Work Text:
----- 1993 -----
March 14th
___________________
The paddock feels just the same as it always had. Alain wins the first race in South Africa and it is a glory long awaited to be standing back on the top of the podium. It’s familiar: the excited faces, the thick heat and the burning smell of rubber in the air that courses like gold through his veins. He catches sight of Ayrton only one time before looking away. Ayrton's eyes lingered on him a little longer as if expecting of him to pull back towards him. But Alain doesn’t.
“Did you watch the race?”, Alain is preparing to take a shower to wash off the filth off of the day.
“No,” Nelson lies. Alain can hear the tv playing a re-run in the background of the call (the Brazilian commentators are rather loud after all). “Apparently Senna heard of the clause you put in your Williams contract."
Alain freezes but continues to strip from his clothing. He sighs, “I thought you didn’t read the newspapers.”
Nelson scoffs, “I don’t, Geraldo leaves them lying face-up on the tables all around the house. I told him not to read that garbage, they always lie about everything.”
“Sure, Nelson.”
“Honestly! I don’t!”
“Whatever you say,” he shakes his head, an amused grin on his visage.
____________________________
June 15th
James Hunt dies two days after Canada.
“That’s awful,” Alain lays his head onto his knee, “For a man who lived such a vivid life, I would’ve assumed he wouldn’t die in his bed.” Oddly, Nelson stays quiet, a forlorn expression in his eye as he stares into the fibers of the carpet. “Have you talked to Niki?”, he asks and this alone breaks Nelson out of his reprieve, “They were close, no?”
“I called him earlier,” but his voice is quiet as if he isn’t concentrating or isn’t interested in what he himself is saying.
“What did he--how did he react?”
“He was as Niki as he usually is,” he smiles smally. It falters, “A lot quieter. He didn’t insult me. He just sounded sad, like he was trying not to cry or something.”
“You can’t blame him, he’s lost a lot of people over the years. Maybe that’s why he is such an asshole, it scares people off.”
Nelson scoffs, “Okay, Alain, you can drop the psychology.”
“Is something wrong with you? Besides James,” Nelson purses his lips at this, allowing his chin to rest on the palm of his hand, “You’re being mute, even for you.”
An uncomfortable air settles between them. “My dad died young, my grandfather too, all of heart problems,” he shrugs as if he said the most minimal thing in the world, “It’s genetic. It’ll catch up with me soon.”
It’s the thought that scares Alain, the possibility as he sits there, that Nelson will one day not be before him. Would anything truly change for him? Would he, like Nelson, come to terms with this in the long run?
____________________________
August 15th
Alain is on top of Nelson on bed and the other man is rutting into him when he suddenly, and unceremoniously, announces: “I think I am going to retire at the end of the season.”
Nelson pauses for a moment, his head moves up from the crook of his neck and his hands switch from off of the headboard to cradle his sides. “For good?”, he confirms.
He ponders for a moment before saying confidently, “Yes.” Nelson blinks and then picks up the pace into him like it meant nothing.
Confused, Alain pushes on his chest, “Wait--”
Nelson stops, “What is it?”
His brows merge, “Aren’t you going to stop me or something? Tell me that I have a few more years? Anything besides just continuing to fuck me would be nice.”
“What’s there to say?”, he huffs with a frown, “You’re going to have to hurry up before I go soft and then I swear--”
“Anything, just anything else,” he stares into his eyes, “Please, Nelson?”
He hesitates. “I think it’s a good idea for you.” He puts a hand on his hip, “Is that what you wanted to hear?” Alain shuts his mouth, “Good, now move a little, get into a better position… Good, my legs hurt.”
____________________________
September 26th
Alain clinches the world title before the season ends. From the hotel room, Nelson orders a large bottle of champagne and they spend the hours into the night finishing off the entire thing together. On the end of his second glass, he tries pushing the bottle away but Nelson keeps pouring him more.
“I have a plane to catch tomorrow morning,” he grumbles, “I can’t be hungover. You know how heavily I sleep.”
Nelson shakes his head, “Do you know how many people have won four world championships ever?”
Alain groans and pulls the glass closer, “One--Juan Manuel Fangio. But he has one more than I do.”
“That’s right,” Nelson nods enthusiatically and grabs for his empty glass, taking the champagne and giving himself more. “Why don’t you let yourself celebrate? It’s only going to happen once in a lifetime; don’t you want to live?”
