family take the car back home. In part, because he is pissed off, in part to distract the press who are still circling around them. He knows most of the local journalists and many of the sports correspondents by name. He’d known they’d have more questions, some he can deflect, others he won’t have a good reason not to answer. That’s why he had hoped for a quick press conference.

He avoids anything particularly personal, either about him or about the Da Silva’s, but the questions about his role persists and he is forced to go “No comment” more than once. He remains collected throughout all the event though. Outside some fans even ask him for autographs or to sign their Senna memorabilia, he guesses Prost is the second-best thing after Senna, or maybe he is just the closest thing they have. Other fans try to give him gifts for Ayrton, cards, chocolates and some balloons that won’t last much longer on the summer heat, but he manages to leave those with the press aide.

By the end he can barely keep it together. He doesn’t even know how he reaches the maison, at some point he must have slipped and walked on his own.

It’s the evening when he finally arrives, Neyde informs him that Ayrton is sleeping and that’s perfect because Alain really doesn’t want to face him today. He declines another one of Neyde’s impressively cooked dinners, and says he’ll be retiring too. Any other day he’d do something about the look of concern the woman gives him, but not today; the entire first floor smells like spices and butter and he needs to get away before he collapses.

He locks himself in the restroom and retches over and over, first food, then coffee and bile, until the gagging spasms die down. He can hear the whole family having dinner on the ground floor, but he can hardly look up from the toilet. It takes him so long to control himself that he briefly contemplates sleeping right there on the floor, like a hungover teenager.

Eventually he decides against it, he rather not be found like that in the morning, it wouldn’t do to preoccupy them more with his eating habits. He brushes his teeth, spits on the toilet (not very elegant but it’s all he can manage) and drags himself back to the couch in the studio. The pit of his stomach is on fire, his muscles ache and the elusive headache creeps right back.

He feels both physically and emotionally spent. Still, he can’t sleep.

It’s late when he hears the door to the studio open, not even a knock. Despite how upset he is, adrenaline jolts him alert.

“Ayrton are you okay?”

He shifts upright on the couch, and turns to face him in the darkness.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine Alain. Are you coming?”

Good He sighs in relief and it feels a bit dramatic, but honestly, it’s been a bit of a dramatic day.

“Maybe it would be better if I slept here?”

“Why?” Ayrton voice is sluggish, like he just woke up and realized Alain wasn’t there.

“Because your family is here”

He can feel, rather than see, Ayrton advancing into the studio until he is looming above him.

“Not because of the press conference?” There is an edge of defiance on his voice, despite the drowsiness.

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“That’s fine, it was fine. I’m just tired”

“And so you want to sleep on this horrible couch”

Alain chuckles.

“It’s not horrible”

Ayrton takes the opportunity to sit next to him and makes a fuzz of shifting on the lumpy leather couch.

He wants to laugh or hold onto him, but he is still upset. Giving up he turns the lamp on. In the light the scene is funny, Ayrton is wearing a big “Senninha” t-shirt and tiny boxers (good riddance to the hideous patient’s robe) sitting down he looks relaxed and sleepy sexy, while Alain is half laying in his crumpled suit, his jacket and shoes in heap on the floor, he must look disgruntled and well, not at all enticing. Immediately Senna tilts his head, serious eyes darting all over him.

Merde, he might have even stained the dress shirt, how disgusting.

“You are upset” His voice is suddenly sharper.

He tries to discreetly check down for any blotches, and sighs grateful when he finds none.

“I’m only tired”

“Que merda”

He properly turns around now; the headache gripping at the edges of his vision, his throat is sore from the earlier gagging, he coughs before talking.

“Well, I had to stay an extra hour responding to questions so that the press would let you go.” It comes out more annoyed than he had intended, the exasperation quite clear in every word. He does feel like shit.

“I even had to sign autographs. Your fans had to be content with just me.” Apparently he can’t stop himself. Merde
Brown eyes narrow, Senna’s shoulders tightening, but he doesn’t jump to the bait, rather he remains quiet for moment. He stares back at Alain with a discerning gaze and speaks softly.

“I didn’t know.”

He sounds sorry and Alain feels even more terrible than before. No one’s asked him to do this, he is here in this house, in this position of his own free will, and while he is not entirely sure how it happened, he is certain this is his place. It’s also just partially Senna’s fault that Alain is traumatized by years of racing crashes, true he did make it worse throughout the years, and even now, but it would be unfair to hold him entirely responsible. Alain had already lost people by the time Senna started with Toleman, and he still carries those loses.

“Desolé I didn’t” Alain wraps his around his, trying to emphasize his words. “I forget how much a of a star you are.” He aims for a teasing tone, but lands somewhere sad. For himself? For those who didn’t make it?

Ayrton just nods, but he doesn’t pull away.

“This is why you are upset?”

Alain’s eyes drop, the feeling of being caught washing over him again, something like shame and fear mingling in the pit of his stomach, and if he is honest grief too. He feels Ayrton’s hand tilting his chin up, and finds his eyes with a grave expression. He knows that look, the ‘I’m angry because you look like shit’ look. Does Alain really go through life looking that poorly and no one else has the decency to tell him? Or is Senna just that attuned to him? Has he always been? Probably.

“I didn’t like hearing about it.” His eyes do fill up now and he speaks in nearly a whisper.

Instead of saying anything Ayrton smiles and cradles his face, tracing the dark circles under his eyes. The gentleness of his touch keeps amazing Alain, who responds with a weak smile, sighing as he relaxes his head on Ayrton’ shoulder.

“Don’t make me translate again, please. I don’t want to hear it.”

“ Sim querido ”

Ayrton leans over him. He can feel his face growing warm with Ayrton’s breath. They stare at each other from up close, green eyes meet brown. Ayrton’ hand comes up to gently massage the back of his neck, but doesn’t move to pull him closer.

He shuts his eyes when he feels Ayrton’s lips on his, pressing tentatively. It’s both inevitable and earth shattering. It barely feels like a kiss, more like a caress, an extension of the myriads of touches they’ve explored in the past days, yet…

He blinks his eyes open and finds Ayrton staring at him with an intensity that feels unwarranted, he looks terrified.

“You are trembling”

It’s Alain who leans forward. Ayrton shivers in his arms when he kisses him but he parts his lips, leaving a gap that Alain takes. His tongue explores the depths of his mouth, tasting every bit of Ayrton, reeling on the sensation of their saliva combined and this unbearable closeness. I want us to be close, always

“Come to bed”

“Yes”

He follows Ayrton to the bedroom and has the good sense to lock the door.

With the lights off they kiss until they are breathless and then kiss again until his lips are chaffed and the separation between their mouths becomes nebulous. Ayrton kisses him like he is drinking him. He knows he moans into it because he feels the reverberation inside their mouths. Ayrton practically purrs. He doesn’t think he’s ever kissed anyone for this long. Their hands roam each other but don’t go below their clothes, their lips remain focused on their mouths and cheeks and curls. He kisses his eyelashes again, with reverence, and feels desperately agitated when Ayrton kisses his forehead. He wants to lick his neck, and feel the warmth of his skin, trace every freckle and press their very muscles together, every tendon, every one of the wrinkles he detests on himself but worships in Ayrton, he wants to feel their bodies mold together and vanish whatever lingering feeling of separation or the near loss he had. If he could eat Ayrton up and be swallowed by him, and be reassured of the solidity of their existence in each-other’s arms. He didn’t die

But there is an unspoken limit here. Both because their family sleeps in the same house but also because it’s them, anything done hastily will explode in their faces.
Speed has not been good to them, not when they go at it together and the fear of crashing is too great for both.

When they are too tired to keep going, they settle back together, wrapped around each other. Alain is exhausted and more than a little high on adrenaline, this time he isn’t careful, he is laying on top of Ayrton completely, savoring the burn on his abused lips and the lingering sensation of every kiss across his face. It feels like his whole skin is an exposed wire, when he closes his eyes, he sees stars.

Ayrton strokes his chest lightly, drawing circles and lines, the silhouette of a racetrack (Silverstone? no, Jerez?), stopping at his ribs, he traces his thumb up and down them with some force, then his fingertips trace his sternum all the way up to his collarbone, and rest on Alain’s throat.

“Alain you can’t keep doing this.”

It feels like Ayrton isn’t just touching him, he is looking below the hood of the car, checking for the problems underneath his skin.

“I know”

Chapter Text

Having Ayrton home is complicated.

For one thing they can hardly hide their sleeping arrangements in the house, not that they are trying too hard. At first Alain loudly retires to the studio every night, just to slip back into Ayrton’s bedroom a few hours later, but honestly nobody is checking.

So, Alain gradually brings his things into the room, and moves his working station to the desk by the window. Most of the time though, he works reclined in the bedpost, with Ayrton’s head on his lap, his fingers absentmindedly threading through his curls (still careful to avoid touching the scars). It’s the easiest way to ensure he actually keeps to the bedrest, instead of wandering off citing his boredom as a perfectly good excuse to ignore doctor’s indications.

They stay up late talking.

They watch old races together, analyzing and discussing with a fervor that takes them back to the early days in the McClaren paddock, except now Alain has a flawless strategy to distract Ayrton should he get fixated on a minor thing. He too loses track of the arguments though, the surreal sensation of kissing Ayrton taking over, rendering disagreements quite meaningless. They do talk a lot, leaving conversations merely paused when they are interrupted by medics, or dinner, or the ringing of the phone (a number that apparently every single person on the f1 industry has managed to get a hold of). They don’t discuss their past though, never that, rather Ayrton wants to know everything about Prost’s early years in Formula 1, his outlook on being a father, life in Switzerland or whatever it’s on his mind; and Alain loves hearing about Brazil. Senna’s eyes shine whenever he describes it, be it the beaches or the food or just Sao Paulo as an old regal city; his favorite thing is when he is too enthralled in an anecdote and gradually switches the language until Alain’s capacity to understand is minimal. He doesn’t interrupt him, just listens to the singsong melody of Portuguese, until Ayrton catches up and whines “You are not even listening”, “But I am”.

They watch movies. Sometimes they get popcorn and sodas and Bruno and Nico pick the films (they’ve watched Free Willy and Jurassic Park twice each) since the subtitles are in French Nico whispers the dialogues to Bruno, who understand some English, so between the two they figure it out. It’s a delicacy to see them develop their common language beyond the adults around them. The ambience of familiarity is disorienting, it’s both natural and incredibly unique: Watching the silhouettes of the kids, who sit on the very edge of the bed, dangling their feet below and talking (babbling really) in multiple languages, while he gets to sit next to Ayrton, head reclined on his shoulder, fingers barely entwined. He reminds himself that not everyone needs to see what they are doing, even if there is nothing wrong with it.

With the runtime everyone is mostly asleep by the end and Alain has to carry Bruno back to bed. Nico being too proud and old for such treatment sleepily walks back on his own. When Ayrton insists on helping, Alain shushes him away (lifting heavy objects is a no-no of head injuries) and watches him fall back into the pillows with a giddy smile. If the kids think it strange, they say nothing.

The adults on the house say nothing either, if they have opinions, they keep it to themselves, and Alain hasn’t felt any change in the way Senna’s family treats him.

“Are your parents okay with this? Me sleeping in your bed every night?” He finally asks, turning the lights off and arranging himself in bed.

“Well, they know you are French” He can guess more than see the cheeky smile on Ayrton’s face, but Alain thinks he hears a pause.

He becomes distracted when Ayrton grabs his chin and turns him around into a soft kiss. Sighing content he almost drops the subject.

“Your parents are no fools, and they are catholic” Like you. He has found Senna praying more often since coming home, since that night. It wasn’t a one-time occurrence, if anything they are kissing every time they don’t have an audience, but when Ayrton is all alone, he prays and prays and Alain can’t help but wonder if it is an act of repentance.

“No, but to them you are the man who saved their Becco.”

“Arrête, that’s media talking”

“It’s not, really; they say it”

He wants to ask him what he thinks, but he is not sure he can stomach the answer. Alain Prost is nobody’s savoir and he hates to think Senna could see him that way, feel obliged to him in some way.

“You’d have done the same”

“No, no I don’t think I would have.” Even in the dark he notices those brown eyes becoming cloudy and it’s not his imagination that Ayrton scoots a little closer. “I don’t think I could have”. His voice sounds small.

“Too painful” he sighs as an explanation. Oh but it was. But that’s not somewhere he wants to go. Alain has noticed with some embarrassment that even a mention of the accident will make him nauseous and he is trying so hard.

“What do they think we are to each other? Good friends? Colleagues? Rivals?…”

“Lovers?” supplies Ayrton as he catches his lip with a bite, Alain is completely unable to tell if he is punctuating the question or just trying to distract him, in any case he whimpers.

Heat rushes to his head, both for the feeling of Ayrton’s teeth on him and for the implication.

“Yes, do they think we are lovers?” He forces himself to say it. Because it’s not a ridiculous thing to say. They’ve been having some pretty intense make out sessions that leave him feeling like a horny teenager: not knowing the next steps or what is or isn’t allowed. It is confusing because he wants everything that he can get from Ayrton but every time it’s unlike any other encounter he’s ever had. Alain’s been with men, albeit in specific situations, drunk out of his mind in F1 parties’ lavatories, for example; and it’s always been quick, effective (like everything Niki does), getting a friend off, giving them a hand so to speak; if there were kisses, they were simply the preamble to something else. He’s only been on his knees with Nelson but it wasn’t about romance at all, they were friends, he was simply a young French guy in 80’s. This is nothing like that, he feels like his heart is beating on his mouth whenever he kisses Senna.

Ayrton doesn’t immediately reply. His arms snatch him closer, and by now Alain knows that is his preferred mode of sleep is tightly pressed together, entangled, so he assumes it’s a cue for them to drop it.

“Alain, you are getting ahead” The calm intense manner in which Ayrton speaks on his ear makes Alain’s mouth go dry. It feels like a premonition, like he knows exactly what’s going to happen and how; it’s thrilling and deeply soothing. This time he shivers when Ayrton’s hand settles on the small of his back. He shuts his eyes tight and commits the moment to memory.

It’s the first night his dreams turn truly physical, though vague. He dreams of Ayrton’s full lips, his broad back peppered with freckles, a hand holding him down, pushing him down, fingers around his throat pressing, moaning, the sound of their names combined, and then just a proper universe of sensations he’s both familiar and very unfamiliar with. He thinks he dreams of feeling full and an ache he is not quite sure he understands. He wakes up flustered and so hard.

Away from the hospital it’s difficult to keep Ayrton in check. He is after all famously stubborn.

The surgeon, the treating doctor, and Sid Atkins all agree he still needs rest, but Ayrton wants to go running, wants to go racing truly but he has the decency to not say it aloud yet. Still, running is very much not allowed when recovering from serious head injuries and the issue grows into a family wide discussion, in which his mãe, pai, Viviane and even the kids (not that they’d have any saying) refer to Alain’s opinion. Ayrton is both pissed and more than a little impressed by this development. He mocks “the proffeseur” but Alain remains impressively unfunny in the matter. They settle on physical therapy first once, then twice a day, and long walks to slow him into cardio. The negotiation also includes that his eating reverts strictly to the doctors advised diet (after a few days of indulgence promoted by the Da Silva’s) but Ayrton agrees on one condition.

“Okay, I’ll eat anything you eat.”

Alain stammers only a little at that, both ashamed and moved.

He is eating more consistently now that Ayrton is watching him, but thankfully that threat doesn’t last. Senna’s appetite is ravenous and Alain still has a meek appetite most of the days, any inconvenience deters it, but he is making an effort, if not for him to avoid the cloud of worry on Ayrton’s face every time he declines a meal. The fortifying food Neyde cooks them seems designed to both get her son back on his feet and to nurture Alain with as little fuss as possible; he’s never had so many broths in his life.

A frigid fight with his ex-wife does end with him kneeling on the toilet. They’ve never used to fight like that, Anne-Marie and him, they are friends and parents first, exes second; but Alain was an asshole when he negotiated Nico’s stay, and despite having apologized, the relationship is now fairly tense. He’s barely seen Sacha since the spring, and it’s his fault, he is convinced that he is the absolute worst father in the universe, but he unsure on how to proceed. Truly though he doesn’t want to part with Nico for even a day, it’s not entirely selfishness or normal worry. It’s a similar sensation to when he was a little baby, like he couldn’t look away for a second. Deep apprehension. It extends somewhat to everybody, Bruno in particular, he is so little and reminds him so very much of a young Ayrton that it breaks his heart; but also, Neyde and Milton (mãe and pai as they insist, he calls them) procuring their comfort becomes an incredibly personal task that is driving his agent nuts by the way. It doesn’t happen with Viviane though. In a strange way it’s like having gone through that hell of the first week together grants her a pass from his anxiety, like they are partners of a shared misery.

The visits are another issue.

Everyone and their mother want so see Senna. With the French Grand Prix right around the corner all their friends and even not so great friends decide to come down. Alain has to enforce some sort of ground rules. Berger and Niki are allowed whenever, even if he distinctly suspects that Berger hates him. Niki is pretty good about short sweet (his version of sweet) visits, and he brings important information: They announced the formation of the driver’s association in Monaco, and both Prost and Senna have to officially join. Then there is the Williams team visit, the necessary people are allowed in and only some invited to stay for dinner; the McClaren team visit effectively means Alain is forced out of his own house for a few hours.

So, he takes Bruno and Nico for a museum day at the Jardin des Plants. Nico might be a bit old to be marveled by dinosaurs but Bruno isn’t. He barely thinks about the fact that his old team, and the man who drove him out of it are sitting on a house he bought for said man. It’s complicated he’d tell Anne Marie if she was talking to him. However, they do have a fantastic day, complete with gelato and a stroll through the zoo. It’s only made better by the way Ayrton beams when the kids relay the adventures of the day. He brings Alain for a hug and nuzzles his nose in his neck watching him through lowered lashes. A deeply tender smile lingers on his lips and Alain is too awestruck to even pretend to push him off. The kids pay them no mind, too distracted with their own retelling of just how many and how big the skeletons were.

It is also an awkward day when Nigel and Nelson come to visit. Both because Mansell and Senna have had their issues in the past (and they are both too hardheaded to talk it through) but specially because Ayrton decides to be absolutely horrendous to Nelson for no specific reason. Sure, Piquet can be difficult, annoying and downright rude sometimes, but he is behaving quite nicely today and Alain thinks that visiting Senna was a good gesture on his part. Yet, Senna either interrupts and taunts him, or completely ignores his attempts at conversation.

Not even an hour has passed when Alain decides that enough is enough and actually, he wants to catch up with his friend who is still making an effort. Of course, the moment he brings up biking with Nelson, Ayrton reacts so strongly that Alain genuinely worries he might be unwell. Alarm immediately coursing through his body. But Ayrton reassures him that he is simply in a funny mood and no he isn’t feeling sick or weak in the least; and Nigel insists that he’s more than capable of looking over him for a few hours. Not that it’s strictly necessary, but his friend can evidently tell he needs this. So, Alain goes through with taking Nelson to bike through a nearby forest. They end up having a lovely outing even if he remains a bit anxious about leaving Senna, Nelson coarse humor and bluntness is a good remedy for overthinking. The nature, the act of intentionally moving his body and the banter help him relax in ways he didn’t know he needed. By the end he is even feeling hungry.

They get back in the evening, sweaty and satisfied, to find Senna somehow still fuming and Nigel looking like he’s never been more amused in his life. It’s awkward for a minute again but Milton and Neyde join them for dinner and it turns into a rather lively event. With ample food and wine (Alain focuses on the wine) and with old stories of Ayrton’s childhood provided by their parents, along with pictures of his carting days (Alain saves a photo of a 20’s something smiling Ayrton fixing his car).

Nigel and Nelson counter with absolutely mortifying stories of the Senna/Prost rivalry; stories that Alain hadn’t quite realized others were privy to. After the third anecdote involving petty statements to the press and screaming matches his palms are sweating and he can hardly make eye contact with Senna’s parents.

His face is on his hands when Piquet retells the time the entire paddock put a bet on how many minutes it would take them to snap at each other over pilots’ meeting. The Brazilian was quite smug to announce he’d taken almost 800 dollars at 5.5 minutes.

“I had my money on 4, but I was the closest. Technically I was spot on if you count Alain’s huffing”

“Ah but we said they had to verbally spat. Cos if Senna’s murder eyes counted there’d be no bet.”

Alain wants to disappear under the earth as they discuss if a loud huff counts as verbal aggression. Neyde’s call me mãe all-knowing eyes are set on him.

“Oh god you must think so poorly of me.”

She gives his shoulder a light rub, paired with a sympathetic smile.

“Oh, meu filho, Becco’s sempre foi uma ameaça”

The roar of laughter lights up the room easing his humiliation a bit.

“A threat, a menace” Nelson supplies with a smug grin for Nigel and him, though he is understanding more and Portuguese these days.

“Mãe, você deveria me defender.” Ayrton pouts but it doesn’t reach his eyes, his sour mood seems to have mellowed but he sits at the other end of the table. Alain feels foolish at how much he craves to touch him.

“Well even your mum says so Senna” Nigel pats Ayrton on the back and ruffles his hair with a rough hand. Alain goes still.

“Nigel! He had surgery, careful you savage.”

Nigel laughs but it doesn’t reach his soulful eyes, still he carries on mocking them.

“You are no fun Prost, and you are una ameaza”

“Uma, uma ameaça” Mouths Neyde, emphasizing the M in ‘uma’, whilst offering her cup at Alain who immediately tops her wine before refilling his own cup. How many bottles have they opened already? “How come you never taught them portuguese meu filho, que vergonha”

Senna says something about brits being unable to learn languages and Alain teases Nigel in Italian. It’s beautifully vindicating to see that Ayrton’s Becco’s family approach to love and care is incessant teasing. He is tipsy on gratitude for this unlikely group of people around his table.

In the end, it’s Milton, who’s been smoking quietly next to his wife, wearing that familiar thoughtful expression Alain knows so well from his son, who settles the matter.

“True passion can cause disaster, when it has nowhere to go.”

“Pai, acho que você quis dizer outra coisa.” Father, I think you misspoke Ayrton frowns a little.

“Eu não me enganei ao falar.” I didn’t misspeak Says Milton giving a long drag to his cigarette.

Ayrton starts to cough so loudly Nigel that pats him in the back with the force to dislodge any imaginary bits of food, and Alain is about to scold him when his brain finally processes the words. He downs his wine in one go. Neyde murmurs something about uma dupla ameaça. He looks around trying to avoid everybody’s gaze but his eyes land on Nelson who has a heavy-set smile that feels too rehearsed.
When they part Nelson lingers on the hug, and tells him pointedly to eat more, that “Shuffling it around the plate doesn’t count” and that “You are retired, you are supposed to put on weight not loose it”.

Nigel is drunk and happy, and perhaps a little melancholic when he squeezes Alain in a crushing goodbye hold.

“What a lovely evening Alain. It’s really wonderful to see you both so, so… Elio, he would have loved you two.”

Alain feels incredibly grateful and sad that that’s where Nigel’s mind went, and he returns the hug, patting Nigel on the back. He wishes he had something to nice to say about their long-gone friend, but he is tipsy and a bit overwhelmed.

“But I really wouldn’t press him like that, going off with Piquet of all people, it’s not good in his condition” He snickers on his way out.

Oh you damn savage

Though Senna is busy helping his father with the dishes on the other side of the room, he definitely overhears, judging by the redness creeping up his ears and the fact that he drops the forks he was cleaning out.

It’s just them on the dinner, when everyone’s retired upstairs, but Ayrton is still sitting on the other end of the table. Alain is nursing the last of the wine, not wanting to leave a half bottle open. Ayrton looks at him with a long stare, his eyes slightly narrow.

“You were horrible to Nelson earlier” He pours the last dregs of wine on his cup.

Ayrton adjusts himself on the chair and looks at Alain with a wary expression.

“It’s Piquet, I doubt he noticed” He laughs but it’s dry.

“Look I know he is… well, him” He waves around as if to illustrate the expected difficulties of being friends with Nelson. “But he did come here to see you.”

Senna actually huffs.

“Prost you can’t actually believe he came because of me?”

“We are friends Senna he can see me whenever he wants to”

They never use their last names anymore; this distance is confusing, but it means Alain can observe him. The color has come back to his face and he looks less gaunt, no eyebags since they’ve been sleeping so much. He has been wearing a big cap to hide his scar, but he’s lost it at some point of the night and his curls are somewhat ruffled. His jaw might be stiff with something Alain doesn’t quite understand but he looks firm, strong. Alain’s eyes wander to the hair on his chest peaking below the shirt and on his arms, tanned even now. He is too tipsy to pretend he is not turned on.

“Not with me.” Ayrton chides.

“Wait, what is that supposed to mean?”

Ayrton draws his chair back; his lips are suddenly pressed and those big eyes are watching him with something akin to contempt. Oh he is mad.

Alain knew about the media stifles. Piquet had been an asshole yes, but Senna had retaliated, hadn’t he? Was this because Nelson had implied that he was a homosexual? Did Ayrton fear he’d go to the papers even now? Alain didn’t think Nelson would do that to him though, despite everything, they cared about each other.

“Is that why you sat away from me? So that he wouldn’t see us being close?”

The look of annoyance on his gorgeous features is almost funny, if it wasn't punctuated by that long serious stare.

“I don’t care what he sees.”

“So why are you angry at me?” He fears he might be whining, but it’s an unfair situation and Alain was having such a lovely night.

“You are not understanding” Ayrton shakes his head, agitated.

“Then kindly explain s'il te plaît?

From the other end of the table Ayrton looks away, he pushes his chair further back and Alain wonders if he is going to leave him there. He doesn’t, but he doesn’t say anything either. The silence stretches, Ayrton can look so defiant but also somewhat vulnerable. Alain doesn't want to argue anymore, just reach for him.

“Did he say something?” Now he was getting annoyed at Nelson, despite the fact that it was Senna who was giving him a hard time.

“No, yes, but not today. He said… once he said he’d, he implied you and him” Senna lowers his gaze staring at the table as if it was infinitely more interesting than the drunk pleading eyes of Alain.

“Ah”

“Si?” Senna’s eyes grow incredibly large, and there is hint of desperation in his voice.

“It wasn’t like that, at all.”

Alain’s pulse is rushing, he realizes he is nervous and maybe a bit angry at Ayrton too who is still looking at him with a distrust he has never earned. Why must he be like that? Always ready to assume he wants to personally wrong him, even now.

“It was a different time, I was different. There were a lot of parties and mess, crashed cars on lobbies with the old guard. Most of them are dead now. Only Nelson and I, and well Niki, but Niki is Niki okay?”

Ayrton’s face softness a bit, but he is still leaning away from Alain, defensive. As if he was going to actually harm him in some way. It’s a strange mix of anger and fear and Oh, he is jealous and Alain doesn’t even get to feel flattered because he is being so dramatic. In fact, this is actually concerning, even if he doesn't feel at fault. The situation might not make much sense to him, but it’s evidently distressing enough to act like this. He doesn’t want; would never want for Ayrton to doubt how much he means to him.

He pushes the chair behind and gets up sustaining Ayrton’s gaze. He seems to recoil but Alain understands now, it’s fear mostly, and he is not good at processing it, that’s why he must be the composed one.

“Ayrton, love, I’m sorry if I made you jealous, it wasn’t my intention.”

He stumbles a bit and places a hand on Ayrton’s shoulder to steady himself. Ayrton’s eyes are almost watery and he is trembling slightly, some shock mixing with other things, perhaps embarassment at how badly he is taking this. Alain really want to reassure him.

“It was nothing like this, nothing’s ever been.” He leans down and murmurs on his ear.

Alain nuzzles his nose on Ayrton’s and catches his lips in a smooth kiss.

“Nothing ever could be meu amor.” His pronunciation is terrible he knows, it might even be old fashioned, as he’s only heard Senna’s parents calling each other that, but still, he hopes his attempts to speak Ayrton’s language help convey the depth of his emotion.

In a second Ayrton is standing, pulling him into an embrace and simultaneously pushing him against the table. Alain whines in shock when he pulls his head back and teethed kiss connects to his collarbone. Ayrton kisses, licks and bites his neck until Alain is trembling, stifling a moan. He shuts his eyes and holds on, stroking Ayrton’s back with force to steady himself.

“Ayrton”

He whimpers when he realizes Ayrton’s hand are wandering below his shirt, roughly caressing his nipples.

“Alain” it’s barely a whisper but he sounds just as ruined and Alain can’t process words anymore.

Suddenly Ayrton kneels and Alain has to grab onto the table to steady himself. Looking down he is met with enormous eyes, pupils blown wide and Ayrton’s red lips slightly ajar. Alain’s pulse buzzes on his ears. It’s possible he might have a heart attack. He feels a tremor through his entire body and covers his own mouth in anticipation.

“Is this good?” Ayrton’s voice is rough.

He nods furiously. In the back of his mind, he scolds himself for being this careless, (in the dinner of all places) but he can’t properly think when he feels the warmth emanating from Ayrton’s hands playfully palming the front of his pants. Alain thrusts his hips forward and lets out a ragged breath.

“Please”

All doubts leave his head when Ayrton pushes his pants down. He doesn’t have much time to feel self-conscious and anyway Ayrton hums in pleasure before taking him in his mouth.

Ayrton sucks him like he does everything, relentless, with a raw passion. Alain can’t help but moan and buckle his hips forward. He covers his mouth with his hand and presses hard in a futile attempt to suppress the sounds he can’t help but make. His other hand supports him against the table and he can get no purchase or traction, Ayrton completely in charge of the rhythm. Alain can barely make out the different sensations. His eyes are pressed shut and he can only feel the warm wetness of his mouth, the grip of his hands on his thighs. Ayrton’s warm tongue swirls on the tip of his cock, his cheeks hollow and his lips pressing to him, his moans reverberating in Alain's skin. He knows he won’t last much.

When Ayrton’s hand wraps around the base of his cock and begins pumping at the same rhythm he is sucking, well, he doesn’t have time to warn him. Alain bites the back of his hand to quiet the shouting lodged in his throat. It comes as stutter as he spills on Ayrton’s mouth, and him, the little devil, keeps sucking with force.

His breath is terribly ragged, and actual tears roll down his face, he can't feel his hands.

He opens his eyes to see Ayrton swallowing with some difficulty, gagging slightly, his breath just as hitched. His eyes are glassy and his lips are impossibly red. Alain knows it’s impossible but he wants to come all over again.

When Ayrton pops out, he shudders helplessly and slumps forward. Thankfully Ayrton is up soon enough to hold him. He has the most mischievous smile Alain has ever seen, but he holds him firmly and brushes away the tears on his cheeks.

“Was that good?” There is a haze of laughter on his voice, both amused and maybe nervous.

Alain hits him lightly.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know, you were pretty quiet” His lips curve even upwards into the actual cheekiest grin. It reminds Alain of the cheshire cat, of the moon, in his daze this makes sense.

“Uma ameaça” He’s been practicing in his head all night, figuring Ayrton would earn it soon enough.

Ayrton bites his earlobe while purring.

Alain is not entirely sure of what just happened but he might just be okay with loosing arguments this way. Because Ayrton looks at him like he's just been conquered.

“I’m sorry.”

He’s calmed down a bit, although his legs still feel like jelly.

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I really didn’t.”

“I understand Alain.”

Ayrton leans in and kisses his forehead.

Alain slumps into his chest and allows him to lead them upstairs.

It’s late and dark in the room when they lodge next to each other. It’s such a warm summer night, but Alain crawls next to Ayrton needing the contact, not minding their combined sweat.

Ayrton is not sleepy at all, he feels like all he does is sleep and eat actually, and his body is thrumming with excitement. His mind is racing, his heart is racing, it’s the adrenaline he knows so well, but he cradles Alain to his chest until his breath is even and his face is completely relaxed.

As victorious as he feels, there is also worry pooling at the pit of his stomach. Alain looks paler and much lighter than he remembered, he is always been rather thin, but Ayrton is starting to understand the graveness of the situation. He traces his fingers over Alain’s chest, covered by the cotton under shirt and he does feel his ribs slightly poking, like small dentures. Alain shuffles a little and sighs into his chest. He wants to kiss him but not to wake him, so he does the next best thing, pressing himself against him, feeling as much skin contact as possible. Alain is wearing only his boxers and Ayrton feels both tenderness and another surge of arousal when their thighs press together.

“Amor da minha vida” he murmurs.

Alain hears him but he doesn’t register the words, too spent to translate. He is asleep soon enough.

Chapter Text

Imola

Monaco

Montmelo

Montreal

France

Silverstone

And next Hockenheim

It’s been seven races and three months since he’s been inside the car. His life is racing, he can barely recall a time when he wasn’t racing, that not just something he says in interviews. Gehrard insists he at least go see the race at Silverstone, but why would he go watch Schumaher in that damned Bennetton and Hill get his points? His trophy? His podium? He doesn’t want to attend the races; he wants to win them, he must.

Ayrton Senna thinks he was supposed to die that day in Imola. That’s the real reason why everything is different now, why he is not in a racing car and still is him. Waking up at the hospital was a surprise (more so than the crash) but seeing Alain there wasn’t.

As the meds wore off it felt like turning off the engine, he was disoriented, hands and legs ached without the pressure and speed. Arriving a hospital room instead of a podium was unreal, he’d driven to the end, on the edge of death, he deserved a trophy: Alain was there, avoiding his gaze, concerned with the doctor but Ayrton knew right then and there.

He knows it now.

The bridge between the wall at Tamburello and the hospital bed is Alain, that’s not a mystery. If he is alive, it is because of him. A continuum; from the moment they’d parted in the garage, the vision of green pales eyes through his visor, a tunnel, all the way to a white room in Paris.

God had put them on each other’s path, standing on the way between him and victory, on the podium, as above as below, always together, the only measure of success beating each-other, taking victory from each other’s hands, and granting something else, something much sweeter even.

Sid confirms it. “I believed your soul had gone with that breathe." The racing doctor might not be much of a believer, but he is right. Ayrton “left” if only for a few minutes according to the medical records.

But it was his body which suffered greatly, his soul never left the track. He saw the race from above, not Imola, but all, all his wins and all his loses, from carting to now, to winning Interlagos, Suzuka 89 and 90, and before F3, feeling the force of the wheel in his hands, the throttle of the car, the pull of every corner, over and over, onward. And beyond the confines of the car, there was Alain, calling his name. Surgeries or no surgeries, he arrived because Alain had stood on the road between him and fate, and God in his mercy had brought Ayrton’s soul back into his body. Back to glory, back to racing, back to his Alain.

He is certain.

It's hard to explain to others. His family understands, not all of it, but Vivi’s in her intuition gets the role ‘Prost’ plays in his life; while his parents… Ayrton knows that the grand relief of seeing him alive (and seeing Alain fight for him) fuels their affection and it really explains how relaxed they are with seeing them together, but that’s not to say that there haven’t been veiled conversations in the past few weeks. "Seja prudente, filho." Still, they adore Alain and take care of him and his son like their own, they are their own.

But, Gehrard is another story. He doesn’t get it and goes from being confused to accusing Ayrton of betraying him, to suggesting he might not be on his right mind. It hurts, Ayrton wants to scream at his friend, but he won’t listen to his explanations, not really and as they keep talking the argument resurfaces in different ways.

“He was feral Ayrton, I thought they were gonna throw him out, but they didn’t… and then Sid and the medics, they were all asking him questions, discussing, not even your lawyer or Frank… He didn’t leave the whole week, not once.”

In Gehrard’s eyes Prost went from being the person who made Ayrton go insane with frustration, someone they’d make crude jokes about, someone he couldn’t stop talking about badly, all the time, to the man storming into the OR, deciding things on his behalf …

“When I called Vivi they told me she was already on her way… Alain Prost had arranged that”

The implicit question is why? Why him?

Ayrton doesn’t want to admit that he hasn’t been truthful, he’s never lied to Gehrard, but it’s different now. To explain it would be to spoil it, but Gehrard looks at him supplicant.

“Trust me, yes?”

“I don’t really have an option, do I Ayrton?”

Their friendship is strong, he’ll grow to understand, everyone will, Ayrton knows this, but it hurts them both.

Gehrard’s just left after trying to convince him once more to go watch the race at Silverstone, when Alain barges into their room flustered announcing he’s being forced to attend the racing weekend to comment for TF1. In between hurriedly packing and cursing in French, he explains that his agent managed to freeze his contracts rather than dissolve them, and thus he is still bound to work, some of the time, at least a few races. ‘It’s a mess dear, I’m sorry’.

Ayrton doesn’t go with him. His decision was already made, but he tunes through the French channel, and for once his focus isn’t on the cars and the points, that becomes trivial when Alain is there, far from him. It had been the same with his retirement, the need to be close rearranging his mind saudade, saudade de ele… He zeros in on Alain’s commentary, noticing the inflection of his voice, the low rustle he can make out in the audio. His observations are smart and polite but lack any humor, and Ayrton thinks too much of the pauses and the hitch of his breath over the transmission. By the end of the qualifications, he’s cursing himself for letting Alain go alone. He tries to call but they miss each other, and by Sunday Vivi has to stop him driving to the airport and hopping on a flight, any flight to London. “He might be on his way back already Becco” He tapes the race and watches it again in the morning mumbling profanities to the screen, and then again in the afternoon and he is about to play it one more time when Alain finally calls from the airport, he’s got a night flight, he’ll be home soon. His voice is brittle over the line.

It's past midnight when he hears the taxi outside. He swings the door open with such force that it startles Alain, but he doesn’t care, his suspicions were right, he looks exhausted and so gaunt that Ayrton drags him straight to bed with ease, he is so light. He feeds him pão de queijo for the next days, by now he knows it’s the one thing he’ll keep down. It’s not healthy, but Alain looks like his last meal was from before he left for London and the need to feed him overpowers everything else. He can’t bear to see him weak.

Ayrton prods first kindly then rudely but Alain repeats that he is okay, and that maybe he ate something that upset his stomach. It’s a lie, but he looks so ashamed that Ayrton doesn’t have the heart to call him out on it. He’s done it before and it’s gotten them nowhere. This is not normal. Prost was a top athlete just a few months ago, now a week away drains him so. Why can’t he eat? Why won’t he tell him? Is he sick? The second he saw him in the hospital he knew something was off.

Ayrton suspects that whatever deal Alain made with fate to bring him back is taking its toll. So long as he is close by, Alain seems fine, he eats although not nearly enough, and they are happy, God they are happy together, but he is not racing and Alain seems set on starving himself.

Watching the races doesn’t seem to be the problem, they are always watching something: qualifications, practices and old tapped Grand Prixes. Unlike their past debriefs as teammates Alain has nowhere to go, to escape from Ayrton’s need to discuss everything. He even locks the door to avoid distractions, but at one point Alain figures out that he can kiss him quiet and he surrenders, not because he forgets the discussion, but because it’s Alain, kissing him, holding him.

At the same time, they are reforming the GDPA, Niki Lauda announced it in Monaco, when he was still in the hospital, but now they are both involved, and Lauda insists he needs them truly back on the season. Both Lauda and Prost navigate the FISA and FIA politics much better than he does; what responsibility is whose? Who should have intervened and didn’t? Why haven’t things changed in 20 years? They have all the information, a list of names, grievances, and the combined weight of all their lost friends. He is reassured over and over that this is what is needed, yet Ratzenberger is already buried, if they had done something earlier… but Alain is convinced that the FIA is only listening because his accident was too public and too grave, and he is “too Senna” to be ignored. It is said with a sad smile and a kiss to his knuckles that Alain doesn’t try to hide in front of Lauda, who in turn doesn’t pretend to look away.

Alain has also been on every call with Williams referring to the investigation into the crash (He’d managed to get the telemetry, and he even sent mechanics and a photographer to gather all the information from the hospital). He didn’t trust the team not to hide data if he had died. He actually says that on the call with Frank, in less accusatory words, but still Ayrton is impressed. He knows Alain’s respect for Frank makes him even tougher on him. He is downright intimidating and Ayrton is exactly as moved as he is turned on. Alain is ready to burn down bridge for him, only for him. The phrase ”I expected more from William’s” is pronounced so often and with such forcefulness that it’s Ayrton who sometimes has to mediate, no matter how much he wants to just pin Alain against the wall and have him use that voice to tell him off.

Despite the strangeness of not racing, this is everything he’s ever wanted. Alain by his side, listening to his complaints, really listening. He wants to do more than pin him to the wall, he wants to kiss him until he can’t speak actual words, he wants to envelope him completely in adoration, he wants to trace every millimeter of his body until he can reach out with his hands and draw the phantom of his muscles, simultaneously he plans to never be far enough to have to do so.

But when they hang up the phone Alain has that faraway look, his lips drawn in a thin line, oblivious to all of Ayrton’s desires. They are sitting on opposites sides of the breakfast counter, and it reminds Ayrton of a picture of them, back in McClaren in 1988, Alain’s hair was much longer, and his was much shorter. In the picture he bites his lip and Alain looks at him with a fondness he’d been oblivious to, back then.

Now it’s him who can’t hide the look of fondness, he reaches forward and cradles Alain’s face with his hand.

“Meu bem, thank you.”

Alain sinks into his palm, and he brushes his thumb over his face watching the hardness in his eyes evaporate. Except it doesn’t, not fully.

“We should have had this conversation with Frank before. I didn’t hear you” He sighs and scratches his nose. Alain does that when he is upset, but he finds it cute. He may have riled him up on purpose just to watch a couples of times.

He had heard him; he’d been the only one that took his concerns seriously.

“I shouldn’t have let you race. I should have fucking stopped you” Alain’s eyes shine with a quiet anger that is somehow directed at everything, Frank, the FIA, himself and Ayrton too.

Instinctively he lets his hand fall.

“You didn’t want to run, I could see that, and I just stood there.” Alain continues getting more wound up as he speaks, his face twisting into an ugly expression that Ayrton has seen too much of.

“Even so, I don’t know if I would have listened.” Who knows? If Alain had begged on his knees, professed his undying love, he might have been too shocked to run, but otherwise it sounds impossible.

“You went to me, you wanted me to stop you, and I didn’t”

“I don’t know that I wanted you to stop me, I wanted to be close.” He doesn’t care for Alain telling him what he wanted, but he can’t get too mad, he doesn’t want to. He refuses to break a moment to allow Alain to blame himself, but his eyes must say something, because Alain suddenly shakes his head and reaches for his hand.