Alain didn’t think such little words could mean so much to him but the champagne washes down his throat. Something within him sings about tomorrow.
____________________________
October 24th
The commotion stirs up the paddock beginning right after the race in Japan. Alain is just taking off his helmet and shaking the sweat off of his forehead when the shouting begins. A commotion. Following the events of the race, Ayrton and Eddie are now chest to chest as feet stop to peer in at the confrontation. Alain tries not to watch, or to pay attention in the slightest but they continue yelling at each other (with everyone staring) when he has done up his laces. Ayrton’s teammate, a younger boy, Mika, is leaned against the wall still in his overalls observing them with a blank expression.
“What’s going on?”, Alain asks as he passes him.
Mika blinks largely at him for a moment, surprised he had spoken. “Just a racing incident,” he adds with a frown. Alain pans over at the two men gesturing widely into each other's faces. “Do you think they are going to hit each other?”, Mika questions. A swallow shifts down Alain's throat. Just as he turns his head, opening his mouth to answer, a sudden silence is heard as Eddie lunges. The first shove sends the American back a few paces and Alain rushes in between the two of them.
Ayrton is taken back when Alain snatches Eddie’s collar with his fist, bringing him closer towards him. “Stop this!”, Alain growls but Eddie manages to loosen from his grasp, raising a fist to strike at Ayrton just behind his shoulder. Losing grip, Alain is so displaced that when the hit initially strikes him in the face, and even as he is kneeling on the ground crawling his jaw in pain, he doesn’t utter of a single hint of displeasure.
“Oh my god, Alain!”, Eddie immediately softens at his mistake, the adrenaline had shaken him up. His hands come down to his sides.
Alain hisses, rubbing the side of his jaw. He can sense the bruise that is going to be there. “Honestly?”, he peers up to him furiously. Eddie's face turns scarlet. The both of them forget that Ayrton is standing just over their shoulders listening in.
Ayrton's eyes sharpen, landing directly onto Eddie. “Get out of here,” he demands with a hiss, sending Eddie scampering with his tail between his legs down the pit lane without protest.
Ayrton softens with exhaustion, leaning towards him. “Are you alright?”, he questions tensely. Alain doesn’t say anything for a minute, he stands, pressing and unpressing a hand to his face but never looking at him. It was the first time they had spoken in two years. And, one day, perhaps there could be peace in the harm you have caused each other. “Do you need something?” Alain caught off guard by all this, like everything is being shoved down his throat at once.
His brows narrow with trepidation. “Why?”
Ayrton usually never looks confused, to every problem he will eventually (even if through force) find an answer. But he blinks slowly as though they both have all of the time in the world together. “I’m only asking,” and he feels different, genuine even. Alain moves to the shade, his gums pulsing from the collision. “You’re going to have a mark,” Ayrton reaches across the distance to prod just above the wound. It causes Alain to flinch under his touch and he moves away with another word.
But he knows Ayrton's eyes on him after he is gone so he cranes his neck just before escaping and their eyes meet for the first time in what feels like centuries. Familiar. It felt just as it did before, as it always did. As the burn of fire and the ash of roughly cut ice. He wants to forget why he ever fell so deep to begin with but he remembers. Just as he remembers the singe of betrayal. The sun loved him too. It was willing to follow him and leave a moon of darkness.
All Alain says is: “Thank you.”
It was enough.
Their eyes still felt like coming home (as if after all this time, maybe he had left the door cracked just for him).
____________________________
November 7th
“Are you going to announce your retirement today?”, Nelson slung an arm over his neck. The champagne drips across Alain’s temple as he huffs for air.
“You already know the answer,” he chuckles with amusement.
“Yuck,” Nelson’s fingers wind up the curls at the side of his head, “You’re all sticky.”
Alain untangles himself from his arms and passes him a grin. With little wave of his hand he nods, “I’ll meet you later tonight.”
“Good luck.”
And Alain smiles, perhaps because Nelson nibbling on his inner cheek as though he is embarrassed. “Thank you,” he pats the side of his face with his palm.
Even after all of this time, Alain doesn’t despise press conferences. He understands them. But he’d rather be cozying up in his hotel room with a glass of wine and a good book. Instead, he is sitting on the left of Ayrton who is beside Damon at a long table. It’s a few simple questions, mostly to Ayrton and then to Damon Hill who has a firm expression that will not leave his face. The heat catches up with him, making his heart race speed up. When he eventually declares it:
“I’d like to formally announce my indefinite retirement.”