They stay quiet for a while. Alain doesn’t look at him but when he speaks it is in his regular soft voice.

“So why are you?”

Alain stares at him with genuine curiosity in his face.

“Listening now, I mean”

Is he? Ayrton is not sure how to answer. Too many things have happened since the weekend at Imola, too many things were happening before. Time stretches and condenses around them. He is not the same man he was then; he is not the same man he was in 1993. This long stretch of a year has been a life after a life after a life, a roundabout procession of impossible moments, from the ringing of a phone to blinking awake, to having this, green eyes asking him questions, a body close enough to reach out and touch.

For years he’d seen him as a target, the childish explanation he’d given himself to put posters of his face on the wall. Alain was the presence, the soul of everything he dreamed of, the physical manifestation, the why winning was everything, but he’d failed to see the man for so long. This wasn’t a holy battle, but one of flesh and blood. Not having him close, it had fucked him up in more ways that he dared to admit.

Now he’s here, eyes clear, upset on his behalf in every call, warm by his side every night, trembling with nightmares about his death.

He pushes himself up and circles the breakfast counter to stand behind him. Alain furrows his brow at the motion, before he realizes that Ayrton is just getting closer, próximo a você

He loves this position, towering over him, green eyes looking up at him expectantly. He draws him in from behind and wraps his arms around him. Ayrton soaks in the warmth of his body, the soft curve of his back against him, the soapy scent of lavender hanging onto his curls.

“It doesn’t feel like it’s just me now. You want me to win, no?” It had always been him alone, with God, but alone against everybody else. Not even his family, his friends, the fans, his country, no, he’d been essentially alone in a way he could never explain, but he didn’t need to, not to him.

Alain looks up at him, green eyes lit up; leaning against his chest and for a moment Ayrton is not sure he wants anything else in the world, for a brief second the prospect of leaving absolutely everything behind if Alain says he doesn’t want him to race anymore, for one single second it doesn’t sound impossible.

“Yes” He concedes “in a safe car of course, but yes, you know I do.”

It means everything that he can have both.

“Then we are together in this. We decide together.”

He presses his whole body to Alain and relishes on the tiny gasp that escapes his mouth.

“You listen, I listen” He bends down and whispers into his ear.

The way Alain breath catches is both adorable and hot.

“Like two mature adults, what a change.”

“Uhm hum” Now he is beyond listening. This right here is all the certainty he needs in the world. He tilts Alain’s head back, exposing his neck and lowers himself a bit more to peck his lips there. Alain sighs as he places a wet kiss on the base of his neck and leans into his chest, allowing him better access. He runs his hands down Alain’s torso, and the tiniest whimper escapes his lips. He wants to ravage this man, bite his neck until the mark of his teeth is permanent, and the bruise brings a hot memory of pleasure every time he touches it.

Then the sound of footsteps on the stairs distracts them.

They disentangle reluctantly and he recognizes the tinge of discomfort on Alain, it’s the same way he feels whenever they are forced to break apart (his feelings are just bigger). They’ve not talked about it, it’s just obvious and it infuriates Ayrton, parting is not a natural thing for them.

He doesn’t feel conflicted about loving Alain. It can’t be wrong; it’s like racing, sacred, He is not sure if other people have this, if they see God in their lovers, or if this is something only for them, he thinks it might be. Every new touch is a revelation, there is holiness in a love so deep. Ayrton has never been as content as when they are sleeping tucked into each other’s nooks and crannies to the point where it’s unclear whose limbs are whose, has never been as devoted as when he knelt for Alain and made him whimper in joy, has never been as delirious as when Alain had returned the favor. When they are alone their lips rarely leave one another. Just crossing eyes is enough excuse to reach out and go for a quick kiss, to reach for one another, and be there, close, próximo. Ayrton’s hands are set to the shape of every detail in Alain’s topography, and in turn Alain knows all the range of sounds his throat can produce in as many languages as he’s learned.

But amongst all of these he knows Alain is not well. Apart from the weekend at Silverstone, he is eating consistently but he keeps dropping weight which makes him think that he is vomiting. That he would hurt himself that way makes him mad, but it’s not only that. Ayrton has woken up many times to find Alain trembling looking at nothing in the distance in their room or even worse twisting in his sleep, whining in pain. It only takes a nudge, a hand placed on the small of his back, or a kiss to his temple, for him to disengage from whatever shadow has trapped him, but still Ayrton grows more worried every day, he keeps getting lighter, and he looks perpetually tired.

The day his family leaves is emotional, half of him wants follow them to Brazil, the other wants to jump back to the car (Alain in tow of course).

He cries when he hugs his mãe goodbye, everybody is at least sniffling. He hears his dad call Alain son meu filho when he gives him the “welcome to the family” handshake, his dad’s eyes are brimming and Alain is looking a bit shaken. Vivi hugs Alain goodbye almost as strongly as she hugs him, and he can tell that the concern sitting between her brows is for both. Little Bruno tries really hard to hide his tears while Nico pats his head, and Nico being a teenager acts absolutely annoyed for the rest of the evening. It’s obvious he is sad too, but he’s entered that age where he is too cool to show it, such a waste of emotions. Ayrton decides to cheer him up with different strategies, from playing Nintendo with him to speaking atrocious French and allowing the boy to correct him as many times and as smugly as he wants.

He's half expecting it when a timid knock interrupts their night routine.

“Bruno’s snores used to keep me awake, but it’s very quiet now. Can I sleep here tonight?”

Alain looks at him all conflicted.

“Ah Nico I don’t know”

He surely thinks it wouldn’t be proper, but that’s because he is European, and not used to showing unrestricted affection in the family. That will change now, their family deserves everything.

“Le lit est immense, papa, et il est juste pour toi et tonton”

Ayrton pats the bed next to him and battles his eyelashes to Alain, he’ll have to say yes. They put on Robocop on the TV set and Alain complains for the entire run.

Because Alain doesn’t eat the days Anne Marie calls “We’d never fought like this” Ayrton decides to interfere. He can only see Alain gripping the phone until his knuckles go white one too many times before he snatches it away and locks himself in the studio. He can see Alain face losing all color the brief second before he clicks the door shut, he almost feels sorry, but this is ridiculous and he can fix it.

Anne Marie is not at all what he expected. She’s smart and curious and seems casually aware of her ex-husband’s relationship with Senna. ”You’ve always been obsessed with each other.” it’s said like a passing remark between puffs of what Ayrton assumes is a cigarette. Obsessed He’ll dwell on that for days. He was obsessed, has been, is, from bedroom posters to living on his house, with his family, in Alain’s country, sadly, but that too would be fixed soon.

They speak of Nico, and her complaints are valid, a teenager needs structure and Alain has been too busy to fully attend to him, but Ayrton paints a better picture of the past few months: them having family dinners every day (a good share cooked by his mãe), pai and his strict rules on curfew and bedtime, Viviane ‘My sister, you see, she’s an famous therapist’ spending most of the time with the boys. All of the details of their domestic life that had been missed in the ex-spouse’s cold fight. He can’t believe how bad of a case Alain had made for himself, was he ashamed to tell his ex-spouse about it? Did he think it’d make her jealous? Was it? Ayrton doesn’t have any grievance against her, but he won’t hide their happiness on her account.

She’s interested in his recovery, and the F1 regulations and she is more up to date than he had imagined. Also, she asks a lot of questions: How long did his family stay? A while What is Bruno’s age? Almost 11 What did his parents think about the whole thing? Muito obrigados. In turn he gets to ask a few, which basically amount to: has Alain ever stopped eating before? There is a long pause over the line before she changes the subject. That’s enough of an answer.

Finally, they reach the point of Sacha’s visit, and it is perhaps time to involve Alain again. He cracks the door open to see Alain pretending to read on the couch, his anxious expression turns to relief when he calls him over.

By the end Anne Marie is teasing them, and Alain looks at him like he just performed magic.

“You were an hour there, what could you two possibly be talking about?”

“This and that, you, mostly about how wonderful it’s been to have Nico here.”

Later Alain informs him that his relationship with his ex-wife seems back to a stable friendship, and she’ll be bringing Sacha to stay with them for a weekend when they come back from Hungary. Ayrton is even more excited than the actual father, he normally loves kids but them being Alain’s means he adores them, the prospect of mixing their families even more makes him giddy with hope.

“So, seeing that I’ve been so wonderful to have around, can I have the new Donkey Kong uncle?”

Ayrton says yes and gives him the money immediately but he still makes Nico ask his dad.

The house is still often full, agents, lawyers, f1 officials, f1 doctors and both Gehrard and Lauda come by between races. He feels recovered, ready, his neck is still stiff from where he broke his clavicle, but he hasn’t had any more headaches, he is back in weight and the doctors are so close to clearing him, fully, officially. It’s the Germany grand prix now, he could probably be back on the car by Hungary, racing again in Belgium. He knows this year’s championship is gone, but he can’t rest any longer. Belgium will be fine, it’s Stavelot, not Zolder, where Gilles Villeneuve’s ghost would haunt Alain.

The first day he is allowed to run he comes back breathless. His body betrays him, only a month out of the car and the mere effort to move makes him break into a sweat, every muscle burns. He stares at his hands, soft, for the first time in his life, the dents and callouses of wrangling the wheel almost gone. What is this body if it’s not under pressure? Under the speed. His father had told him to be patient, recovery takes time, but he’s taken that time.
He forces his legs to move, go faster, faster, get a rhythm, the thrumming of his breath caught on his chest.

Intercranial trauma, a miracle that he survived and he can’t finish 5 kilometers run. The frustration is akin to retiring a car, a missed chance, a step further away from winning. It’s not about a trophy; it’s not even about the podium. It used to be about beating Alain, now, it’s different. He wants to race, but it’s not about that either, he has to, only there, moving through the world at 200km everything he becomes himself, “Senna”. It’s been so long.

Ayrton pushes himself, in this quaint french little park, where no one else is running. He wonders if there are paparazzi around? Probably, somewhere hiding beyond the trees with large lenses. Frustration gnaws at him. He can’t catch his breath, he must keep going, but Alain will inevitably worry.

Merda. He unclenches his fists and shakes his head. Not worth it. He significantly slows down before finally accepting defeat and turning back. He tries his best to keep his breathing in check to avoid alarming Alain. He’s already practicing what he’ll say but when he opens the front door Alain practically sprints at him from the living room, his pupils are blown wide.

“I’m fine Alain I-“

Forceful lips crash with his.

“Nico is out at the cinemateque; we have two hours”

Alain is stripping him off and leading him to up the stairs to the bathroom before his brain can fully process his words, but once he catches up, he practically pushes Alain in the shower catching his mouth with his own. He removes Alain’s clothes with haste all the while kissing his mouth, his neck, shoulders, biting his thighs, every new spot of skin he uncovers. Alain pants his name, eyes heavenward. At some point they turn on the water, and he is breathless for entirely different reasons.

Being fully naked and pressed on each other Alain has the gall to blush, after everything they’ve done together, but Ayrton loves him the more for it. His hands are two independent entities, wandering all over Alain’s chest, his legs, cupping his ass, spreading him and rubbing him. Fuck he wants to be inside. Ayrton blushes at the realization because that’s, that’s not something he’s done before. He’s thought about it before with guilt, back when he was a teenager, the first time he’d kissed a man, and then often when they were teammates, but even then, he’s never allowed himself to truly entertain the idea. The concept of being inside Alain, tearing him apart from within, building him back to himself. An intrusion, only allowed to him, to Ayrton, no one else. Would Alain wail his name if he truly fucked him? He’s sure he will.

It’s magic having him like this, Ayrton wants to sob, to pray, to hold him above his head like a trophy, to devour him, but even those thoughts leave him when Alain rests his head on his chest and looks up at him behind soaked curls, face red with want and something soft, sacred, unattainable behind his eyes. Actually, he wants nothing but this.

Chapter Text

They arrive together to the Hungary Grand Prix. Alain has TF1 duties to attend to, and Ayrton has been cleared off officially by at least two medical teams. He’ll go back to testing and if the car is stable enough, he could race next weekend. Everyone is speaking in tentative terms.

The excitement is clear having them back on the grid, even if Alain should technically be in the commentators’ parlor. The minute they enter the paddock they are swarmed by journalists, cameras and microphones shoved in their faces; they can’t resist snapping pictures of them together.

“Is it true that Mr. Prost dealt with your recovery himself?”

“My friend Alain’s been with me yes. Luckly for me he knew what to do” It wasn’t luck at all, but he’s not going to share that with the media.

”Does this mean that your rivalry is over?

“I am retired, there is nothing to compete about anymore” Alain replies sternly.

“Do you agree Mr. Senna?”

He takes advantage of this media frenzy ”giving them what they want” he whispers in Alain’s ear and hugs him close while the photographers go wild. There will be a thousand snapshots of them tomorrow exchanged like currency in writing rooms.

“That is the past and we are here to drive for the future.”

“Are you ready to go back to race? There have been many rumors that the car is unstable”

“We are all working to make the car the best possible”

“And that’s enough for today.” Alain shushes them away, hand raised like chastising children. Ayrton will never get enough of Alain’s protective side.

When the press finally lets them go it’s the turn for the mechanics to receive them with applause in the Williams Garage. There are warm faces and smiles, an absolute sense of relief, Damon Hill practically hugs them, pats on the back, Frank comes down to greet them, someone asks to look at his scar and receives both his and Alain’s death glare. They don’t question Prost’s presence in the garage, at this point he’s been as involved as him in the investigation and just the other night he told him Frank had offered a position as an advisor to the team. Ayrton would rather race against him, but Alain is adamant in not coming back to racing. Ayrton genuinely doesn’t understand, he is sure Williams would offer him a seat and they’d be teammates again but Alain absolutely refuses to even discuss it. He finally drops it when Alain threatens to leave him there and head back home, their home.

But, as an advisor Ayrton would have him close, and focused on him, solely on him, he’ll ask for it, he’ll put it in his contract, he’d even take a pay cut for it. Right now, though he needs him for the setting, that is where Alain always shines. When he was carting that was what made him notice the French rookie (that and the pictures with those short shorts Meu Deus), and as teammates it had always come in handy.

It’s hours before he’s actually back in the car. The preparation is a ritual, a return to where he is supposed to be, but it’s also incredibly intense. His focus drawn back to this, nothing else exists, he disappears, his body becomes a machine. They set up in silence, falling into a rhythm, a sacred set of steps that draw him closer to God, more than praying, this, his gloves on his hands, his hands on the wheel, the direction of it, the balaclava, a veil, Alain’s hands setting the helmet on his head, an unction.

“If it’s unstable, if it feels in any way wrong…Promise”

His voice rings odd in their shared silence.

“Si” The last dregs of his conscious self make the promise.

The thrum of the engine erases the whole world though. The second he is in the car it’s just him and the track; the car becomes an extension of himself, and he becomes a will, not a human, not a driver, just a will at 200km, going through straights and corners, a cycle, a devotion to the movement, a communion in speed.

The first lap is bliss, the second isn’t, the car is not as bad as before, but it’s unstable still. He can feel it, the nose dives too much on the corners, the throttle doesn’t feel right, it’s too light, too unpredictable, it won’t do. Lap 5. A wall of sadness presses between his ribs. He drives for a bit longer, getting more and more disappointed. Lap 10. He pushes the machine but it won’t give. Lap 12. After he tries to breakaway and the car falls short. Lap 14. His eyes sting when he turns it back around to the pits. Ayrton can’t drive like this. He is not going to die for nothing, not if he can’t win, not when he is being waited on.

The swoosh of the car deadens the sounds at the garage, where mechanics with puzzled faces are already approaching. As if they didn’t know. Alain is biting his nails, waiting for him, but before the motor is off, he’s signaling with his hand about the level, he’s seen the same issue with the balance. He is pale when he sits on the tire in front of Ayrton and starts talking discussing the lack of stability, and the suspension. It’s like before, but better. Ayrton is overwhelmed and frustrated, he is sure his eyes are watery, but Alain is there within reach. Everything he didn’t have at the start of the season. Green eyes focused on his field of vision even before he removes the helmet, that face of determination he’s been obsessed with for the better part of his career.

They have a long detailed debrief about the setting. They go around the garage speaking to the mechanics. At some point there are calls to the FISA, to Lauda. They set up a meeting with Frank, Hill shouldn’t be driving this either. They circle back; they sit on the car. Alain asks him to recount everything. Exactly how did every lap feel? Alain sits inside. He wishes he still had his seat; he needs him driving with him. He hates that he is worn out after such a short practice, he knows he should rest, but he can’t stop himself, it matters too much. The fact that Alain doesn’t suggest it makes him mad with gratitude. They go over it again, the balance, the throttle, the feel of the tires, and again. Their will can fix this analyzing every issue, lap by lap.

He guesses it’s been a while because Alain’s been yawning for a bit now. Ayrton would be more irritated if he wasn’t also anxious to be alone with him, too many hours have gone by. He is rubbing his hands together thinking of pulling Alain into his lap, ignoring his engineer. If they keep at it, he will forget and just kiss him in front of the mechanics.

“It’s time to go I think.”

Alain perks up.

They drive back, because Alain doesn’t love helicopters. “Gilles was a maniac in those things”. It’s better because he doesn’t need that much concentration on a car, his hand never leaves Alain’s thighs.

They are staying at a fancy hotel in Budapest, rooms booked separate but with connecting doors, Lauda’s suggestion. “How do you think me and James made it through the whole season?”. They’ll meet Lauda and James Hunt for a drink later, but for now they have time for an afternoon nap. He wants his limbs pressed to Alain until they reshape themselves and he fits into his William’s seat again.

Hunt picks an odd place, a mix between an old lounge bar with dim lights and a more modern karaoke, it seems designed to hide sleazy behavior. The place is full with a mix of old men with young women, and tables of teens dressed in black. The music ranges from disco to Hungarian slow tunes. They sit at a corner table at the back, the lighting is so poor they hardly got recognized at the front, and back here no one is looking.

He doesn’t drink normally and much less after the crash; also, he gets the feeling that Hunt is currently sober. So, it’s just Lauda and Alain downing whiskey and vodka, but it’s good. Lauda, he knows about them. At first Ayrton had freaked out, until Alain had laughed in his face (rude) and told him that “Niki and James are coming on 17 years together.” It’s not exactly a secret either (they share an apartment in London apparently), in Lauda’s words “Back in the seventies people weren’t such fucking prudes and everyone knew to mind their own business.” It’s comforting, he doesn’t like people to know their business either but, he likes not having to hide. Why would they? Why can’t he profess his love? Proclaim that Alain is his, his only, maybe from the top of the podium.

And Alain is in good spirits, tipsy, he sits reclining on Ayrton who has his arm around his waist, fingers pressed above his belt, feeling the small bit of exposed skin between his shirt and his jeans. He’s never partied or spent that much time with Lauda outside racing, (Lauda is quite private and famously says he has no friends, though that’s evidently a lie) and he’s never hung out with James Hunt before, he expected to be more on guard, but they are refreshingly strange. Hunt reminds him of a labrador, big blonde and waging his tail, and Lauda, despite his nickname “Ratty” James calls him, (What would be a good nickname for Alain?) resembles a stealthy cat. It’s obvious that they both care for Alain and that alone helps, but they are also brash and funny. Lauda’s spiker edges mellow around the brit, but he retains his acidic humor, it’s almost normal, domestic. Hunt pampers him to an extent that could be uncomfortable to watch, if it didn’t make Ayrton feel strangely competitive, he wants to dot on Alain more, show he loves him more.

“So, you are telling me this one here has never showed you his singing voice?”

Ayrton cocks an eyebrow up, Is that so?

“He’s been holding out on me.”

“But he is so good! Niki isn’t he so good?” James pats Niki on the knee and stares at him with brash blue eyes.

“I’ve only ever heard him while being pretty wasted myself so I’m not vouching for any secret talents” Niki speaks prudently, but his smile speaks of debauchery. What kind of parties did he take Alain to?

“Nonsense! Alain has a great signing voice and I’m signing us up.”

“Oh, James come on” Alain chides him but he looks flattered, until James leaps out of his chair and his face morphs into horror.

“Oh God, stop him!”

He’s smiling wide now, the prospect of seeing Alain on the stage too good to let it pass. All the lights shinning around him, unable to hide.

“No, don’t.”

The look of utter betrayal in Alain is hilarious.

“Won’t you sing for me?” He gives him a happy grin accompanied by pleading eyes, he even bites his lip.

James has reached the stage and is currently accosting the pianist and signaling like a mad man for Alain to join him.

“Must I?”

“You would make me happy” He shrugs feigning disinterest, but makes sure to give Alain the under the lashes look that the French can’t resist.

“You’ll be the death of me”

When Alain gets up, he is swaying, and Ayrton instinctively get up.

Niki taps the table.

“Shh, James’s got it, he is not drinking.”

He reclines back on the booth.

It’s pretty comical how James practically pushes Alain on stage as the lights dim out even more and a candid spotlight that doesn’t seem to belong in a bar like this appears over them. This will be interesting. Alain fidgets with the microphone, but James puts his arm around his shoulder and whispers something to make him laugh. It’s a nervous laugh, Ayrton can tell, but still, he’s excited to watch this.

The piano starts a slow old timey tune, something Ayrton can’t quite recognize. Slowly Alain begins to sing with a surprisingly velvety and deep voice, it seems impossible that such a rich tune would emerge from such a petite man. The contrast is only exacerbated by his tiny stature next to James’ big silhouette. His jaw goes slack.