It is words that he has rehearsed in his mind for a very, very long time. Perhaps longer than he should’ve. A thought goes through his head too: am I sure? It is one of the only times he has ever doubted himself. There is a little gasp, a rush of energy that surges in the room following the tight hesitation. Then, a blooming silence. Everything erupts at once, a thousand questions are thrown in his direction. He notices at the corner of his eye that Ayrton appears visibly shocked, perhaps appalled. He searches around the room as if hunting for an explanation somewhere, or for someone to give him one. Alain wants to turn to him, interrogate him, why do you look so horrified? And he thinks back to the podium less than an hour ago. The news had broken long before he had formally announced it.
“It’s my last race,” he was facing Ayrton on the steps. “It would be good to put this to rest, in front of everyone, right?”, he points out a hand to him stiffly. Ayrton scopes him for a minute, attempting to read him as his eyes pan over his arm. Alain recalls how he walked away, ignored him. But he also recalls how he felt in Ayrton's arms on the podium, in that moment on the landing where he could sense the smile on his face bleed through into his skin. How he couldn’t help it, his shoulders had relaxed to his touch. Nothing ever changes, does it? Even as you yearn so much for it to, it never will.
After the press conference is dismissed, Alain is one of the first ones to exit. It comes to his head, just how much he yearns for his bed this night. Fourth world championship, last race ever in Formula 1, retirement, and--”
“Alain.”
A voice breaks him out of his reverie. He recognizes it immediately so he keeps his back turned until a hand meets his upper arm to wheel him around. His voice hitches, his teeth tightening as if expecting a hit. Ayrton’s eyes are wide, concerned and the grip on his arm presses a little too deep. It is like a desperate man, searching for something to save him. Alain hopes that he is not this thing.
“Ayrton,” Alain nods curtly in his direction. He wants to bite his nails.
“Aren’t you going to talk to me this?”, he demands.
Alain chews on his tongue. He can unkindness slithering beneath his surface like a thorn he wishes to pluck. “About what?”, he snipes.
“About your retirement,” his hand leaves him, “You can’t just go.”
“Actually, Ayrton, I can.” Alain steals a step forward but all it does it make him closer to Ayrton because he does not back up as intended. He swallows, “I don’t need you to talk to you about anything.”
“I know,” Ayrton is candid. It makes Alain lose his guard. “But do you think we could still talk?”, he reaches over and his palm curls over his shoulder once more.
Alain sighs, “Ayrton--”
“Tonight?”, Ayrton appears hopeful, his eye glimmer purely.
“I don’t think that is a good idea,” but he doesn’t make a move to extract himself from the situation.
“Please,” Ayrton’s touch slides to the bed of his wrist. Alain's stomach coils. “Please, Alain?”
He doesn’t remember another time when Ayrton ever asked him for anything. He was always given it, or he took it. He has that look, that this isn’t something that he wants; it is something that he needs. So when the words leave him, Alain is surprised at himself more than anything.
“Okay, Ayrton.”
____________________________
In the motorhome, Alain sits meters away, on the edge of the bed. He has his hands cupped in his lap and his legs firmly pressed together. The air is still, thick with tension. Ayrton paces in front of him. It makes Alain nervous, it makes him want to grab his shoulders and force him down beside him. Outside, the sun has descended, he checks the clock above the sink and realizes that it has been several minutes without a single phrases.
Alain is the first. He sighs, “Ayrton, why am I here?”
Ayrton pauses in his steps and runs a hand through his curls and his face. There is a chair at a table that he reaches over and places on the carpet in front of him. He sits, leaning his head in his hands and balancing his elbows on either knee. His body shudders gently. “You can’t retire,” he glances up and his eyes are... desperate.
“Excuse me?”, Alain cocks his head.
“Please,” Ayrton reaches across the distance, grabbing for his hands but Alain jolts them away. He looks hurt. “You can’t retire. You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”, Alain's skin burns. He presses his nails into the bed of his hands.
“You’re my competition. You motivate me.” Alain snorts at this. “You have me racing my best,” he points. The pads of his finger brush his knee but do not stay there. But what he wants to say next stops him in his tracks, has him sitting there bobbing his mouth open. “Alain, I need you.”