“My days have grown so lonely, for you I cry, For you I sigh, for you dear only”

It’s truly impressing. The tune is soft and magnetic, and Alain sings looking at him from the other side of the room, guessing in the dark of this far corner, yet finding his eyes.

“Why haven’t you seen it, I’m all for you body and soul”

There is warmth rising within him, he is transfixed, his face fixed in an impossibly large grin, and Alain smiles back, just for him.

“I spend my days in longing, and wondering why it’s me you are wronging”

Ayrton almost forgets that James is right there too, until he joins in with a lot of enthusiasm and a less impressive voice. The song is a duet, he signs into Alain’s mic and hot dangerous thing coils in the pit of Ayrton’s stomach.

Niki kicks him under the table with an equally dangerous look.

“Are you pretending? it looks like the ending, and wondering why is it me you are wronging?”

“Enjoying the serenade?”

Ayrton snorts, he is beyond teasing, plus the Austrian might try to talk shit but his eyes are brimming. He is in awe watching Alain completely inhibited, singing with a deep unknown voice. As the ending approaches James joins in, and Alain truly extends his vocal range beyond what Ayrton would have ever thought possible. He swallows hard, God, he wants to provoke sounds just as deep.

Alain is relaxed, smiling on a stage, in a weird lounge in Budapest, radiating a joy and euphoria Ayrton’s never seen before, he looks so young and soft, beautiful. Untainted. The crowd cheers enthusiastically, it’s probably a rare gift to have someone who actually can sing.

He feels the connection, body and soul, not a presence in his life beyond his grasp, not a body beside him on the next car over. Body and soul laid for him only. He pushes himself up and claps along with the rest of the bar.

“Oh baby, you know I'll surrender myself to you
Body and soul”

When they rejoin the table both singers are greeted with indiscreet kisses that are only half hid by the dark corner they are at. From the corner of his eyes he can see

Niki attacking James’ face, his own buried in Alain’s curls.

“I told you he had a great voice! I did didn’t I?” Hunt most excited crawling his head in Niki’s neck.

“Yes Prost, I’ll admit it” Niki pushes Jame off halfheartedly.

“If this retirement thing doesn’t pan out you should get yourself a singing gig”

They toast to him.

“Oh arrête” He shushes them, but he looks immensely proud, smiling and looking for Ayrton’s eyes.

“You are good” He mutters into Alain’s neck.

The tips of Alain’s ears are red, but Ayrton just holds a bit him closer, no one is looking. He wants to toast; he wants to drench him in champagne and lick him clean. Alain is not a trophy; he is a win.

“Can’t wait to take you to the bars in Rio.” He can’t wait to take him everywhere, Rio, Sao Paulo, the farm in Tatui, the praias, the open sea, the sun, give him everything, every single thing he’s accomplished laid for him, all the bits of his life, body and soul.

He orders for champagne and Alain lifts an eye brow concerned; he laughs because he knows him too well. But he is nice and only pours it on a cup that he offers up with expectant eyes. For some reason this is important, to have him drink from his cup; to watch his lips touch the liquid and watch it go down his throat. Alain takes it and drinks with a nervous smile at first, then with true thirst. It’s the first of many cups. Alain drinks and eats a lot that night, it’s a celebration after all. Ayrton is back on the car; he has Alain warm and dizzy against him, the GDPA is up and running, the changes are already happening, they are out with friends not hiding behind locked doors, the tracks are getting safer, the cars are more stable, he’ll move them out of Paris. It will all be well.

Watching Alain eat is weirdly fascinating, after months of seeing him barely take a bite here and there he feels a wave of relief and satisfaction with every gulp, and every nibble. He might be over indulging as he starts feeding him chunks of cake that Alain drunkenly licks from his fingers. Niki stares at them with unveiled disgust but James smiles fondly. “They are young and in love babe”.

“They are not young.”

Alain becomes pliant in Ayrton’s arms, and occasionally a laughing mess, he smells of champagne, cologne and a little bit of sweat.
Whatever, Niki is getting trashed as well. Ayrton does wonder how James feels about that. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sober, but his guess would be since the heart attack. James Hunt was infamous for his parties before, Alain has told him scandalous stories, but here he looks like a reformed man drinking soda and barely tearing his eyes away from Niki.

“So, you are going back soon Senna?” The brits accent makes everything sound so serious.

“Yes, I’ve been officially cleared.” Many doctors have prodded and tested him. He is good to go.

“And the car?” Niki stares at him, menacing blue eyes.

Ayrton shuffles on his seat, he is not entirely comfortable with Niki’s piercing sight set on him.

“It’s getting there” He replies slowly.

Alain shakes his head.

“Nah, it’s shiiit, tellement merde” Alain slurs his words and talks loud, drunk.

“Oh that represents a problem doesn’t it?” James looks for Ayrton’s eyes with a sympathetic smile, both of their men are a mess, but Ayrton tenses up.

“We’ll get it to work.”

Niki nods solemnly despite his state.

“Not in time” Alain adds, while sipping on his drink. He doesn’t seem to have noticed that Ayrton’s jerked away.

“What do you suggest then? I retire?”

Alain frowns but doesn’t say anything.

The silence is awkward, but Ayrton doesn’t care, if he wants to say something he should just come out and say it.

“You could take the season off lad; you are still recovering.” James speaks with caution; that’s somehow worse. They are all champions, they should know, he is not going to quit, then again James Hunt nt did quit.

“I’m fine”

“He can’t stop racing.”

Reflexively he pulls further away.

“Alain…” He is surprised to hear Niki reprimanding him and not himself.

“That’s just Ayrton Senna, can’t stop, won’t stop. God commands it” Alain hiccups the last bit and both Niki and James freeze.

He can’t deal with this. It’s been 3 months; he’s been the perfect patient. He even did as he promised, barely 15 laps in. How dare he? Just because Alain could walk away that doesn’t mean he can.

He is pushing Alain off and up before he can think better of it. If Alain thinks he can mock him, tell him what to do just because he took care of him then he’ll go back home. He crosses the bar, going around the tables towards the front door. No, he’ll go back to Monaco, leave him for real and deal with all this on his own. He is almost out when the sound of footsteps distracts him and he turns around instinctively.

“Ayrton wait”

Alain looks a mess, white shirt half open and stained with champagne, hair wild, eyes unfocused, mouth half open.

Ayrton looks at him, eyes glinting with disdain, he is going to tell him to fuck off, but he doesn’t get a chance to speak.

Suddenly Alain is pushing past him, and running off, stumbling towards the toilet door.

Merda Ayrton follows in a second. When he opens the door Alain is kneeling on the minuscule toilet.

He is heaving, sleeves already rolled up. Ayrton closes the shaky door and leans against it. There’s barely anymore space, damn European bars and their tiny toilets.

“I’m sorry”

Alain throws up with a loud noise and winces.

“Agh, I’m really sorry love I don’t know why I said that”

Ayrton is not interested in the apology. Why act like everything was okay, singing, serenading him if this is how he truly feels?

A spasm seems to hit Alain again and he bows down.

“I’m sorry, fuck” he murmurs as he fidgets with the handle flushing.

Ayrton sighs, Alain looks pathetic, broken, in another time he wouldn’t have known how to feel about it: sorry, and a bit disgusted at the display of weakness probably, but now it’s only worry that fills him. It’s the one time he’s eaten in a month, why couldn’t he keep it down?

“You just drank a lot”

He is still upset but he doesn’t want Alain to feel worse.

Alain nods but keeps apologizing.

“I’m reallyreally sorry, fuck I’m Ayrton I’m sorry.” He thugs at Ayrton’s sleeve forcing him to look at him.

“Alain stop”

Alain looks like he is going to say something, but he turns his head and soon he is gagging again.

“I’m sorry, sorry, sosorry”

Alain looks so miserable, so tiny. He could crush him with his hands.

Ayrton kneels and rests his hand on Alains back, it’s tentative, and not at all the kind of soothing gesture he wants to give him.

“I’m not angry, you are drunk” He almost means it.

Alain bobs his head and stares at him.

“Ayrton you can’t drive that car, please”

“Hill is driving it and winning”

“It’s not the same, you can’t drive the way you drive on it, you know it” The effort to speak clearly is evident, but why would he use it to say deceitful things?

“You are saying the crash was my fault?” The ire runs through him, he briefly considers leaving Alain there.

“No, God no, you know I don’t mean that. Don’t you?” Alain stares at him desperately.

“Then what do you want me to do quit?! You said you wanted me to win”

A violent spasm runs through Alain’s body, and he doubles over. He speaks with his head still on the toilet and he sounds more drunk not less, his words slurring together.

“Can’t lose you, ’m sorry I just, you can’t crashagain…can’t”

He is sobbing. Shit…

“Oh, Ayrton I’m so sorry, I’m sorry” Alain says between rough coughs and Ayrton can’t muster any more anger, he swallows hard and tries to calm him down.

“Hey Alain, it’s okay, I’m here, look at me.”

But Alain shakes his head, his shoulder slump as a violent sob wrecks through him. He keeps mumbling “sorry so sorry” until the words are intelligible.

“Alain, what’s is it?”

Alain is not listening; he rests his head on his arm outstretched across the toilet, like he is ready to just lay to die there.

Ayrton begins to panic, he’s never seen Alain like this incoherent with grief, not even at the hospital, he’s never seen anyone like this. He sits on the floor tiles behind Alain and firmly pulls him onto his lap. Alain is pliant but that’s not good now, his head rolls back. He rakes his hand through Alain curls shoving them back from his face and he shivers a little.

“Querido, talk to me, por favor?”

For a moment he doesn’t speak, just sags against him.

“I’m scared, the nightmares. I keep seeing all their crashes, but it’s you, over and over.” His voice is small but sounds haunted.

“Gilles and Elio, and oh god Didi, but it’s you and I can never do anything about it. I’m frozen and you die. If I don’t do something you die every time. If I don’t do something you die.” Alain sobs as another wave of nausea hits him and he gags, leaning forwards again, but there is nothing left for him to puke.

“Shhh, breath, breath, come on, come on. I’m here” Ayrton rubs his temples.

He waits until the wave seems to have passed and pulls Alain back into his arms. He holds him tighter, and Alain sinks into the embrace. “I’m here querido”. Ayrton’s rarely been this angry with himself. Of course it was going to be a hard day, it was idiotic to feed him champagne all night, what was he thinking? He was too horny and lovestruck to notice, Alain had been frantic when eating, drinking himself to this state. He closes his eyes draws in a long steading breath.

“Is this why you don’t eat? Why you vomit sometimes?”

“Yes, yes…” Alain responds very slowly.

“How does it feel? When you do it?” Ayrton pushes through the discomfort, he needs to know if he is going to help Alain, and he must help him.

“I don’t know… bad, and then good, steady. I mean not now but” Alain touches his throat and coughs a little.

“Is this new? Has this happened before?”

Alain turns away. “Ah, yes”

“Not like this, when Gilles” his voice goes into a whisper “and Didi… I lost my appetite” Alain always looks horribly scared when he speaks of Didier’s crash. Ayrton suspects he blames himself, and the rain.

“And then with Elio’s crash, yes?”

Alain stares at him surprised.

“Ah, how did you know?”

“I was watching, you lost weight” He’d been curious and a bit worried then, having made the connection to Elio’s passing, but they weren’t close. Now he feels a little frantic needing to know how to fix this.

“Yeah, but Ayrton. Not eating? It’s a French thing, my mother would when she was stressed… but this, it had never been like this.”

It looks as if talking exhausts, him, he sinks into the embrace and Ayrton increases the pressure. He is here, he needs Alain to remember that, he is here, with him.

“You can’t stop?”

Alain shakes his head, eyes cast downward.

“Then you need to tell me, when you are going to.”

“What?”

“I hate that you do it, but I need to know” Otherwise how can he stop him?

“Why?”

“Because if not you are alone. How can I help if I don’t know about it?”

“Mnn- I, I guess”

“Hey” He takes Alains chin and forces him in the eye. “Promise to tell me, also about the nightmares, tell me, I need to know, si?”

Alain nods weakly “Oui”

“Agora em portugues” He is joking to ease the mood, Alain looks awfully tragic, sprawled on him, eyes impossible red, but it’s also important, this is how they say true things.

“Oui meu amour?” Alain replies hesitantly, he looks remarkably like a wet cat.

He chuckles quietly and places a kiss on the top of Alain head, his curls are soaked in sweat and he reeks of alcohol. Alain circles his arms around his neck.

Fitting in such a tiny space is a feat, but he hauls Alain’s thin frame up and helps him wash in the sink. Alain is all wobbly and Ayrton wants to carry him properly, but he’d never permit it, so they exit the bar with his arm around his waist.

Outside on the street James and Niki wait for them leaning against the wall across the road. Niki is more composed, eyes sharp, almost sober. Alain’s sad expression turns horrified when he sees them. In his drunk stupor he’d probably forgotten all about them. He is about to apologize, Ayrton can tell, when James walks up to them and places a hand on his shoulder, his smile is extremely grounding.

Niki is less forgiving, at least with him. When they arrive back at the hotel, he instructs James to take Alain up to his room, and insists they have a night cap. Ayrton doesn’t want to part with Alain but Lauda is not a man that takes no for an answer. “You’r fucking coming, there’s things to discuss, James will babysit”

So now they are sitting in a mostly dark lobby, with only the night clerk watching over. The bar is closed, but Lauda slipped them some cash and so they are not actually having a night cap, but drinking lukewarm soda. Lauda doesn’t look like he’d been drunk just an hour ago. His narrow eyes bearing into him.

“You are worried about him, so am I he is not eating again.”

Again

Ayrton refrains from saying that Alain does eat a little, he just can’t seem to keep most things down.

“Prost has a fuck load of grieving to do, and I don’t think he knows how to.”

“But I didn’t die.”

Lauda’s cheeky grin can be off putting sometimes, this being one of those times.

“Despite what your country has made you believe not everything is about you”

He leans forward and punctuates the next words.

“Also, you did die for a bit there, and he had to watch.”

“He didn’t haveto” No one had forced him, he’d certainly not asked him to.

“Oh quit it, he fucking loves you, no matter how hard you’ve made it for him, the freaking masochist.” Niki snarls.

Ayrton can tell he is not only talking about Alain.

“What was he gonna do? Where do you think I was when James had the heart attack?” Lauda’s eyes glint with a story he is not privy to.

“Look Prost kept it all in, not a tear at those funerals, and it would have been the same at yours. He would have carried your coffin, make the sign of the cross and then fall off face the earth.”

Ayrton drums his fingers on the table.

“Nice to know you’ve thought so much about my death.”

“Hey kid, we all did.”

This feels like being reprimanded, but he can also appreciate what Lauda is saying. He’s been trying to imagine it, if things had been the other way around, but it feels like his lungs are made of lead whenever he tries to picture it. What if he hadn’t signed with Williams? Alain would have had another season with them, would he have managed the instability of the car any better? They might have never fixed their relationship if Prost hadn’t retired.

Whatever the chain of events he knows one thing, he’d be doing much much worse.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, you could always stop racing?”

Ayrton snorts. He can’t be serious.

Lauda gives him an odd smirk.

“No? You were lucky, you were a lot closer than me, just because you don’t have half your face burned off it doesn’t make it less grave. A scar is a good thing.”

Niki shoves his hair back, uncovering his face. The scarring is a part of him. Ayrton didn’t know him before; he’d hardly recognize him without it.

“I’m not going to stop, not yet.” Not now.

“4 championships then?”

Close.

“Ah five, like Fangio then.”

Yes, and also, one more than Prost, just that.

“Well, then you should get him help, professional I mean”

“Oh”

“Surprised? I’m Austrian, therapy was invented there you know?”

His sister is a therapist, yet it hadn’t occurred to him

“I don’t think he’d trust anyone enough, and…”

“You are friends with Sid Watkins, aren’t you?”

He nods, Sid would be a good option, he’d know what to do.

“Also, give it time” Niki says, like it’s so simple.

“He is worse every day” He mutters quietly. Ayrton feels uncomfortable revealing these details, but if not here, in the shadows with Alain’s close friend, then where? The image of Alain’s ribs like dentures on his skin flashes behind his eyes. Too thin.

Niki looms closer, his cold eyes momentarily softer.

“James, he had a hard time with the booze, quitting. Mostly I just had to be there, distract him, not judge too much… and let him feel like shit sometimes.”

He absorbs this, it’s good what he said to Alain before, be there, not judge.

“If the cravings and this are anything alike, just stay with him until it passes. It’s usually a wave and a ‘trigger’ learn those”

He considers this, the thing is that if racing is what provokes him, he’ll never be able to help Alain, and who is Alain if he can’t stand racing anymore.

“Hey kid, it won’t be eternal”

“Also get him out of Paris, he hates it, and they hate him. That can’t help”

“Uhmm.”

“Don’t be thinking about honeymooning in Brazil though. I meant it, I need you on the GDPA”

“We could go back to Monaco, or to Quinta do Lago.” Although Adrienne is still living there, their break was quite amicable, but he could never inflict her to that.

Niki downs the lukewarm soda like it was a glass of fine scotch.

“Whatever suits you lovebirds. For what is worth, I’m glad you finally got your heads out of your asses” The Austrian evidently likes driving the point home.

Niki's grin is ever threatening, but it feels weirdly like his blessing.

The blue hue that precedes the sunset if creeping at the sky when he finally goes up to their room. Technically his room, but the other room is just for show, and has been completely ignored.

Alain’s figure waits for him in bed, covered with the thin blankets and angling towards the window. It’s a beautiful image, his love framed by the raising dawn of an old city.

He discards his clothes in the dark and crawls next to him, only to find Alain naked. Is God testing him? His skin feels cool, he probably had a shower. He buries his face in Alain’s hair, it smells soapy and it’s slightly damp. He rests his hand on his hip and feels him stir. It’s been an intense day, an intense many hours but he can’t help the jolt of enthusiasm his cock gives. He is about to pull away, lest he starts rutting against his ass, when he feels Alain pushing back against him. Meu Deus. He straightens trying to put some distance between them, but Alain just draws back, closer.

“You are awake” It’s a hopeful statement not a question.

“Uh, huh” He sounds tired but no longer drunk, he grinds his ass against Ayrton’s lap and his skin catches fire.

“You want me to?” He mumbles into his neck.

“Mhhh hmpff” On other context he might ask for more clarity, but he’s only a man.

His hand travels from his hip below, down his navel and reaches for Alain’s semi hard cock, Alain whimpers softly. Dear God, he scrunches his eyes and prays, for nothing in particular, just as an expression of eternal gratitude for this. He gives Alain a lazy hand job, thanking his God and the angels with every soft pant he emits, all while the sun rises before them. He is in trance and then he feels Alain's warmth spilling on his fingers, the whole universe is here. He proceeds to grind against Alain’s ass until he sees stars hanging from his eyelids.

He thanks God one more time when Alain turns and draws him into his arms, no longer smelling like soap but like him, their sweat intermixed, breaths mingling, body and soul slotting together.

Chapter Text

Alain has learned a lot about himself in the past few weeks. In a very Ayrton fashion, he’s taken a single mind approach to his “ailment”. So, they analyze every meal they have, how does Alain feel? Why doesn’t he like it? How does he feel afterwards? When he feels like shit Ayrton makes him talk about it, when he has nightmares, he describes them, Ayrton encourages him kind but insistent, often having to hold him as he pathetically weeps. It’s exhausting but strangely liberating.

It’s not always useful, but they’ve found some patterns. Honestly Alain didn’t think the actual food had much impact on his issues, but it seems like it does, in a way at least, there’s things that make him feel too full and overwhelmed, then there’s the speed at which he eats. When they are having lunch in the paddock and he beings to feel frantic Ayrton rests his hand on his knee and gives him that ”You are doing it again” look. He swallows every bite with a level of awareness that turns them slightly tasteless, but there’s also gratitude there. Also, Ayrton starts cooking for him, nothing special or too complex but there is something precious about it. It’s heartwarming to watch him done an apron and fix them some pasta, or a surprisingly decent cod, it’s even more delightful to watch his enthusiasm in presenting the dishes. It becomes less about feeding himself, and more about being taken care of; and as Ayrton gears back into racing, it’s stolen time together.

The stress barging is different though, he can’t quite control it, like a disgusting beast ever ready to pounce. He often thinks he can push through the sensation and then it sneaks upon him, but even that might have a pattern.

“It’s always when the stress’s passed” observes Ayrton from behind the door, surely leaning on it arms crossed, a grave expression furrowing between his brows.

Since his drunken outburst he’s carried a rock of shame in his gut. As soon as his hangover had been minutely diluted, he’d found himself rattling at the door of Niki and James’s room. He’d apologized profusely while James all kindness repeated that it was all good, and Niki teased him to carry on groveling. Ayrton hadn’t allowed him to wallow and he’d been dead serious about not wanting to hear the word “sorry” again, possibly ever.

“It’s not your fault, it’s a sickness, I’ve read about it.”

The notion that Ayrton is doing research on “this” might be moving but it also makes him self-conscious. He is not sure there is name for watching your friends die over and over in your everyday work.

“It’s called PSTD in soldiers.”

“We are not soldiers”

“It’s not that different” Ayrton shrugs. To what? He doesn’t say. Does Ayrton believe their racing careers are on par with fighting wars? Yes, that doesn’t sound too far off with Ayrton’s philosophy, but Alain is not a fighter.

Still, in a way he feels cared for, and adding a name to it might be uncomfortable but it’s probably useful.

There are names for not eating and vomiting, there are entire books and psychology fields on that, but as it turns out that is too hard for him to name. The swirl of shame on his stomach, the taste of acid on his mouth, he will not theorize that, but now they can’t ignore it.

He doesn’t allow Ayrton in when he’s barging though, that is too much. The mere idea destroys him, but just knowing that he is outside waiting for him somewhat helps: it fills him with scorching shame but the episodes last less, and Ayrton greets him not as if he’s done something awful but with the same care he would if he was sick, according to him that’s what this. All in all, Alain is slowly relying less on ‘this’.

Now that Senna is recovered and back on track to race the world seems to pick up speed as it spins. There are no quiet hours anymore, snatching moments for each-other becomes a daily challenge. Alain doesn’t hate it, is not quite used to it, but the movement makes him feel more alive. Watching Ayrton jump back into everything Senna is does fill him with a mix of excitement and nostalgia, because he recalls their time as teammates and how distanced he was, how out of his orbit and his reach he felt, now he is inside the moving star. And Senna is many things, not only a driver of F1, but a whole set of businesses in Brazil and elsewhere, relationships with manufacturers sure but with so many people and enterprises, he is a hero to his people and tries to maintain a line of connection to his country, always, and he is the president of the newly reformed GDPA. Alain is retired or trying to be and while he is imbedded in the sport there is a difference in scale, out there Senna is a thousand things for everyone.

Frank makes his offer again. They discuss it together, it’s tricky because there is an active investigation. Wouldn’t it be better if Alain was an external party? After all the name Prost carries weight. For him the priority is being as close as possible to Ayrton, not only physically, but being able to be in the room, listen and advocate for him, being able to avoid another crash. He’ll put himself in whatever position suits them, his other more grandiose plans can wait.

There’re so many engagements to attend they are barely sleeping in the Paris suburbs any longer. The move to Monaco is more of a slow trickle of luggage and important papers, drafts of all kinds of contracts. Ayrton finds his negotiations with Ligier, and he recounts the extent of his plans, how he’d been thinking about it since 1992, how the deal fell through once, how everything has been in standby.

“There’s nothing set in stone.”

Ayrton doesn't respond for once.

He does interviews, Senna gives them, never to each-other though. He hates being on the media pen, after Imola the mere thought gives him a headache, Ayrton pushes their agent to get him out of it, they share an agent (not for the first time). The press asks Senna about his girlfriend, he avoids the questions for as long as possible. There’s a call to Quinta do Lago, to the girl, Ayrton respects her privacy too much to put her on speaker, still he asks Alain to hang back when he calls, it’s awkward to listen to just half of the conversation, but it’s a compromise he is okay with. Ayrton speaks in Portuguese anyway, but it’s the principle, the openness. When he hangs up Alain concludes he might need a moment to himself and takes on the task of dinner on his own hands, they eat one of his grandmother’s recipes that night, and the domesticity soothes them both.

He is completely taken a back when Ayrton mentions he is seeing someone else though. They nearly have a fight about it, it’s the least prudent approach, it’s looking for trouble, it’s irresponsible for both of their lives.

“It slipped out because I was thinking of you, yes?”

Alain forgives him.

The nights in Monaco are different, being in Montecarlo means being in the middle of everything, he really prefers Switzerland, at times even Paris. Too many drivers and team officials, and manufacturers and people, live here. Ayrton’s insomnia creeps back slowly. At first Alain is too engulfed in his own night terrors to notice but after a few times when Ayrton pulls him out of them completely lucid in the early hours of the morning, something clicks.

The images are blurry, cars crashing in the rain, but the sensations are clear, the shadow figures in his head are Ayrton and Didi and the track looks nothing like Suzuka but it is Suzuka, he knows it. His hands ache as their mangled bodies slip from his grasp, he can’t help both, the rain mixes with blood, he always chooses Senna.

It’s disorienting to wake up, similar to breaching the surface of dark waters, but he emerges on Ayrton’s arms.

“Shhh, querido, shhh I’m here, I’m here”

Ayrton’s brown eyes bear into him, Alain is caged in his hold, secure. With every breath the images of mangled bodies grow ever more distant. The reality is this: brown eyes and an upturned grin, messy curls, his face pressed to the hair of Ayrton’s chest, his scent, the continuous strength of his embrace.

Distantly he recalls a voice calling for Ayrton, his own.

Slowly his mind catches up with his body.

“You weren’t sleeping”

“No” He bobs his head down to kiss Alain’s hair.

“Is it me?”

“A little, it’s always been hard to sleep all night”

Untangling himself from the embrace Alain looks at him properly. There’s the faint shadow forming below his eyes already, he’s worn out, probably by hours of tossing and turning.

“What is it you think about?”

“Racing? not racing?” he gingerly replies.

He thinks that what he sees behind Ayrton’s eyes is more than anxiety or apprehension, a deeper worry that unfurls only by night, some kind of dread that has carried him through years insomnia.

“Death?” Alain ventures.

Ayrton looks a bit taken aback by the suggestion, but he seems to consider it seriously. He chews on his lip for a moment, his thick eyebrows scrunched together.
When he speaks it’s like it’s been wrung out of him.

“No, not death, nada nothingness?” His voice comes out coarse “beyond death” He clarifies.

Alain doesn’t feel the urge to ask about that somehow, he doesn’t want to know what Ayrton saw or didn’t see while he was officially dead, just thinking about that rattles some disturbing thoughts inside. It is unfair, Ayrton has listened to his worst fears over and over, has held him when he couldn’t stop shaking, but he doesn’t think he can dwell into this existential angst while his grief swirls around the confines of his mind so vividly. It’s a disappointment but perhaps one of the first signs of self-preservation he’s showed in months.

But he still wants to be there for him.

“What helps? Besides not having me screaming nearby.”

“Alain I always want you close”

The graveness all but evaporates from his voice, he playfully nibs Alain’s earlobe eliciting a surprised whine. They’ll never get through this conversation.

“Answer though.”

“Uhm, exercise, tiring myself out, sometimes uhm touching myself?”

Alain loves the strangeness of their patched English that takes from Portuguese and French and their shared Italian, a native speaker could have said ´jerking off´, how crass, but Ayrton’s choice is much more enticing.

“Ah, does it?”

He catches his mouth in a lazy kiss and feels Ayrton’s lip curve in a smile, his hand already reaching between them.

Alain is clueless about what’s the best approach to handle insomnia, but when he pins Ayrton down and massages his thighs while his tongue laps greedily around his asshole. Well, who cares? Ayrton is writhing beneath him, lips swollen, a sheen of sweat covering his entire body. This works for them.

Dawn becomes the time for exploring new ways to touch and have hushed conversations before the day around them unfolds.

“Ferrari called again.”

“I figured, what do you want to do?”

Ayrton rolls his shoulders in fake casualness, but his voice has a tinge of gravity.

“What do you think I should do?”

He ponders for a long time. Senna and Ferrari do seem like a legendary match, but if the car isn’t actually good, it would be such a disappointment, instinctively he wants to protect Ayrton. Then again, if anyone could make it work... Unlike himself Senna can adapt to almost any car and circumstance, that’s why his current predicament with Williams has him so desperate, Alain had warned him, many months ago in those winter calls, he doesn’t think Ayrton listened to him then that much, but he does now.

“You look good in red, but I might not be allowed in the garage.”

Lucca might have him thrown out to be honest.

Ayrton barely nods watching him though half lidded eyes; carding his finger through his hair, he feels him sink deeper into the bed.

“Sleep cher”

Watching Ayrton sleep becomes the height of his days.

Anne Marie arrives days later with both his sons. Alain is so eager to see Sacha, it’s been almost 4 months since they last spent any meaningful time together. Anne Marie had visited the hospital once bringing the boy, but it had a been a difficult day, Senna’s prognosis stagnant, the press lurching around the corner and they’d fought out of his own stupidity and her impatience.

Now he feels simultaneously like the worst father to ever exist ridden with guilt, but also exhilarated for Ayrton to meet his little boy. It’s awkward at first, Sacha being much more timid and younger than Nico, and having Anne Marie studying them openly.

Ayrton is nervous with his ex-wife, polite to a fault, and less talkative than usual, but he is fantastic with his son, soon Sacha is sitting on his shoulders and refusing to come down. Comments about how he’s surely never been up that high are made at Alain’s expense, but he is joyous watching them bond. Ayrton becomes a sillier, kinder version of himself around kids, and Sacha is young enough to entertain every inch of goofiness, four-year-olds are hardly serious people.

Sacha can’t for his life pronounce Ayrton, “Eton” is his best attempt, and it’s still shaky.

“My niece can’t pronounce it either, call me Beco” Ayrton’s French is very much on par with a toddler, so they can understand each other and Sacha seems to view him more as an oversized playing partner than as an adult.

Also, he is the most fun adult his kids have ever met; he takes them to the beach and dives with them and teaches them new ways to swim and never tires of running around. He answers his questions with seriousness, taking them at face value, and tries his best to speak French with them, although by the end they are all speaking a weird mix of languages.

“Beco” Sacha spits.

Both Nico and Anne Marie laugh.

“It means a little kiss, like a peck” Nico explains.

Anne Marie makes them explain their situation at large, posing questions, they haven’t really addressed themselves. Where will they live? Monaco and Brazil for now. Are they going to be public about this? Not until the world has fundamentally changed. What’s the story them? They are really, really good friends. And what are they saying to the kids? “I’m old enough to understand this mama” Nico interjects. What about Senna’s racing? He’ll be there with him. Commenting? No, probably on another role with Williams. What about Ligier? That’s in hiatus. Why? Because Senna’s racing is more important right now. Why is he not eating? He is! He actually is. “Post traumatic stress disorder” provides Ayrton enunciating every accusing word, he explains it at large. It makes sense to Anne Marie; she insists on therapy.

The weekend is probably the biggest slice of domestic bliss that Alain has ever experienced in his life; his children are the center of it, Ayrton does anything to make them happy, playing soccer with them, or videogames, carrying Sacha on his shoulders. Anne Marie snaps photographs with an old camera she finds in the studio and helps Ayrton with his fledging French, explaining the basics of pronunciation. They read night stories to the kids, they have wine in the afternoon, they cook and Alain eats moderately, but successfully.

By the time they have to part it’s upsetting for everyone but they are back in Paris for a doctor check up before Ayrton officially rejoins the season.

When Senna’s family was still in Paris, they’d go together to church every Sunday, sometimes Alain and Nico tagged along, most days he took the opportunity to work, seeing as having Ayrton at home proved too distracting (the multiple documents that needed his attention felt insignificant next to Ayrton’s pointed gaze on his back).
Now Nico’s staying with his mom for a few weeks, they have the much too big house to themselves, a steady stream of work commitments and Ayrton wants to go to church so Alain obliges, but instead of taking him to some ordinary church in the suburbs of Paris, he takes him to Saint Sulpice, in the heart of the Latin Quarter. It’s maybe his favorite church; unlike Notre Dame or Sacre Coeur it is rarely attended by tourists and it’s old but remains a place for prayer. Because he is feeling extremely French, he wants to take the train.

“We do have a car you know?”

“Cars are a nuisance in Paris and I think your helicopter might bring us some unwanted attention. Besides I want to walk”

“Okay” Ayrton smiles amused.

They leave in the early afternoon and the sun shines brightly on their heads, the last days of summer hanging with force to the city, every building reflecting scalding rays of sun from one angle or another. The city is beautiful and despite Alain’s complicated emotions with his country he can still be marveled by its beauty, and still feel compelled to share it.

They sit facing each-other by the window. Like this they can’t conspicuously hold hands or reach out without being too evident, but he can watch Ayrton watch Paris, face resting on his hand, curls almost brushing the glass that reflects his attentive eyes.

“We’ve hardly come to the city” he muses.

“Creteil is hardly Paris and you’ve been in recovery”

“Still, you have to show me around” The word recovery means nothing to this man.

“Well then it’s good I’m taking you to my favorite area.”

“You’ve never lived here, have you?”

“Non, Lorette most of my life and then when things got difficult Switzerland, Monaco now”

“Brazil next, yes?” It’s sad jokingly but Ayrton looks at him big-eyed.

“I could be persuaded”

Walking through small streets the eglise appears before their eyes as if suddenly revealed. It’s a magnificent building with an unusual structure, tall columns and arches at the façade, unexpected and gorgeous. Alain is pleased with the evident wonder in Ayrton’s face, lips parted on a wide smile. He tugs him along and they arrive for the evening mass.

As they enter Ayrton looks at him with pure delight. Inside it’s a moody and enchanting place, only the nave and the domes are a work of art, and the aisles are dark but filled with candles; the late summer light filters in through stained glass, dancing on Ayrton’s face. This must be holiness.

“I thought you’d like it”

Ayrton hums in his ear and Alain briefly wonders if he is bold enough to kiss him in the house of the lord, but instead he walks along the aisle and goes to sit at the very front of the pews. He hesitates before following him, it is dark and he can hardly imagine F1 fans looking for them in a random church in Paris, but still, he wouldn’t want to draw attention to them, during mass of all times. In the end Ayrton jerks his head around looking for him and he follows.

The mass is given in French naturally but Ayrton seems to follow along just fine, it’s Alain who has some trouble keeping his focus on the old words of the priest. Despite how close they’ve been the past few months this feels like a newly intimate moment. Ayrton is devoted, he knew this, but witnessing his fervor is something else. He transforms in a way, or maybe he simply sheds layers of himself, the elements of Senna that cling to him outside seem to fall at the entrance of this holy space. If Alain had to describe this in some way, he’d say Ayrton is seeking, staring beyond the altar and the priest, the robes, the choir, and communing with something bigger. It’s his turn to stare in awe.

Even though he can hardly follow the actual mass Alain doesn’t feel disconnected. If anything, he’s rarely found himself here, in this state of calm presence. His psalms are not the ones being echoed by the attendees though, just the steady breathing of Ayrton beside him as he takes in the words of a French priest in a dark corner of the Latin Quarter; this link is not through god’s intended channels, or perhaps it is.

As the mass draws to a close and the spell slowly dissipates, the idea that this might be blasphemy crosses his mind. He can find spiritual connecting through the world sustaining, earth binding love he has for one-man, carnal love, romantic, deep, unending, selfish, complicated love, for a complicated man.
The church vacates slowly and Ayrton seems to come back from the depths or the heights of wherever he was. His first action back on earth is to give Alain a lopsided smile and he soon entwines their hands in the wooden bench. It’s dark enough and no one is watching.

“Do you ever wonder if this is wrong? Us?”

Ayrton looks at him so alarmed, he fears he’s ruined the moment.

“Well, Catholicism isn’t big on it.” Alain looks away, glancing up at the gorgeous ceiling of intricate patterns. Most religions are not particularly lenient to this kind of love.

Ayrton yanks his hand, making him meet his eyes.

“No. It’s not wrong Alain, how can you say that? It doesn’t feel wrong at all.” He speaks as if this is a fundamental truth that can’t be missed, intense as usual.
“I don’t mean that. You know most people would disagree. There’s a reason why we don’t kiss in public.”

They walk behind the altar; and smaller less lavish one stands at the back in a tiny but delicate chapel that is even more shrewd in the dark. Only the candle table drawing a spot of brightness where Ayrton bends down to light one of his own, the warm shine of the tiny candles reflects on his hair, his eyes, between fingers that choose a tiny stick to grace it with a prayer.

“We have to do what we feel is right, it’s not about what others say”

He places the lit candle amongst the other dancing flames, quickly making the sign of the cross.

“Even if we have to be…discreet.” Hiding.

Alain doesn’t mind hiding; he’ll take a life of hiding his love over mourning him any day, but he is not the one with a direct line to God of all people.

“What about god then?”

Ayrton looks up from the candles and stares at him a bit puzzled, perhaps calculating if this is the beginning of an argument, but Alain is not trying to be contrary, just clear.

“I know it’s not wrong to him, I feel it in my body and in my spirit” Like always, he sounds so certain, even after the crash.

“Don’t you?” But he doesn’t sound certain when he asks things of Alain, whenever he is not 100% percent sure that they are on the same side, then there’s doubt, not with God, but with him.

“Ayrton, I’m not as close to all this as you are.”

“But you believe in something yes?” He presses on.

“Yes, I do, but not like you. I don’t think there’s a god looking out for us.”

“Que merda” Ayrton crosses himself on cursing and it’s weirdly amusing, while it doesn’t stop being intimidating. These things matter to him “Do you think things just happen? Do you think he has no plan for us?”

What does he think? That god planned for him to crash at 200km against a wall so that they’d finally figure out their love? Alain is careful with his words; he doesn’t want to offend but he doesn’t want to be insincere either. He is reminded again of how very different they are.

“I watched my brother die while I won my first championship, I don’t believe in an interventionist god.” He finally says.

“Interventionist” Ayrton goes over the word rolling in in his tongue with distrust, but at the same his defensive posture has deflated, Alain’s rarely told him about his brother.

“But I know that you do, and that I respect. I do believe you when you tell me you hear him, I guess, if anyone can that’s you”

Ayrton remains silent for a long while.

“What about angels?”

“Angels? No, non, do you?”

“I mean, not in white robes with flutes but yes. I think Elio is definitely one”

Alain can’t help but laugh and even in the dark he can tell when a shadow crosses Ayrton’s face. He sulks and suddenly looks much younger.

“I’m sorry, I’m not mocking you. It’s just lovely to imagine him like that”

He offers an apologetic smile.

“It’s not like that, I mean don’t you find him in places?” He explains. “He was your friend”

“Yes, he was.” A dear one.

“When you speak Italian? Or in music, he played, yes?” Ayrton points at the organ that was playing just moments ago. Does he find Elio in these things? Ayrton hadn’t been the kindest to Elio in life.

Alain feels dumbfounded, and again as so many times, exposed.

“I’m not sure. I do think about them.” He pauses “Gilles liked the sea” his voice drops involuntarily.

When he looks out the window in his apartment in Monaco, he does stare beyond the harbor and think of Gilles, perhaps he does find him there. He’s never thought of angels this way.

“Bem, eu sim, and I ask them to watch over you” Ayrton replies resolutely. Alain smiles because he’s learned to cherish this stubbornness, but at the same time he’d give so many things to understand what happens inside Ayrton’s head.

Ayrton kneels on the tiny chapel and prays in Portuguese. Alain doesn’t quite understand the words but the sentiment is clear, he thinks he is praying for him. Eu ainda preciso de mais um favor do senhor

Asking God or the angels to protect him. He can’t dwell on that for his sanity, instead he thinks of Elio and his incredible kindness, his persistent softness towards Nigel. He thinks of the times with Gilles and Didier, nights out when he was so young, and admired them so much. Then thinks of the teasing and jokes imbedded with advice ’You can’t get hurt in formula 1, crashing yes, hurt never’. Singing karaoke after a defeat, or sleeping together at that hotel in South Africa. The miles and miles traveled together. There is some bond formed when you traverse the world together. He thinks on all of them alive, full of life.

He even allows himself to think of his brother, briefly. He gets up and lights a candle, making the signal of the cross, offering a short prayer for Daniel in French and hearing it echo in Ayrton’s mother tongue.

They start walking back towards the entrance, the mood between them heavier than before, that tension that used to be ever present luring it’s head amongst the ancient building.

“I don’t understand how you cannot believe in God. I wouldn’t know how to live if I didn’t think there was a reason for all this.” Like always Ayrton will press on the matter.

“Like a plan?”

Interestingly he thinks about Didier and Gilles, and how things had ended. Didier holding Gilles helmet, face red with tears.

“Fate, destino”

They are so very different. Alain glances up at him, there is always such assuredness on his face when he says these things. He is in love with that certainty that turns deeply vulnerable at any turn.

“You can’t just live without belief” Ayrton stares at him intently as though hurt, this affects him personally. Alain’s lack of belief, lack of belief in the way he believes, it’s a personal afront because everything between them is personal.

But Alain has been getting better at this, not game, but this push and pull of emotions, the key is to remains close. So, he stops on his tracks and looks around to make sure they are alone before he cups Ayrton’s face in his hands.

“Ah but I believe in love”

The smile he gets is almost shy.

The heavy doors of Saint Sulpice close behind them and they are out in the Paris evening, the sunset will last a long time at this time of the year, the purple hue envelopes every nook of the city, and the pull between them is a strong thread of emotion, something that would guide them through the streets or tracks of any place in the world.

They walk together, gradually leaning on each-other despite the height difference. The little alleys on the Latin Quarter providing refuge from any wandering eyes until they reach the small bistro Alain had imagined them on, months ago, when they met for the Bercy go-cart event. He’d had the audacious idea of inviting him for dinner, but it had never happened.

Ayrton is particularly quiet throughout dinner, still kind, still responsive. He makes sure Alain orders a substantial meal and makes like banter with the waiter, but Alain knows he is far away, overthinking in some corner of his mind.