And a floodgate pours through Alain. It's scorching to the touch. He can imagine himself spitting in the man's face, slamming the door to leave it all behind. But he doesn't. He sits, and he stares and he sits and he stares and he breathes--
“I don’t have time for this,” Alain stands up but Ayrton has risen before him in a flash to stop him in his tracks.
“Stay, please, listen to me.” Reluctantly, Alain becomes seated. Ayrton rubs a hand along his jaw, “I need you because there isn’t anyone for competition after you. My competition, my need to beat you, it gets me to race better than I ever had.” Alain’s lips part when Ayrton’s hand finally meets his knee, lingering there for a moment.
“So,” Alain grimaces, “You need me because you enjoy beating me.” His heart sinks.
“In a way.”
“I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, “I’ve made my decision. I’ve had it for a long time, Ayrton. Not everything is about you, you do know that?”
“I know," he assures, eyes wide.
“They why do you act like it?”
Ayrton stalls, his head once again falling. He exhales deeply and presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. When he glances up again, his eyes are glazed over and he tries to force eye contact with him. Alain sees it then, that desire and necessity--the one that Ayrton must always be in control, no matter what, even over his own emotions. The distance shortens, and Ayrton cups his hands in his, holding them in the center.
“I don’t mean to,” he admits. There is a hint of silence, a reticence of peace. “I’m sorry,” Ayrton's eyes are wet, “I apologize for everything.”
Alain doesn't smile. He wants to scream in triumph and in defeat. And no matter how much he tries, he can't force himself to leave. The sadness breathing life above their heads suffocates him.
"Perhaps... perhaps we were both to blame in the end."
No. Stop, it. Don't do it--
He doesn’t stop it, when Ayrton’s head meets his shoulder and he buries his face into his shirt. “I shouldn’t of hurt you, I never should’ve left you,” he shudders and Alain raises a hand to rub up at his back. It's old, and timeless, the action, as he knows he has done it in the past. He has touched every inch of him before. He could draw like maps every scar and little freckle--everything that plates his skin. Ayrton’s fingers ravel in the front of his shirt, digging into the skin as his tears pattern the chest of his clothing. “I kept your sweater,” he says quietly.
“What?”, Alain pulls him away.
Ayrton’s eyes blink back tears, “From the drawer, your sweater. I never sent it back to you in that box.”
He remembers the box, it stills smells like Sao Paulo in the late summer and Brazilian cooking. Their air. It has sat at the back of his closet for years and he hasn’t so much as touched it. “Why?", he whispers.
Ayrton admits an out of place chuckle, “I don’t know.” His forehead brushes his. “I’m sorry, Alain,” he has started trembling again.
Without meaning too, perhaps out of habit, his hand reaches to curl at the hair winding at the back of his head. It is as if it never stopped to begin with, this has always been there for him. “Stop saying that,” he mumbles, “You don’t have to keep saying that.”
Alain can sense Ayrton’s breath on his lips, blowing over his own. But he says it again despite this, “I’m sorry.” He leans forward, his hands dropping onto his knees. And... kisses him. It steals the breath of him. As the touch meets his lips, his heartbeat flutters out of pace and made him hungry. But Ayrton is tugging him, ripping him by the front of his shirt nearer. Alain doesn’t fight, he opens his mouth, loosening his grip on the hands in his lap. He kisses him back. “I’m sorry,” Ayrton’s eyes are closed and Alain places a hand to their chest. His pulse drums through his fingertips.
“I told you,” he taps his nose against his, “Stop saying that.” He kisses him again. It takes him a moment, of their hands caressing him and his lips running over him for Alain to push him away. Even though he never wanted to. A few of the buttons on his abdomen have been opened, cool air running over his bare chest. Yet something in his grasp a stranglehold of control--
Nelson.
Alain gets up in panic and Ayrton doesn’t move to stop him. “Are you going to stay?”, his voice sounds desperate once more. It freezes Alain to the spot and he peers over his shoulder towards him. His fingers curl over the door frame, but he pauses. Something holds him back.
Don't do it.
He passes a glance over his shoulder and Ayrton is turned around in his chair as though he has been expecting him to do just that. “I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to,” Ayrton swallows.
Alain hangs his head. A sensation pierces up in his gut, a sensation he thought had died years ago. “I have to think,” he grimaces and the thin door shuts behind him. He leaves bathed in moonlight with Ayrton’s eyes following him from the window as hands scrape over his face.