A younger Alain would have been eaten by anxiety. Contrary to popular (even to Senna’s belief) Alain had been too attuned to his every emotion, suffering over the slightest tension and distance, it had nearly destroyed him, but today he is beyond that. They are very different. It still works, this thing between them is not going to split, more than his heart is going to run from his ribs. Even if all religions are against it, even if they’ll have to figure out how to be in public, even if it takes 20 or 30 years before a man of the cloth would marry them. Even if it never happens, even if one of them died. Alain now knows that this bond between them is not made of temporary fibers and is not sustained by material elements.

Perhaps it’s not the plan of an omnipresent god, they’ve had some agency in getting here. It’s a path though, and they are choosing to walk it together.

Because their discussions are never really finished, and Ayrton will mull over whatever it is they’ve been talking about for hours (sometimes days, sometimes Alain even wakes up to a freshly prepared argument he’s had no time to counter), he can pick up where they left it.

“Ayrton”

“Uhm?”

“I don’t believe in angels” Although looking at him he wonders if that’s true.

“And I’m not sure I’d believe in an interventionist god”

The tiny scowl on his mouth upon hearing the word is an image Alain tucks away in his memory to laugh at later.

“But…” He places his hand on top of Ayrton’s, noticing his warmth, never taken it for granted again.

“But if I did, I’d kneel down and ask him not to intervene with you, and I’d ask that if he felt he had to direct you, to direct you into my arms.”

Ayrton’s face changes incredibly fast; he darts his eyes away as they glisten and bites his lip in an effort to stop them from falling. He opens his mouth and closes it again biting his lip, he’s turned red and looks uncomfortably moved.

Alain almost feels bad.

They don’t really speak after that; the meal is left unfinished. Alain leaves more cash than necessary on the table and hails a cab right outside. Although they barely drank Ayrton lays his head on his lap all throughout the cab ride, twisting his mouth and sighing from time to time, he takes Alain’s hand on his and doesn’t let go. He crumbles into his arms and weeps that night. Alain wants to ask why? But it feels futile, unnecessary. Ayrton sobs in his chest and cries himself to sleep, and Alain can only think that maybe he does definitely believe in angels, as he cradles Ayrton to him and wipes away incessant tears from his cheekbones. He doesn’t have more soothing words than telling him he loves him, and rocking him into his arms; and anyways it has the opposite effect as Ayrton just cries harder, and holds on to him overwhelmed by whatever truth Alain has stumbled upon.

Chapter Text

It’s cloudy when they land on Belgium, a few days ahead of the race. Berger’s purchased a new home in the area near Leija and he’s invited them over, or more precisely he’s invited Senna over, but Ayrton assumes every invite now includes Alain. Never even tries to confirm it.

“Are you sure this is fine?”

He stares at Alain much more puzzled than he’s got any business being.

“It’s just he’s not been too enthusiast about us… what did he say when you told him I was coming over?” Honestly, he hasn’t had an actual conversation with Berger in a long time, he kept him informed when Senna was at the hospital, but ever since he’d woken up Alain had studiously avoided the man. He’d been to emotionally spent to deal with the looks of mistrust, and he hadn’t really felt like discussing the issue with Ayrton at that point, as they were barely figuring themselves out.

Now they are outside his very tasteful country manor and Alain is so nervous he almost misses the fact that Ayrton is looking away and rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. Oh well fuck…

“Ayrton, you didn’t?”

“Trust me, yes?” He swiftly grabs his hand and rings the bell twice.

“He is my dear friend, he’ll understand” Ayrton mutters under his breath, and Alain is not sure if it’s said for his benefit alone.

Berger does understand, it takes him a bit. Specially because Ayrton decides to give no more explanation than marching right in with Alain’s hand tightly on his grasp lest he might try to let go (Alain definitely tries).

The greetings are somewhat awkward but mostly because Ayrton refers to Alain with a bunch of Portuguese expressions that translate to “my love” or even “my boyfriend” namorado, in the first 5 minutes, his tone incredibly curt. To his credit Berger doesn’t scold him (which even Alain feels the urge to do), but rather remains quite composed and invites him over.

They have dinner and Ayrton makes a point to touch him all the time, be it a hand on the knee or a tucking a stray curl behind his ear. Alain doesn’t know how he manages to keep the conversation going and eat, while giving him so much attention. Then again, he is not the most talkative dinner guest at the moment. It all would be somewhat humiliating if it wasn’t for the intense manner in which Ayrton keeps staring at his friend, almost daring him to say or think something against it, them. It’s mortifying as a strategy for everyone involved, but Alain also finds it kind of sweet. Ayrton as usual, instead of voicing his worries, acts on them, sometimes in inexplicable ways, but it still shows care.

For his part he does try his best to carry polite conversation, Berger- Gerhard, after the initial shock is quite amiable. Alain feared he might take the whole situation as a joke, because honestly Senna appearing at his front door with Prost, his all-time rival, and calling him his boyfriend, might have been passed as an odd prank between them before; but Ayrton makes it clear that they are living together, being together, providing so much more information than Gerhard would ask for or Alain would willingly give. In a way their shared mortification is a sort of common bond. Alain smiles apologetically when Ayrton gives him a rough smack on the lips before excusing himself for the toilet, and Gerhard looks at him mostly amused.

The Austrian has been sceptic of their closeness, and from what Senna’s told him he is fairly confused at the issue, even before Ayrton marched in his house proclaiming he is in a romantic relationship with Alain Prost (all this even before they sat down). But soon, Alain gauges that actually, this is very likely Ayrton’s fault; from what he gathers it doesn’t look like he explained much about their reconciliation before Imola, Gerhard seems pretty in the dark about that, and it would explain his reaction after the crash. Also, Alain is pretty sure he was unapproachable back then, he screamed at anyone and everyone (in multiple languages), even the nurses were a bit terrified of him at first. Mentally Alain scolds both himself and Ayrton, though the later is oblivious.

So, he tries to remedy the situation, and since this whole evening has been pretty mortifying for them, make it just a little bit awkward for Ayrton, a small payback for not letting Alain have use of both his hands at dinner.

“You weren’t at Bercy last year” He turns to Gerhard, hoping it’s evident he is trying to stir the conversation somewhere.

“Ah no, had an early winter break.”

“You should come this year, it’s quite fun.” It’s barely August, so that might be a hint that he is going somewhere with this.

“Yeah, although we didn’t get in the same team.” Ayrton laments.

He almost laughs remembering how upset he had been at that, Ayrton had not so subtly tried the whole weekend to land them on the same team, complained about it to the media and then sulked about it throughout the podiums.

“Uhmm, you still had your fun.”

“Oh, did you try to run him off track?” There’s a ring of complicity in Gerhard’s voice, he’s caught up.

“No. I didn’t I don’t know what you are talking about Alain” Ayrton huffs turning to him.

Alain makes a pause, he is sure his grin must be a bit devilish, Ayrton’s walked right into it.

“You almost kissed me.”

He can see the moment his man short-circuits, it’s beautiful, something between panic and embarrassment flashes in those brown eyes. He looks between Alain and Gerhrard.

“I did not!” Ayrton replies indignantly, cheeks quickly reddening.

“You nearly did though.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Ayrton stares between them again, looking for respite, finding none. Gerhard looks like a kid with a toy and Alain is set on taunting him.

“Uhmm I need the toilet.”

Alain watches him go with a laugh, but Gerhard is already looking at him with unveiled curiosity, he even leans forward, so Alain reciprocates, here’s the chance to exchange confidences.

“He invited himself to my place.” That was technically not the whole story, but it was the important bit for the purpose of this conversation. “Then hardly spoke once he was in.” Alain had been completely dumfounded carrying on the monosyllabic conversation.

“Sure.” The Austrian says knowingly, he’s probably been at the other side of it.

“And when he was leaving, he leaned into me and almost kissed me, without any explanation. Mind you we hadn’t properly talked in more than 3 years.”

Gerhard eyebrows perk up.

“And then he bolted, literally stormed off.”

“What did you do?” He asks immediately, hooked.

“I called him? And even though he’d been calling me for days he didn’t pick up until a week later. Pretended that nothing had happened.”

When Ayrton comes back their stance has changed, Alain and Gerhard are actually chatting, exchanging stories of Ayrton’s baffling often antisocial behavior, like that time he punched a glass in the middle of a press conference, just because someone dared mention Alain’s name… As he approaches, they change the subject, mostly to annoy him.

But somehow this is what it takes for Ayrton to actually relax, he still keeps Alain at an inch of a distance, but his touch becomes less lovingly belligerent and he laughs, he laughs a lot. If Alain was not completely sold on Gerhard before, this does it, seeing Ayrton so genuinely joyful and goofy makes him forgive and nearly forget all the awkwardness before. By the end of the evening, they are toasting with a decent red and taunting Ayrton in tandem. Gerhard and Ayrton recount the worst of their pranks and Alain is honestly alarmed at the scope; he is surprised no one got hurt. Then again he did once park a car in a lobby hall, so maybe it’s the age that’s making him uptight.

Senna is not used to drinking, he barely tastes the wine at most meals (Alain keeps firmly to the custom of having wine in every proper meal because that is a French tradition he can actually stand by) but perhaps between the nerves and the enjoyment he’s forgotten himself because 4 glasses in he is properly drunk and it’s, well it’s adorable: he rambles in English and Portuguese, and drapes himself around Alain on the couch, no longer to prove a point but simply to rest his head on his shoulder, face red and warm.

Gerhard looks at them pleased, with a proper twinkle in his eye at seeing his friend like so. Ayrton is a cute drunk, but an inefficient one, he tramples over things and complains loudly, getting back to the city feels unnecessary, so they wind up staying in the guest room.

“I told you he’d get it” his words slur a bit, and Alain has to help him step out of his trousers.

“Ah yes love, you were right and I was wrong.”

Even inebriated as he is Ayrton’s whole face lights up and he scoots closer, burrowing his nose in Alain’s embrace before tumbling down on the bed.

It’s a low hanging fruit but he’s figured how happy this simple praise makes him, he’ll use from time to time, just to see his goofy smile. He reminds himself to ask Gerhard for painkillers in the morning, though. He is sure Ayrton will be a moody hungover.

The GDPA reunites the day before practice. On small auditorium on the paddock’s premises, it’s where some of the press conferences are held and where the drivers meeting will happen right before the race, but by night and with the whole place mostly deserted it feels solemn, like an amphitheater. The occasion is solemn, it’s the first meeting since Senna is back on the grid, he was voted the president while he was still lying unconscious on a hospital bed, a powerful symbolic gesture, but now it’s time to see if it will hold. Senna is well loved and respected amongst the grid, but he is not exactly close to most drivers, and there’s a gap between being loved and being trusted with collective bargaining decisions.

They arrive early, Niki, Ayrton and himself, of the three only Senna shows signs of restlessness, but his own nails are quite bit down by now. Niki never looks restless, but he has that focused ferocity that Alain remembers from the good old days, times when he’d rouse the entire grid into proper strikes. Honestly, he doesn’t know what FIA has to be more scared of: Ayrton Senna as the GDPA president or Niki Lauda as the official spokesperson. His role here is less clear, advisor? Morale? He’s been neck deep in the resuscitation of the union but he has no “official” skin in the game, seeing as he is no longer a driver.

The place fills out slowly, the drivers that know them the less sit at the back, but everyone greets them.

Barichello and the young Fittipaldi make a beeline to Senna, while Damon Hill actually approaches him first. There are retired drivers too, Nelson wouldn’t come here, but he’s in for the weekend. Keke does come along, with his son Nico in tow, a tiny thing with a fluff of blonde hair and a sweet smile, Alain has a soft spot for the little boy who has none of the hard edges of his parents. The boy waves shyly from the back where he sits next to his dad, it’s an odd event to bring your son to, but in a way, it adds a layer of importance to this. Alain knows he is already carting and showing promise.

Nigel appears soon enough and comes to sit beside him. Alain is just recently beginning to understand the nature of Nigel’s and Elio’s relationship, and he knows how hard this must be; but the brit doesn’t show signs of distress, maybe because it’s been a long time, or maybe because that’s how he is.

“These kids he?” Mansell nudges him in the ribs.

“Yes, well they hadn’t really seen him.”

Hakkinen and Schumacher arrive together and both seem a bit shyer to approach the small crowd forming around Senna, but they eventually join in. Senna properly hugs Mika and royally ignores Michael. In a way Alain knows exactly how that contempt feels and could be tempted to feel bad for the young driver, but seeing him now, the image of his podium celebration is impossible to chase away. All those repetitions, playing in the background of the nurses’ station, while Alain came back from another round of stress vomit between surgeries…

He instinctively turns his head the second the blonde and the German turn his way, and he tastes bile on the back of his mouth. Being here, reunited for the GDPA, he should try to rise above it, but he doesn’t trust himself to not the be nasty if he greets him. Thankfully Gerhard is right by his side, the same disgust evident on his face, and a knowing look passes between them.

“Good to see you all so bright eyed and bushy tailed, but let’s start this.” Niki shouts over the ruckus and the pilots disperse quickly, taking their seats in the circle of chairs; Niki insisted to arrange it that way to emphasize the collective sentiment, which led to Alain calling him comrade and Niki flipping him.

“As you can see, we welcome back Senna to the grid.”

A round of applause erupts and echoes in the auditorium, it’s sincere and tugs at something deep within Alain.

“So, first things first.” Niki jumps right in “All those in favor of making Ayrton Senna the president of the 1994 GDPA?”

All hands rise up. Alain is not sure if he gets a vote. In the sea of hands, it makes no difference but it counts to Ayrton so he does.

“Unanimous then.”

Niki shrugs and takes back his seat, evidently expecting Senna to speak, but he doesn’t, at least not immediately. He takes the microphone he is handed almost cautiously and sighs heavily as his eyes scan the room. All drivers stare at him curious.

“We shouldn’t be here. It’s unfair that we are, while Ratzenberger isn’t”

He draws out every word carefully, and instinctively everyone in the room leans forward.

“I’m here by the grace of god, and, and the efforts of a friend” Nothing about the teams of surgeons and race stewards…

“This sport is dangerous, and it will always be dangerous, but it’s not fair what happened, and it could have been prevented. It should have… we should have.”

“It will weight on our shoulders forever.” He finalizes in grave tone.

It’s short and solemn and nobody really claps, most pilots look pensive and nod along. Barrichello fiddles with his cross, some drivers like Hakkinen shift on their seats uncomfortably. It makes sense. They respect Senna, but don’t necessarily understand where he is coming from, Alain barely feels like he has a grasp of the person he is now, and they sleep entwined every night, and their lives have been entwined for almost 10 years now.

“Prost” Niki hands him the mic.

His turn then. He stands up, he wants to see their faces.

“I’ve had a long career in F1 during which I’ve lost many friends in senseless preventable accidents, most of you are too young to know what that’s like.” He seen most of these men since they came up, his eyes set briefly on the youngest member of the group whose blue eyes follow the scene in earnest, so distant from even the idea of death on the track.

“But you, we, all lost Ratzenberger on April 30th, the same day that Barichello had a grave accident too, and by god’s grace we didn’t lose Senna the next day.” He can now recognize how taxing it is for him to talk about it, he can tell that his effort to suppress the break in his voice and the tremor in his hands is what comes back as nausea later, but right now he presses on.

“I’m officially retired from driving F1, but I am done seeing people being killed on track. I know more than any of you about safety on this sport. I’ve seen things nobody should, and I’d like to keep you from seeing them too.”

“All in favor of having Alain Prost as safety advisor?” Niki chimes.

Ayrton hands shots up comically fast, but Alain doesn’t have time to chide him because the rest of the hands follow quickly and a warm reassurance floods him at being able to do this, not only for Ayrton, but for Elio, for Gilles, for Didi, for Ronnie, and those before, after, all those accidents that aren’t even recorded but suffered. Even if the drivers in this room haven’t seen as much death, they’ve all been injured, they’ve all been scared at some point. Ratzenberger’s death must be the last one.

“Unanimous.” Announces Ayrton not even trying to hide his enthusiasm, Alain responds with a tiny grin trying to deflect the attention.

“Okay, formalities over. Let’s start this, the Eau Rouge” Niki cuts in.

The meeting is long and the complaints diverse, Alain follows Niki’s lead and sits mostly on the sidelines but they do stir the grid back to the issues of safety a couples of times. Senna will be a good president for the GDPA, it’s a good role for him, he’s grown into it, but it’s also the result of a long process of change that Alain has been lucky enough to witness. He is contemplative and deliberate when he speaks, and although it doesn’t come natural to him, he listens, even if Alain catches him shaking his head in irritation once in a while, and there is a moment when he looks back and Ayrton is staring at him frankly pouting, but all in all it works. Senna is firm when he speaks and the grid listens to him, but they air their own opinions and vote, and he in turn listens to Niki and Alain in their role of advisors; a mostly reasonable structure for a very specialized union that has to define how much risk is too much when driving in circles at 200km per hour.

By the end of three hours, they have a modicum of basic agreements: the Eau Rouge corner will be dulled; the skid block, although imperfect, is necessary and it’s agreed at 10 millimeters, the speed limit for the pits will be reaffirmed (80 km/h). It’s not a lot, it’s the bare minimum, but between that and the adjustments the FIA has set out, it’s acceptable.

Berger and Mansell hang back with them when the rest of the drivers leave. With the auditorium mostly in the shadows; Ayrton comes round to rests his chin on his shoulder, despite the audience Alain leans into his warmth.

What do you think?” Ayrton half mumbles in his ear.

"It’s a step in the right direction.” He replies mostly convinced.

“Enough to race?”

It’s very considerate of Ayrton to ask him, even if Alain is fairly certain that Senna would race, no matter what he said, but still.

“Yes, yes I think so.”

Ayrton yawns on his neck, more relaxed, he wraps his arms loosely around Alain’s waist and out of the three other pilots only Mansell raises an eyebrow, probably more at the fact that Senna is being so public in his affection than anything.

“Come along lovebirds” Niki sneers.

Outside a bored Keke and a surprisingly engaged Nico wait for them. Alain had assumed the boy would want Senna’s autograph, but no, he has actual questions about safety and regulations and more general ones about what it’s like to drive an F1 car “Papa doesn’t explain it very well.” Alain can imagine Keke’s abrupt and unpoetic descriptions; well, the kid is in luck because there is no one who’ll wax more poetically about F1 than Ayrton, although it might get spiritual. Alain makes a mental note of asking Sina if they are raising the boy catholic, and apologizing for any preaching if not.

Keke just snorts and walks ahead with Nigel, leaving his son to hammer his former rivals with incessant questions. By the time they’ve reached the hotel they’ve made a very serious commitment to go see him race in his next season.

“But you must win, yes?” Oh Ayrton, adding pressure to the kid already, he’ll scold him later and Ayrton will find no fault in his actions.

The boy’s blue eyes shine with bold determination as he agrees and hugs them quickly before sprinting to catch up with his dad.

Their night is strangely devoid of nightmares or insomnia. Alain almost regrets so, they sleep so soundly it barely leaves them time to cuddle in the early hours of the morning. The pit patter of faint rain scatters outside. Ayrton’s head rests on his chest, and he takes a second to trace his features before he is fully woken up, those gorgeous lashes, his cheekbones, the length of his jaw; he looks younger like this, lips slightly part, he shuffles in his sleep slowly opening his eyes, the lines on his forehead, the golden chain resting on his collarbone. Alain reaches down and places a single kiss on the golden cross, just as Ayrton’s eyes flutter open and regard him with faint surprise.

For luck.

They do the track walk on the rain, together. They’d done that before, a lifetime ago, back in 88. Now it’s completely different, the dynamic has shifted so much it feels like walking through a completely new road, in some ways it is.

The chicane at the Eau Rogue Corner is not ideal, but it does diminish the risk. Spa is a fast track, Ayrton is a fast driver, it’s a combination that could be disastrous but there are new regulations, good measures, not enough, but good enough Alain tells himself over and over. When he feels a pang of despair mixed with nausea he goes back to Niki’s 20%, they are firmly below. The skid block added to the underside of the cars, as well as other modifications make them significantly slower (a whole second in comparison to last year’s times) Ayrton complains as many drivers did, but Alain is grateful.

Today, his whole focus is on Senna, it’s a sort of sharpness that only comes when racing, an instinctual sort of concentration, like he disappears into Senna the driver, his needs, his racing, his fears, his want. Years before, when they were competing this was the danger, to become so entwined in each other that he could lose all sense of self, exist only in relation to their rivalry. Now he doesn’t fear this, the instinctual pull only centers him, and if he forgets about himself too much Ayrton will emerge from some mysterious place beneath the helmet to pull him back into his own body. If they mirrored each other before it was akin to a funhouse mirror, elongated, exaggerated traits and overpowering silhouettes, now it’s like staring into a pond, a translucent echo of each-other, and close, close beneath the surface where they can just reach out.

It rains through qualifying. Not heavily, but significantly enough that everyone is cheering for Senna as the track darkens with the shadow of raindrops.

“A good sign” calls Berger.

“A blessing” hums Ayrton.

The echo of a nightmare for Alain, one he’s grown familiar with, but this time he can recognize a small echo of Ayrton’s excitement in himself. He does love to watch him race and he realizes that these past few days have been filled with expectation as much as nerves.

Ayrton is invigorated by the sound of the rain, his eyes practically sparkle, but he looks almost sheepishly from the car at Alain, knowing he’ll worry.

None of that, this is a game they can’t play. Even if he feels his head spinning a little.

“Go get pole” love

Like the last practice he stays in the garage with the rest of the team, but this time he is granted headphones and a seat by the monitor; Frank’s assuming he is taken the job, he is probably right. Practice the day before was good, the car felt okay if not fantastic, and while Alain had been anxious through the entirety of it, he’d manage to keep himself mostly grounded.

Qualifying is something else though, Ayrton pushes the cars to their upmost limit for this, he always has, knowing that he only has a few laps fuels him with an unknown speed and dexterity. Alain had rarely taken pole from him after all, even if he was better at managing the car on the length of a race. Watching Senna race on any qualifying day is a treat, on the rain though…

Senna is insane, the things he does with the car no one else can match, maybe there is a touch of God there, of whatever god they share. He glides through the track with certainty, a potency that is frightening and exhilarating, “break neck speed” they call it, and Alain fucking hates the expression, but he is also completely tuned in, mildly turned on. He himself hates racing on the rain but even he has to concede how good Senna is, how much admiration he’s always held for him, now it mixes in his belly with softer emotions. He is proud because he loves him.

Q1, 1:23.186

Still, there’s a lot of traffic, the tires don’t have enough grip, and Senna’s missed half the season. 11th, not terrible. Alain stands still watching the car come back to the garage. He doesn’t approach Senna, knowing at this point he’ll be more of a distraction but he makes sure that he sees him close by. Change of tires and a swarm of mechanics.

Q2, 2:22.666

Senna takes 4th with ease. The rain increases and most every other driver slows down a bit. Alain leans over the counter, more interested in the data than the driver for a moment. He wonders if Ayrton will take the hint.

Q3, 2:20.898

1st, almost a second faster than everyone else.

Pole for Senna.

If there is one thing, he’s never liked about Williams is how unenthusiastic they are. The team crowds around the car, but it’s not like McLaren or Ferrari, in a way the pilot is much lonelier here. Frank makes thin lipped decisions that are not challenged, and the car is adjusted without so much of the driver’s input, it’s not Latin, it’s not Senna.

Alain feels the memory of an ache he had at the start of the year. They hadn’t been yet on the best terms, but Ayrton called him often and Alain knew both by personal experience and by the sound of his voice, how isolated he felt in the Williams garage. Back in those days he felt mostly confused about this innate need to protect Ayrton, the image of him on his red overalls in 88 hunched over himself, lip quivering and eyes glassy was too potent to ever be truly gone from his mind. Now, the righteous anger simmering inside him is not confusing. He despises anything that can even remotely hurt Ayrton, even if he’s been included in that list from time to time.

So, he breaks the unspoken protocol leaving his headset by the monitor, and walks over to the car. There are mechanics around but they are more impressed with the telemetry and the computer than with their pilot, it’s not their fault, it’s the way of this team.

The tires are wet so he doesn’t sit on them, just leans on the wall as Ayrton emerges from the confines of the helmet, the car, tying his racing suit on his waist. Alain gets to watch him, becoming and unbecoming himself. The white t-shirt with the Senna logo that softly delineates his muscles, his full brows messy from the balaclava and the sweat, the certain redness about his thick neck, fuck actually he should look away, instead he finds his line of sight and mouths “Pole”. Ayrton replies with a self-satisfied grin, of course he already knew, but it’s the sharing they crave.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur, the attendance for the race is insane, an absolute sold out with multiple events added on. Everyone wants to see Senna back behind the wheel, funnily this doesn’t add much pressure to him. Ayrton slips easily into the persona of adored idol, he signs photographs and tickets, and posters; he speaks with fans in multiple languages and laughs about with presenters. Alain has fully resigned from his media gig and while he could/should in theory work on various things with Frank and the team, Ayrton refuses to part ways for more than a few minutes, certain that he is completely entitled to his time. Right now, he is not sure if this is for his own benefit or for Alain’s but he does sense some level of anxiety thrumming below the surface.

In a way Alain thinks this will be a feature of their lives together: they are discovering that they are not very good at being apart. He’d been so miserable at Silverstone. From the moment Ayrton woke up they’ve somehow arranged their lives to be together at nearly all times, it should be overwhelming or even annoying but it isn’t, it’s tremendously natural and Alain think’s he feels more like himself when he is around Ayrton, as if somehow his presence didn’t necessitate a performance, but rather required him to just be.

What does seem to throw Senna a bit off his laid-back performance is the amount of friends, family and colleagues that have descended upon Belgium to watch him race. It’s not uncommon for his brother and sister to come by, even his dad, but most of his family arrives today. As far as old colleagues, Alain can’t think of a single healthy alive driver that isn’t there. Which means Nelson stops by and Senna jokes/not jokes about having him removed from the garage. James is by Niki’s side and Alain suspects he’s been tasked with keeping an eye on him, judging by the number of times he conspicuously runs into him in places where he has no business appearing. Anne Marie is also around with his kids, although she’s promised Alain they won’t see the race live, a promise she’s probably not intending to keep because Nicolas might scream bloody murder if they brought him all the way here and then forbid him from watching.

Fangio makes the effort to call Ayrton that night, it’s brief and the connection is terrible but the mere act fills him with palpable optimism.

They have dinner with their mixed families in town, and it’s chaotic but so good. He’s missed Senna’s family and the feeling is mutual. Bruno and Nico disappear together pretty much the second they are allowed (he barely gets the chance to shout out a loose curfew hour) which means Sacha gets left behind and expects to spend the entirety of the evening atop Ayrton’s shoulders, but he reluctantly makes the compromise to sit on his knees throughout dinner. Alain briefly wonders if he is watching his child being stolen from under him but then again Ayrton looks truly cheerful as he presents Sacha with a variety of foods and explains to him that good kids are not picky eaters; his son politely rejects cabbage but accepts cheese. He speaks to him softly in atrocious French and his boy responds with big smiles and shy babbles. Alain’s heart aches in the best of ways.

He and Anne Marie step out, having being relieved from parenting duties for one night. Summer is volatile in Belgium, after a rainy afternoon they are greeted with a warm pleasant night. They clink their wine glasses, a good Bordeaux that warms his spirit. Despite the stress of the race this evening is making him feel so satiated, grateful.

“You are good for each-other” Anne Marie observes.

“We weren’t for a long time”

She waves her hand dismissively.

“It’s not going to be easy I think, but you’ll be good”

“Ouais, t’as raison, je pense.” Yes, I think you are right. Easy has never been part of their dynamic, not when they met, not when they were teammates, not now.

“His family loves you.” She means ‘they accept this’.

“It’s mutual.”

“You don’t mind not being able to be open about it?” she inquires.

“No, not after everything, it’s a small price. Although maybe that will change someday” Who knows? Maybe the world would become a more accepting place.

“It’s a price you shouldn’t have to pay.” There’s annoyance in her voice and Alain feels moved by her defense.

“Ouais”

“Just so you know Sacha will probably start calling him dad”

Alain had been sipping his wine, he properly chokes, a multitude of emotions and questions coming at him. The one lingering insecurity he has on their relationship is the possibility that Ayrton might want to form a family at some point, something he can’t exactly provide.

“Nicolas has been instructing him, ‘pai’ is it? In Portuguese.” Anne Marie says nonchalant, completely unaffected by the implication.

“You are okay with this?”

She shrugs.

“I think Nico’s really fond of Senna.” She adds as some sort of explanation for her ease.

That is also mutual, they’ve been calling now that Nico is back at his mom’s, Nico doesn’t even call him, his own father, that often. It helps that his son has taken an interest in the model planes, so now they share a hobby his father isn’t part of. Still, he feels a bit speechless, Ayrton has always been a separate part of his life, but now both worlds seem to collide, no, not collide, mingle, it feels like the big roots of his life intertwining.

He raises his glass, because whatever this is, it warrants celebration.

“To coparenting with Senna” Anne Marie toasts.

44 laps to go

They choose to have breakfast at the motorhome, for Ayrton it allows them more alone time, for Alain it deviates from the last time they were doing this before a race. He wants to bring the plates onto the tiny bed and take advantage of the few minutes alone, but Ayrton is too tidy to allow that.

“Alain you were a chicken in a past life.” Ayrton muses as he sets the table.

“And what were you? An orderly swan? God knows you are that pretty”

“Stop” Ayrton blushes, he blushes every time Alain calls him pretty, so he does it often. He’s found some amazing reactions when he’s touching him and calls him “my pretty thing”.

So, they sit around the tiny table, eating a light breakfast, and strong coffee each. For once both have the same meek appetite, the gravity of the date weighing on them both.

Ratzenberger has been dead for four months, but Ayrton wants to race with the flag. He still wants to get on the podium and make a tribute to the man he spoke to briefly before his demise, before his own nearly tragic crash. It’s moving, it’s stubborn and optimistic, a bit delusional, it’s essentially Senna. He really should come to expect it, but the parallelism makes Alain nauseous. He’s been here before, having this conversation.

“I have to do it, at least try” Ayrton says out of nowhere, pushing around his salad with little hunger.

It takes Alain by surprise, not because he doesn’t know what he means, but because he was thinking about it.

“I know” He tries to sound calm.

“It doesn’t mean-“

“I know” He cuts him before he can speak the things he’d rather not hear.

Yet, Ayrton trying to justify himself leaves a sour taste on Alain’s mouth; what he proposes is the most coherent action for him, the most Senna thing to do. Even if Alain disagrees, it’s this kind of thing that defines Ayrton, so he is conflicted.

They eat in silence for a bit, chewing without much enthusiasm.

“I understand why, but then you have to keep in mind that your goal is getting a podium, not a win.”

Ayrton frowns at him visibly upset.

“You can’t ask me that.”

“I’m not asking you not to win, I’m telling you to keep your priorities clear.”

“Number 1 is atop of the podium, perhaps you’ve forgotten that”

It’s bitter, it is stress, it’s the sort of bickering they used to relay on.

“Sorry, I didn’t-“

“Look, you know the car is unstable… but more than that, you’ve always driven all or nothing. God knows you have almost as many retirements as wins, but you said you wanted this race to be a tribute, no?”

Alain pushes his plate away, resigned.

“Yes.”

“Then, you need to ensure you get on that podium, it’s a different kind of race that’s all.”

Maybe years before Ayrton would take this as mistrust or some mind trick, but now, despite how much it evidently pains him, he simply nods through the discomfort. They are both equally unhappy with it, so that must be compromise.

“Okay.” He mumbles.

Alain grabs his hand and kisses his wrist, faintly feeling his pulse beneath his skin.

“I’ll drive like you.” It’s said like a challenge.

“Ah, you’d win then.”

“Exactly” Ayrton’s eyes gleam a little, like he’s found the right angle.

Eventually they go rest on the tiny motorhome bed, they sit together, and after some resistance Alain rests his head against Ayrton. It’s still almost an hour until they have to report at the garage, but the stress of the day makes it difficult to relax even alone. There’s a myriad of unsaid things swirling around them. Ayrton feels both guilty and self-assured about racing, Alain is mildly terrified and infinitely annoyed at himself for this. He has to consciously push away memories from May 1st, over and over. A pressing desire to hide in the toilets makes him sigh, he thought he was past this.

“Alain” Ayrton’s voice distracts him from his tiny spiral.

“Uhmm?”

Without a word Ayrton pushes him down on the bed, and gently turns him. Alain allows himself to be directed, too in his head to make more decisions, he watches half amused as Ayrton climbs on top. They make eye contact and Ayrton straddles him, Alain’s breath catching. Then he redirects his attention to Alain’s upper half, running his hands over his neck and shoulders, slowly beginning to massage, pressing exactly on the tense spots. Alain lets out a gasp, as he feels big hands knead on his chest and a wave of warmth surges in his abdomen.

“We don’t have time” he complains half convinced.

“I’m just giving you a massage, nothing more” Ayrton shushes him, now expertly pressing on Alain’s shoulders with his palms wide open, it feels like he is transferring all of his heat with his hands. It’s as weirdly grounding as it is arousing.

Unfolding around Ayrton has become such an instinct that he goes pliant, though. He surrenders to the idea that it’s just a massage, he is on his hands. Despite how warm he feels and how aware he is of their position, Ayrton towering over him, their groins dangerously close. God, if they, when they make it out of this weekend, he is determined to figure out actual penetration.

Then Ayrton begins rubbing the tip of his fingers on his nipples and Alain openly moans. Ayrton grins at that and repeats the motion slower, Alain’s mind goes deliciously numb. Briefly he considers that he shouldn’t arrive at the garage with a hard on. But even that thought evaporates when he sees the hunger etched in Ayrton’s face, his hands knead Alain’s torso and he whimpers.

The massage ends up with Ayrton’s hand tightly wrapped around his cock, kissing him wide while Alain spills between his fingers, eyes pressed shut and mouth twisting in a silent whine. The world goes blank for a second, no race weekend, nothing around them, just pleasure, his back arched into the bed and Ayrton’s forehead pressed on his, his eyes bearing into him, tenderness etched on his sight.

He does feel infinitely more loose afterwards.

Outside on the paddock, there are fans, press, friends getting ready, snapping photographs, chasing the last autographs and moments with the racers. The speakers reverberate with the commentators notes on the race day:

“Nonostante la pioggia di ieri, oggi abbiamo uno scenario asciutto per la gara, tutto è pronto”

“Everything is set”

Tá todo mundo aqui por um único motivo: ver o Senna correr de novo. Mesmo com as chances dele ganhar o campeonato sendo quase zero, a gente sabe que ele pode fazer o impossível.

“Everyone knows he can do the impossible”

As the race actually approaches, they both grow quiet, nerves still a little gnaw inside him, but Alain is determined to remain calm. It’s different from the last practice, they’ve tested the car, the qualifying went well, and this time Alain’s attention is split, as Frank actually needs his input, and Damon is treating him like part of the team already. He watches Ayrton from afar and observes how he becomes gradually a bit frantic, it’s the anticipation, as he gets the racing suit on, as he greets the car, the excitement of the competition coursing through his body, lighting up his every move, every step becomes intentional, the helmet waiting for him like a beacon. When Alain meets his eyes, his pupils are slightly dilatated but he smiles his way, chewing on his lip.

Formation Lap

Ayrton starts from pole, Barrichello is beside him on the first row, right behind him Schumacher, Hill on fourth, two lines of engines begin to roar.

All throughout the weekend Alain has been meticulously avoiding the repetition of any and all actions he took in Imola, like his routine was cursed, like his words to Senna might be the reason for the crash. It’s more than a superstition, a sort of ritual, skirting past every missed exit on San Marino where he could have stopped Ayrton from getting in the car. If he was back at Imola he would do everything short of murder to keep him away from the track. Naturally, he’s gone over these scenarios in his head obsessively, behind the curtain of shock are the hours at the hospital, but before, the hours of that racing weekend are engraved with precision inside of him. All the things he could have done: from asking to begging, to arguing to kissing, to fistfights to fucking, to downright kidnapping; hell, if he’d know how protective Ayrton would become, he would have probably hurt himself as a distraction. It’s surely a bad sign how much he thinks about that possibility. Yet, today Ayrton’s brown eyes peer from the grid, behind the yellow green helmet, the last look before he pulls the shield down and becomes Senna the driver; he is silently asking him for the last approval, Alain grants it. A simple bow that says this is who they are and this is what they do, despite everything. He wants to puke, he goes to sit by the monitors, surrounded by his former team.

The traffic lights go up, one by one.

There’s a sharp turn almost at the beginning of the circuit.

Alain prays from his post, amongst the engineers. Frank is stoic to his right.

Start

The second the lights are off Senna lurches forward, Barichello falls behind and the Benneton takes second. Hill defends behind. It’s a clean start, some blocking and a tight first corner but the Williams takes the lead. By the second lap Alesi retires, but it’s on the chicane, no safety car.

From the garage he can faintly hear the speakers, a mix of French, German and English narrating.

Lap Three

Comas retires. Hakkinen overtakes Hill, Senna keeps widening the gap, 2 seconds ahead of Schumacher.

From the tribunes he can hear cheers for Senna, “Magic Senna, magic Senna”. His heart rate speeds up.

Lap Six

No mechanical issues, no safety car. He releases a breath caught in his throat.

Lap Seven

Alain didn’t realize how much of his nerves were set on this moment. The images of the wall at tamburello flash through his head and he has to close his eyes for a second. Frank squeezes his shoulder despite his usually impassive manners.

Lap Eight

Alain’s focus kicks back in.

Senna is pushing the car, almost 3 seconds ahead of Schumacher; there are some overtakes happening far behind, and Hakkinen defends third, but his tires are suffering.

In the next laps there’s three more retirements and Adams spins off. Senna’s pace begins to falter.

Lap 19

Senna spins exiting Fagnes. Alain can feel his heart trapped on his mouth. His vision becomes blurry for a second, Senna retakes his position, still on the lead.
The following lap, Barrichello spins at Pouhon and clips the armco barrier giving his terminal suspension damage, but it’s not a grave incident.

Safety car

Alain’s vision spins, an engineer offers him water. Senna’s still on the lead.

“Doucement, keep it still” he mutters under his breath.

Lap 21

Senna, Ayrton, restarts cautiously, Schumacher on his tail. Still, he doesn’t rush, the Eau Rogue a pulsing current ahead.

Lap 22

“Box, box”

Lap 23

Tire change, the lead becomes a succession mess. Schumacher, Hakkinen, Hill, Alboreto, Bernard.

Senna arrives at the garage and Alain chances a quick glance, 6 seconds, tire change and refuel. A perfect stop. He can’t see behind Senna’s helmet, but he sends a tiny prayer his way.

Lap 25

The Benneton starts cutting times 10 seconds to the lead. As the rest of the grid goes to pits the lead reconfigures, Hill ahead, Senna second, Alboreto fights Schumacher off. He zeros in on the yellow car, he thinks he sees something, something minuscule. Then Brundle spins off and he loses that focus.

Lap 35

The Benneton is pressing on 3 seconds to the lead, Hill remains lead but Senna is close 1.5 distance. Irvine and young Fittipaldi retire.

“You are losing time on the 10th and 15th”

Ayrton gasps on the comms and for a second Alain thinks he’s fucked up, he’s distracted him, but Senna recovers quickly and takes the corner closed. His shoulders sag, and he decides to leave comms to the engineers.

The wind picks up.

Lap 37

Rain in 10 laps.

Senna is losing momentum, Schumacher attacks and finally overtakes him right after the Eau Rogue, but it’s not only the Williams car, the Benetton’s pace is unmatched, by the end of the lap he is catching on Hill.

Alain zeros on the yellow car again. He is not sure if he should say something but…

“What are you looking at?” Frank asks him point blank.

“Look, on the straight, the car behaves different.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know, but it’s gaining time when it breaks for the straight, that’s not been happening”

Lap 39

Rain in 6 laps.

Both Williams are overtaken and Senna groans in frustration, something awful coils at the pit of Alain’s stomach.

“Look, there it is again, how much time is it gaining?”

“Uhm, .300” The engineer besides him replies.

“That’s not possible.”

Hakkinen is on third, Hill on second, Schumacher flies ahead on first.

Lap Forty

Rain in three.

Senna is pushing like crazy behind Hakkinen, chasing him down every corner. He’s .200 behind, then .400, then back close.

The thing is he is sure.

“How much?”

“.400” Someone replies.

“No, I mean the Benetton.”

“Almost half a second”

“That’s ridiculous”

Frank stares at him impassive.

Final Lap, the checkered flag waves as the first drops of rain fall.

Schumacher finishes first almost 6 seconds ahead of Hill, Hakkinen barely holds on to the third.

An ocean of guilt engulfs Alain, if he hadn’t said anything? Suddenly the possibility of death seems far away, the defeat being the clear reality.

“We need to appeal. The pace is ridiculous, it makes no sense Frank, you are seeing the numbers.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes”

“Okay go.”

Frank doesn’t give it a second thought, he turns around to analyze the numbers, both from Senna and Hill, but Alain suspects they are more focused on their second place than their fourth at the moment. He aches at the thought, it’s reasonable, but it still hurts. He drops his headphones, and pushes his chair off, okay then.
He’s not wearing the Williams uniform, he’s not sure what his role at the team is yet, but he’s got a task. He’s out of the garage before the cars roll in.

Every step towards the FIA’s box relives an uncanny walk. All of a sudden, he is not 40 and retired, he is 35, the Japanese paddock beneath his feet, and he’s desperate like he has never been in his life. It’s stepping into a déjà vu, one of the biggest regrets of his career, one that was his fault. He did it all wrong, Keke laughed, but the shame sat between his ribs. He crosses the garages as the cars roll by, engines dying off, quickly crosses eyes with Berger. The rain is properly falling now but he barely notices it.

Here's what he knows, Senna was right, maybe not before, who knows? But right now, there’s no way the Benetton could achieve that pace in normal conditions, he thinks it might be the skid block, because of the way the car behaved on the straight. But, is it wishful thinking? Would Ayrton want this? He remembers how sad, upset, disappointed he’d been after 1989, of course, that time he was the injured part, but… He’d said to the press; how despicable Alain was for not solving things on the track. Bile reaches his mouth and he has to lean on a trailer for a moment, the truth is, that championship had cost him so much of his mental stability. They’ve yet to talk about it.

What is he doing? The guilt tears at him from every side, he shouldn’t have in 1989, he shouldn’t have told Ayrton to go for the podium instead of the win, he shouldn’t have done so many things. He reaches behind one of the trailers and crouches before puking. It’s quick and violent and as usual leaves him with a clear head.