I never wanted any of this.
And yet, I did.
_________________________
Dinner is quiet. More than usual. Absentmindedly, Alain taps his fork against the plate.
“Alain?”, he sits expressionless until Nelson kicks him from underneath the table. “Alain!”, he shouts.
Alain pans his eyes up. “What?”, he blinks, his thoughts elsewhere.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Nelson raises a brow, “And you are not eating.” He gestures to his full plate, “I’m already done. Do you not like it?”
Alain chews on his inner cheek, “No, it’s fine, thank you.”
Unconvinced, Nelson rises to set his dish in the sink of the hotel room sink. When Alain finishes, he hands Nelson the dish towel to taking over the washing. It is quiet once again and Nelson can see he is missing a piece. He chews on his nails while he studies him from the corner of his eye. The tension piles itself onto Alain's shoulders, heavy and out of place... And it breaks as Alain is cleaning the last dish and the warm water drips over his hands. The kiss plays through his brain, the hands on his sides, the lips so close to his...
“Are you okay?”, Nelson sets a dish on the rack and tosses the towel over his shoulder. He has a washed over appearance to him. He is relaxed, content with himself.
Alain pities him more than anything. He doesn’t want to tell him. The words claw at his throat. Instead grips his jaw and dries off his hands, “None of your business.”
Nelson recoils but raises a hand and it puts on his shoulder. The touch makes him jump. “Alain?”, Nelson sounds small. And it is how they're standing there in the kitchen, in the air of domesticity and comfort that eventually shatters him and Alain understands:
I can’t do this anymore.
Alain purses his eyes shut, the tap is off and the air is still. He skims the heels of his hands into the edge of the counter and a shaky breath exits his lips. “He kissed me.”
He saw Nelson freeze. No sound. “Oh.” Nelson hangs his head and strolls towards the bedroom without another word. It takes a moment for Alain to follow, but he does. The atmosphere carries a weight of things neither of them can ever understand. Nelson's voice breaks over the darkness like a shallow, hopeless call in the night. “Did you--,” he stammers, running his teeth over his bottom lip with great difficulty. “Did you kiss him back?”
Alain peers at him then, he is standing near the edge of the bed with his eyes to the carpet. It reminds him of Nelsinho, childlike, the evening when the boy crawled into their bed. But he doesn’t want to remember Brazil--our Brazil. Not the summer or the boat or the bed... because there are two rooms he once shared there; and in the end, is only one that he wants. “Yes,” he replies and Nelson’s shoulders sink lower, “I kissed him back.”
Alain knows what is coming next before he hears it, before he even has time to understand it himself. The distance between them is too fragile to be broken by words. “Do you… do you still love him?”, and life feels like an echo, after all this; one thing coming before and bouncing to land and land on something more. But Alain shifts his gaze again, and there is a pained light he sees appear in Nelson’s eyes as if a peculiar hope had been keeping him afloat all these years--that and only that. “Please,” his voice sounds so hollow yet so filled with everything at once, “Tell me.”
”I never stopped."
Nelson takes a step back, falling slowly on the edge of the bed. Alain waits tensely for anything to happen. He wants Nelson to tell him that he is stupid, he wants him to yell, to scream at him to leave, to throw books at him like last time. Because the silence is so much worse--far, far worse. Unlike sound, silence can last forever, it can linger in the space far after another is gone.
“But this between us,” Alain starts rambling without knowing where he is going, “It wasn’t meant to last. In the end, it wasn’t supposed to, right?” Nelson stays mute, his eyes are trained to the window and his chin balances in his outstretched palm. Alain can’t see his face, he cannot see that he is thinking. A roll of thunder crashes in the distance and Nelson doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t even speak a word. And in this silence lived all that that existed between them. “Right, Nelson?”, he calls gently. “Aren’t you going to say something?”, but not a thing moves. Alain steals a step towards him, across the empty space, “Nelson, say something.” But he doesn't. “Say something, right now, you have to,” he swallows, his heart rate rising. He’s never known anger well, but it reaches him now out of nowhere, a hot flare rising in his throat. “Talk to me!”, he shouts, his body is quick as he reaches towards him. His fingers rip in the collar of his shirt as he drags Nelson to his feet in front of him.