He walks into Ballestre’s office determined.

Outside the Benneton team gathers, the podium is paused, it feels like every team is outside. The orders were unclear, drivers were almost up.

The media rushes below chasing Ballestre, the race director deflects the cameras.

“What’s happening why is the podium suspended?” Alarmist bunch.

“It’s delayed.”

Ballestre pushes past them.

The confusion is palpable, some idiot let spectators on the field, where did this many people come from? He can see Keke, Sina and his kid in the distance, a bunch of mechanics argue in his face. The whole grid is out. He has to reach the Williams team but, in the multitude, he can’t see Frank, everyone seems disperse. There’s shouting, Schumacher is quiet, but his mechanics are screaming. Alessandro Benetton is on Ballestre’s face.

The whole crowd funnels into the Benetton garage, which is now loud with the fuss of voices, he sees Alboreto and Gerhard again, Martini and Irvine, Fittipaldi, young and old, Mika and Schumacher arrive together. Finally, some white and blue overalls, but it’s Damon.

In the sea of people, at the back he catches sight of Ayrton, Sid Watkins walking in toe with him.

He looks distraught, hair wild like he didn’t even pass a hand through it after throwing the balaclava off. His eyes quickly scan the garage, one, two, three times, he turns to speak with Sid and even from a distance Alain can guess the panicked tone.

In a second, he understands that look on Ayrton’s face, he recognizes it because it’s the same look he’s had before, in weeks of hospital guards. It dawns on Alain, he thought his absence meant… Fuck. There are too many people between them. He’s turned his back to the action, where the Benetton car is being hauled up to determine the thickness of the skid block, and he is looking at Ayrton in the distance but he is too short, in the crowd he can’t see him.

He pushes forward, walking against the current of onlookers.

Someone exclaims behind him “Disqualified!” and the garage erupts in a ruckus.

Suddenly, brown eyes catch his. The intensity of Ayrton’s gaze does not diminish until the exact moment he is in front of Alain shouting his name.

“I’m fine!” He shouts back despite the closeness.

Ayrton stares at him utterly confused, his breathing rapid, eyes unfocused.

“I’m fine!” He repeats loudly grabbing him by the waist. Sid catches up to them and Alain quickly changes his hold to Ayrton’s shoulders. He leans in closer.

“I’m okay.”

“The engineers said, you-were with the stewards I-.” He half stutters.

“I’m okay Ayrton, you were right, the Bennetton car, it was too fast, the skid block proves it. I was with the race director and Ballestre.”

Ayrton still stares at him disconcerted.

“They are disqualifying Schumacher. You were right. I’m sorry I didn’t know if you’d want me to but I…”

Ayrton’s face lights up the second it dawns on him.

“So? P3?”

“Yes, podium.”

Ayrton’s grabs him from the back of the neck and presses him close for a rough kiss on his cheek, all too close to the lips, but still in deniable territory. His eyes well up when he opens them.

As they embrace the multitude begins to dwindle. The Williams team finds him, Damon the first to congratulate Senna. Frank stares between them and a knowing look crosses his blue eyes, still he comes to Alain and shakes his hand content with the result.

All the excitement of the discussion dies down the second they reach the podium. Ayrton asks for the Austrian hymn to be played and somehow, they agree. After all the previous chaos and confusion, it’s a moment charged with gravity. Ayrton had already discussed it with Damon and Mika agrees, so the podium is a solemn event, with the three pilots holding the Austrian flag, and the hymn playing on the back.

Despite how many months it’s been, and how little both the audience and the grid knew Ratzenberger most everybody tears up at the end. Balestre must be fuming, Alain doesn’t think he’ll ever listen to him on any matters again, at least not without mediation (thank God for the GDPA), he is sure if he’d known what Senna was going to do, he’d never have gone through with the appeal, and doesn’t that say everything about the man?

In the end there is champagne and celebration, Ayrton is wrapped in the flag of Ratzenberger’s country as he jumps around in joy. A fine tribute. Then someone procures a Brazilian flag too. Ayrton practically waterboards both Mika and Damon with the bubbly wine, and Alain is sure he has never celebrated a third place like this.

When he comes down, he smells of champagne and sweat as he pushes Alain behind one of the motorhomes and ravages his mouth. He smells of success and care, but Alain gently pries him off.

“They are waiting for you.”

“They can wait.”

This time he kisses him soft and deliberate, champagne dripping from his forehead. Alain thinks it will be impossible to hide his state, but he melts into the embrace, feeling strong hands mess his hair, his shirt, and the little decorum he still had.

“Okay, okay, now go. I’ll wait outside.”

He caresses Ayrton’s cheek, who closes his eyes and hums into the touch.

“Go, love.”

In the end he walks Ayrton to the auditorium and heads towards the Ferrari garage. He makes a futile attempt to tidy himself before walking in on Lucca’s office.

By the time the press conference is over everyone is talking about the podium, about Ratzenberger and the safety measures, even fans seem excited about the resurgence of the GDPA. Multiple journalists ask Alain for comment, but he redirects them to Lauda, the official spokesperson, and they seem a bit deterred at that.
He waits for Ayrton outside the auditorium, and greets the many drivers that pass by, old and new. Young Rosberg comes to meet him before they head out, and reminds him of their commitment to go see him carting. Nelson takes advantage of Senna’s absence to come check on him, it’s abrupt but Alain appreciates it.
There’s a lot of parties scheduled for the night, after all it’s rare for such a high concentration of current and ex-pilots to gather in Belgium of all places. Ayrton is pleased with the result and actually looking forward to loosen up a bit, so Alain warns them as soon as they are alone.

“We have a meeting at Maranello tomorrow”

Ayrton is fresh out of the shower, a towel resting on his broad shoulder and nothing more. Maybe fuck the parties.

“What?” He tilts his head and glances sideways; droplets fall from his curls all the way to his calves.

“Well, you do.” Alain passes saliva “I might have to stay outside.”

“Are you sure?” Ayrton comes to sit next to him, still not attempting to cover an inch of himself, legs casually spread.

“I have my own plans, for now I can learn from Frank, the good and the bad.” Alain announces, he doesn’t want to go into details just now, but it’s not like they haven’t skirt around the issue.

Also, it’s ungodly hard to focus with a man built like Ayrton dripping wet next to him.

“You’ll never win with me fussing about you, but I’ll be close by” he adds trying to focus on anything but the toned muscles of Ayrton’s thighs.

“Oh, what plans are this?” Ayrton purrs in his ear, the cheeky bastard is enjoying this. He is going to get him all wet, in more than one sense, and it’s a more serious conversation than he can hope to have like this.

“I’ll tell you on the flight, tonight we should enjoy ourselves.”

That’s the last coherent thought Alain can formulate before he is biting his shoulder, and Ayrton emits the softest groan. He wants to bite him all, lick him clean, make them ungodly late to any event, and then pine for him all night and have him back here.

Before he can proceed though Ayrton gently pushes him off, and Alain is half expecting for him to pull him down on the floor and take him, but no, his face has morphed into a more serious expression.

“Uhm, how are you doing Alain?” Ayrton stares him down and now it’s him who feels naked. This is because the last time they partied after a racing weekend things got out of hand.

“I puked on the way to Ballestre’s, but I’ve been feeling fine. Grounded.” Alain sighs.

“Okay”

There’s a reward for his honesty in the form of a quick peck, and then more demanding lips, tongue seeking access to his mouth. They will be late; Niki and James will tease them.

“Then, I should be racing for you.”

Senna’s plane is exceptionally comfortable. The European landscape fades beneath them. Alain likes to stare below and try to guess the supposed borders between countries, they’re rarely a real thing.

“Non, it will be years before the cars are actually competitive, you are not wasting that time with me.” Ligier had a good year, but they need newer engines, and regulations have changed, it means little for the next season. His man is 34, realistically he will retire in a few years.

“So, I’d be racing against you again?” Ayrton speaks cautiously.

“It will be another season at least but yeah.”

There’s a bit of turbulence as they near the alps.

“How many until you are ready to retire?”

“Five.” Ayrton doesn’t hesitate for even a second and Alain chuckles because honestly, he already knew.

“To beat me?”

He doesn’t respond just smiles to himself. This man.

“Fine, hurry and get those, then you could help me?” He poses the question like an offer, it’s distant but it’s a path together, if Senna wants to take it.

“Uhmm, and you are set on the name?”

“Why yes? Prost GP, what wrong with that?” He likes his name; it has some gravitas.

Ayrton openly laughs at him before suggesting combining their names.

“Love I mean this, please don’t steal my team again”

Ayrton shakes his head disapprovingly, but he is clearly not actually listening to him.

“Prosenna sounds nice”

It doesn’t, it sounds utterly ridiculous, and the prospect of once again working together terrifies him. Then again if they can’t have kids, no, he is not ready for this conversation.

“You get a word in when you bring those championships home, not a day earlier.”

Alain doesn’t know if he should feel worried when he looks at Ayrton and there’s a new brand of excitement poorly concealed on his features. He’s just given him an extra reason to race.

Maranello is a town made by Ferrari, a small village by Modena, just a couple of hours away from Imola. He was here often in 1990, and then in 1991. Recalling that first meeting is bittersweet, he was escaping from the man that’s currently hurrying him along, carrying his luggage. They rent a car (in Senna’s name naturally) upon landing and Alain slips on the driving seat without thinking much of it, but when he turns to Ayrton the sensation of déjà vu is undeniable. A little over 10 years separates them from that ride in Nürburgring, suddenly it’s like he can reach out and touch that young man with chopped hair and blunt eyes, who was not yet a champion, and who secretly admired him. He wants to remark on the moment, but Ayrton beats him to it.

“You can speed if you want” he says with a soft smirk, resting his hand on Alain’s thigh.

“Shush, it’s a quiet town, and also I’m blacklisted remember” Alain says while he pulls the map up, these streets are a labyrinth.

“So shouldn’t I be driving?”

“If we are stopped, I’ll ask them to call Lucca Cordero di Montezemolo and speak directly to him.”

“I actually want this job querido” Ayrton mumbles mildly scandalized. He is joking but he is also been fretting from the moment they woke up, tapping his fingers on the window throughout the plane ride, combing his hair a few times, despite how many times Alain reassures him that he looks great.

“I arranged the meeting, didn’t I?”

There’s a pause where Ayrton seems to reflect on this unspoken fact. His eyes light up like he hadn’t considered the implications.

“How?”

“That’s between me and Lucca”

Comically he pouts, but he’s been biting his lips with nerves all morning and Alain can only think about how kissable they look.

“What?”

“Just figuring out if I should be jealous.”

“Ayrton that man sacked me.”

He shrugs.

“I’ve done you worse” He replies mildly abashed.

That he has.

“Honestly he might still be pinning after Niki” At that Ayrton’s pretty brown eyes grow wide.

They soon arrive outside the house with the red door and red window, and it feels momentous. They are again making history in this tiny segment of human experience that is the F1 sport, a sport they’ve given their lives to, that’s given them life, and each-other. Sometimes Alain wonders: why is it so important? So devastatingly meaningful to them? Why has he allowed himself to lose friends and sanity over this? But there isn’t a clear-cut answer, it is important because it is important to them, all of them, everyone who races, everyone who wishes to do so, all the kids sitting right now behind the wheel of a go-cart sweating with expectation and healthy dose of fear that they’ll shed little by little, how many of them will become what they are? All the people in the tribunes and on their homes staring at cars that speed so fast only the cameras can catch them. Everyone who cares about them without knowing them. It matters because of this, just as cathedrals are holy because people believe in them.

He turns the engine off and they both stare at the mythical building. Ayrton’s anxiousness is much more evident now.

“Do you think I’ll end up like you, sacked for saying it’s a tractor?” Ayrton laughs shortly.

“No” He doesn’t have to think about it. “But you know that was a misquote right?”

Ayrton raises his brow disbelieving. Okay maybe it wasn’t exactly a misquote.

“I don’t know why I want this so much”

“Because it’s moving forward. It makes sense.”

He thinks that perhaps if Senna had died that day, he would have become a martyr to their sport, ever young and complex, charming, mysterious, incredibly kind and smart, and terribly competitive and fast. He would have become a figure bigger than themselves, a shadow that would engulf everything in Alain’s past. His life would be divided, he would never again race for anyone, against anyone, and 10, 20, 30 years from now their names would be entwined in a rivalry that no one, no one could ever truly understand. Their words dissected; the pain amplified by thousands of prying eyes.

Looking at the man beside him softly chewing on his lip and fixing his shirt one last time, he thinks it would be worth it just to have known him. All things they’ve lived together are now somehow coated in love. The deja vú of standing outside this house is no longer a close ended story of his own misery and perplexity at being so mistreated. It’s part of a revolving tale of them both. He was here so Ayrton can be here, and Ayrton was at Williams so he can be there next, trailing around each other, finding the harvest of each-other’s passion.

“Go, I’ll go entertain myself in town. This will be a couple hours long if I remember correctly.”

Not that there is that much to do at Maranello.

“Alain?”

“Uhm?” He replies absentmindedly, reaching for the map that’s been set over the glove compartment.

“Thank you”

“Yes of course love.”

“Alain thank you” Ayrton is staring at him with those immense dark eyes, his hand now on top Alain’s, holding him in place, and he suddenly feels moved, hypnotized in Senna’s gaze.

“Yes” his breath hitches when Ayrton’s hand scoots to the nape of his neck and brings him in for a soft peck that he can feel long after the car door closes.

He watches him ring the ancient door bell, Ferrari and its antics, and is suddenly reminded of a little thing he brought all the way from their half empty house in the Paris suburbs. Fishing for the disposable camera in the glove compartment he almost misses the moment, so the picture is probably unfocused, but he captures it, Senna entering through the red door at Maranello, a bit of history, or a moment significant to him because it is to Ayrton, he wants him to have everything they’ve ever wanted.

Ayrton insists on driving afterwards and leads him to a tiny restaurant hidden between a row of houses, almost at the edge of the town and up a hill.

They sit them down immediately, although Alain doesn’t know how they could be expecting them, they are served a good wine and the place is softly lit with candles and old lamps. It’s not fancy, but it does feel like a bit of a hidden gem.

“I was going to take you out to dinner, at Imola” Ayrton says apropos of nothing.

“Yes, I remember we had plans” Which he hasn’t thought about in months.

“No, no, I was going to take you out, a date, yes?” He stares at him intently, licking his lower lip as he speaks.

“Oh” Oh “Well you didn’t say that”

“No, but I was going to pick you up and get that wine you love, and push your chair and pay for everything.”

“Ah” Alain doesn’t know how to respond, that would have been lovely.

“I had it all planned. I wanted to ask you to come with me to Brazil, for the summer break you see. Would you have come?”

Before Imola, before the crash Ayrton had been acting increasingly kind and at that time Alain had been baffled and worried that if he might do the wrong thing, then maybe he’d pull away. He would have been confused but he would have jumped at the opportunity.

“Yes, I think yes.”

“And if I had kissed you? Would you have let me?” Ayrton looks at him with big hopeful eyes, his whole face yearning.

He knows the answer but takes a moment to phrase it.

“No, it would have been too confusing, I would have asked you for an explanation I think.”

“Mnnh” Ayrton hums rubbing his hand.

“What changed?”

“Ayrton what hasn’t changed?”

“I mean, you didn’t need an explanation, afterwards.” He elaborates.

“I, I had a lot of time to think when you were in the hospital. I often talked to you, you know? I couldn’t sleep so I’d spend the night telling you things or crying.”

A flash of fresh pain crosses Ayrton’s face, he doesn’t know much about those days, and Alain would rather keep it that way.

There’s a pause. He refills his own wine.

“What did say to me, back then?”

“I told you about carting, the first time I did it, and then about my grandmother, my brother, I told you a lot about Daniel, I think he would have loved to see you race.”

Ayrton regards him with a strange look, something like shock.

“I think I heard some of it.” He nearly apologizes.

Alain blinks slowly as his mind goes through the words.

“Yes, when you tell me things sometimes it feels like déjà vu.”

“Oh”

He doesn’t exactly how to process this information, in a way he is much more exposed than he previously believed, all of him actually, open raw. But hadn’t he wanted that?

“I had told Vivi about taking you to Brazil you know? That’s why she knew”

“Ah, that makes sense.”

The glow of the sunset turns the whole restaurant a gorgeous yellow hue.

“Why didn’t you tell Gerhard we were talking, before the crash?”

“I was worried that if I explained it, I would spoil it.” He lets out a small half chuckle, and stares at Alain from below his lashes.

“I am not sorry for things I did before” Ayrton is looking at him with some apprehension, he must look alarmed because he quickly adds. “What I mean is I did what I thought was right, and you did too.”

He lets that sink in, the sunset carries on outside.

“Yes, but I do regret my actions Ayrton, it should have never been like that. If you would have died, I’d have years of mistakes to dwell on. Imagine it was me who crashed?” He turns back studying his face when the suggestion lands.

“Don’t say that.” He shifts uncomfortably on his seat.

“I mean it, imagine I would have remained at Williams and I would have crashed, and maybe died.”

“I don’t want to think about that.” Ayrton raises his voice and his mouth twists. His eyes dart away from Alain’s. It gives him no pleasure to say these things, but he feels they must be said.

“But I want you to, because I had to, for weeks it was the most likely outcome.” He breaths in, and reaches for his hand. “I am sorry, and if I could do it again it would be different”

Ayrton doesn’t let go, but doesn’t quite reciprocate the gesture.

“You are fantasizing. You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it?”

“But it didn’t have to hurt so much?”

“I don’t know, would we be here without it?”

A truly breathtaking plate of gnocchi arrives.

“What do you want Alain?” Sometimes he wonders how Ayrton managed to spend years without pronouncing his name.

“For real? I want to make my own team, God it was so much fun, I don’t know if I’ve told you this, but when I won for formula 3? I took the money and built my own car… it was something else. I want that.”

Maybe those hazy days are tinted with nostalgia, “Saudade” Ayrton says, but there was some feeling of excitement behind every decision, even the ones that failed. Alain had loved feeling the connection to his father’s work in the workshop, all the way to the track, via his hands.

Ayrton makes a point of brushing a quick kiss to his knuckles when he tells him this.

But still he insists.

“But you won’t let me race for it?”

“Ayrton, I love you but you go through so many cars a year, there’s no sponsor in France who can keep up.”

“There are in Brazil…” He says quietly.

“Ferrari just signed you, if I poach you, I’m 100% sure that Lucca will chase me with a shot gun, and he is an aristocrat, he has aim I’ve seen it.”

They digress into an anecdote of the head of the Ferrari principal shooting deer in the north of Italy, a complicated party on castle grounds followed by an actual hunt. Few things scream more of aristocracy in Ayrton’s opinion.

“Okay, okay, but later?”

“Lucca says you better get them two titles, one for you and the one you took from him in 1990. His words!”

Their coffee and vermouth arrive, and they bicker about how completely reasonable it is for Ayrton to suffer from insomnia when he insists on drinking coffee at every and any time. Ayrton seems to think there is no relation between his cafezinho and his troubles sleeping. How is this man real?

Ayrton scrunches up his nose, freckles rearranging in a gesture.

“Wait did Lucca and Niki really?”

“Oh yes, ages ago, but I don’t think he ever got over it.” Alain thinks Niki did care for him, just not in the same way, or at the same time perhaps; and anyways it’s too hard to imagine Niki without James.

“Uhm, he is an attractive man. He smells nice.”

What business did Ayrton had smelling Lucca? He did smell nice, expensive and a bit overwhelming with his Italian charm and perfectly tailored blazers and impeccable shirts, and perfect hair, and actually fuck him.

“Too much cologne if you ask me”

He might be pouting because Ayrton laughs at him. Okay both parts are jealous of a certain Italian noblesse, noted.

“Alain, I will die before I touch someone else.”

“Don’t joke about that.”

“I’m not.” Ayrton rolls his shoulders as if this was an unnecessary clarifitacion.

Their tiramisu arrives, and Alain immediately picks up his spoon. Tiramisu in Italy is the only Tiramisu worth it in his book.

“See, you do eat dessert.”

Alain rolls his shoulders as he dips his spoon on the spongy smoothness, the scent of coffee and cream filling his nostrils.

“C’est jusque une petite douceur”

“Comme toi” Ayrton replies in a hesitant French with a heavy accent, the words feel like they fall from his mouth rather than being delivered into the conversation, but he fully laughs when Alain attempts and immediately aborts any sort of reply Portuguese.

The lights dim at the restaurant, all patrons are leaving. Alain craves a cigarette, Ayrton chastises him. Outside the air is fresh despite the deep heat of summer, empty roads between old buildings cast long silhouettes, they are laughing about something, they are kissing about something, there’s a thread of abandoned conversations and open-ended questions. Where to live? Verão no brasil which is Europe’s winter so that’s good, the astounding price of Ligier, who’ll drive for them? Their hands find and lose each other, they lean on and away from one another, it’s sunset, it’s sunrise, it’s late in the night of a town made by a escuderia, there’s a scar that will never fade beginning to hide behind Senna’s curls. Alain bites his lip when they’re kissing beneath a lamppost, suddenly they’ve reached the edge of town, there’s an expanse of field and stars before them, but he stares into brown eyes that open up all the roads he might want to travel.