But it is then that their eyes meet. A tear rolls from off Nelson's cheek onto the back of his hand. Alain watches it tremble away for a minute, falling to the carpet into nothingness. Nelson is shaking, quivering like a leaf during a hurricane in his grasp. He sees it then, right there in his eyes, perhaps what he always knew was there, what he never acknowledged. Because Nelson knows a world in him that Alain himself has never understood. It’s a glance between them, a short fire that burns in the deepest canyons, echoing his names and whispering the colors of his eyes.
Alain knows then, he finds it all out with his hands coiled in the shirt and Nelson’s tears on his skin. He drops him, lets him go and Nelson stumbles back onto the bed. But Alain never fully realized, didn’t you? He knew what hurt was, truly knew it because Nelson is sitting there knowing he wants someone to such a great extent that he has no other choice but to convince himself that he doesn’t. Someone who he knew better than a soul and no more than a stranger. Every mournful glance and soft caress, each sleepy sigh and smoky word. The realization hits him in the most tender of places. Alain knows it, as Nelson sits in front of him broken and the secret breaks up from below. But maybe, in the end, Alain always knew deep down inside himself.
“All this time,” Alain swallows, “All these years…”
You loved me.
And he doesn’t know how to say that he is sorry for that.
“Thirteen years,” Nelson peers up slowly, his voice splintering, “I always have Alain.” A little history of brokenness reads itself at the creases of his eyes. But Alain recognizes that look, because Nelson has been glancing at him like that for years and only now does he understand what it means. He regarded him as if sentences blurred the lines between words and feelings the way Nelson thinks Alain mars the line between human and art.
Alain retreats. “Nelson…”, but he has nothing to say. Thirteen years and he still has not a thing more to tell him. Thirteen years.
Nelson’s focus draws to the ground, his hand covers his mouth and his thumb wipes at his cheeks. “Leave,” he murmurs quietly, as though he doesn’t mean it.
“Nelson--”
“It’s time for you to go,” he interrupts. But it is not like before, he doesn’t fight him. He had nothing more to give to him.
“I’m sorry, Nelson. I’m so sorry.”
It plays through him now, every time that Nelson tossed his affection back to him in the past. “I can’t pretend to be him for you. Go, Alain,” he whispers.
But Alain hesitates. Even as his hand is on the handle of their hotel door, he feels as though he is hesitating, perhaps waiting for him to stop him from leaving. But Nelson doesn’t. So he leaves Nelson like last time. Leaves him in the bedroom where he has slidden to the floor with his head in between his knees.
And if you’re going to leave, make it quick. Because the longer you take, the slower you move, the more they will hurt and the more you will want to stay...
The door shuts behind him and Alain doesn’t wait there long enough to regret it. He will live with this for the rest of his life:
Nelson Piquet loved him, and he never did a damn thing.
___________________________________
November 8th
It’s past midnight. His head is on Ayrton’s chest and he can hanker his heartbeat through the layers of muscle, bone and flesh. He passes his fingertips over it, the area just above his ribs. Anyone could tell him that he loved him too much. Like wildfire or the sharp edge of a knife. But there was love and then there was Ayrton. He promises silently, that he’ll be right there as if he is proud of being in fear.
Ayrton touches the underside of the sheets with the early morning sun. He whispers, “And this time, I won’t leave.” Alain believes him. He believes him more than anything he had ever chosen to in his whole life. One brush of his calloused finger sends scattered shadows across his bare shoulder as if decorating him in a dimpled sunset. He says it again, “I won’t leave.” And because Alain believes him, he kisses him; because he trusts him, he allows Ayrton’s hands to press into his hips; and because he loves him, he stays. He tells him, whispers it into his curls, “I never stopped loving you.”
Alain buries his face into his neck, his fingers drifting up to his hair. He shuts his eyes and a long sigh escapes him. To the shell of his ear, he murmurs: “Eu temben.”
They lay face to face with the sun and the sheets. Restless, in suspense as they always were, as if nothing had changed. There is still a twinkle in Ayrton’s eye, a vague but tongued excitement, an enthusiasm for life. Alain only feels old, gray in comparison; tired and weary. There is no fight left in him, and, maybe, it is because there are no fights left to have.
You’re going nowhere but here.
He’s been to more places than he can count, but here happens to be his favorite place in the entire world. The sweetest of bitter nectar for him to have.