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To say Ratzenberger’s death was an outrage was a gross understatement.
It terrified Alain, the way his head limply lolled right, then left in an almost boneless action that left a disturbed pit at the rear of his belly, bile rising to his swelling throat as his car had come to a stop after slamming against the wall.
Undoubtedly, to Prost, mechanical errors were far worse of a predicament than driver errors.
He watched Ratzenberger’s front wing detach in slowed replays that displayed the circumstances by which the accident occurred at multiple angles through grainy pixels and distorted replays from signal cuts.
He watched the way it slid under the car, generating a sudden torment of downforce no driver was equipped to handle, before forcefully driving his car into the wall in a manoeuvre no driver he knew could weave their way out of.
It made him feel sick as he briefly looked away from the screen, forcing spit into his all-too-dry mouth, the world around him all too quiet and loud all at once.
It was Alain’s personal nightmare, though he’d never admit it aloud at the time, to become a passenger while shooting upwards of 200 miles an hour, impacting the wall in a mere second knowing for a fragmental duration of that time that what was to come was inevitable.
For those moments in which he watched his friends crash in the past, his mind couldn’t help but supplement him with visuals of himself in their place.
He could practically feel himself tugging at an all too stiff steering wheel, the lack of response from the brakes beneath him and an accelerator that seemed hardwired to keep pressing on, all while his clutch, in that split-second, would be jammed in fifth gear.
Sometimes, like for Villeneuve, he would feel the sickly rearrangement of his innards as Gilles would have felt when his car ejected him into a nearby railing as his body would recoil from faux pain.
Other times, he’d dream of fractured legs, and a broken tibia, a contorted body still partially stuck in its seat and ejected out the car, like what occurred to Donnelly in Spain, 1990.
The resuscitation attempt after was equally disturbing to say the least, before he had been airlifted to the nearest hospital. He was alive at the time of the airlift, or so the FIA claimed, perhaps as a meek effort to complete the red-stained qualifying session, at the mere beginning of the weekend.
Later, to much media scrutiny, it was revealed he had died of brain damage on track.
However, Italian law enabled the FIA to forgo cancelling the race.
They cited that in accordance with the law of the country, as long as an individual had a heartbeat, they were still considered alive. Hence, since Ratzenberger was resuscitated on track and had a heartbeat while being airlifted out, he hadn’t suffered a ‘Fatal On-Track Incident’.
The Qualifying session was simply adjourned and resumed a mere 48 minutes later.
It left an awful taste behind every driver’s tongue, ahead of the actual race.
Williams and Benetton were part of several teams which chose to withdraw themselves from the remainder of the qualifying session, and Alain could painfully recall how Ayrton’s contorted into a look of cold grief in the privacy of the garage, once Ratzenberger’s fatality had been declared.
Alain found this feeling to be mutual, and had offered his embrace for comfort when Ayrton most needed it, speaking to him in the minimal privacy of the back of the garage.
“This weekend has been stained red.” Ayrton had spoken in his presence, like a child at a church confessional, dark eyes glazed over with a hue of burgundy and unspilled tears.
“It is not kind to his memory, our dear friend. We cannot, I cannot." His voice choked up in a sob that was just short of spilling out of him if it weren't for the sandy dryness of his throat.
"They won’t listen to me. Said the race will go on whether or not I decide to be a part of it.” He struggled with his voice, crumbling at the seams like a wilted ragdoll as his hands eclipsed his face.
“Alain, não posso fazer isso com ele.”
|---------------------|
He took Ayrton out for dinner that night as a weak distraction from the truth hovering over their heads, that one of their own was dead.
They shared hefty glasses of wine, and for once Alain didn’t lecture him about the risks of drinking the night before a race. He too, was a criminal in that sense in the past.
Ayrton lifted the fourth glass of the night to his lips, making small talk about the quality of the wine in Italy. Alain slightly chided Ayrton, giving a lopsided smile while dreamily talking about the eloquent superiority of French wine.
“Much fruitier and smooth to the tongue.” Alain cooed as he spoke about the last bottle his wife had gifted him on the eve of his last win, a smile crossing his face at the almost endearing shake of Ayrton’s head, his lips curling upward.
For but a moment, his eyes betrayed him, drifting down to watch how they hugged the wine glass, the bobbing of his throat as he downed the drink. Ayrton truly was a lady’s dream man and the coveted of those such as him.
Who wouldn’t dream of those distinctive eyes, gentle lips, and the soft hair framing his face?
“I’m glad you grew out your hair.” Alain mentioned thoughtlessly, eyes drifting to the table as he stared at their empty plates. “The length suits you.”
Ayrton looked up, his eyes widening a fraction before returning to as they were before. “Adriane prefers it. Easier to tug on in bed.” The playful reply left him seamlessly, as though it were natural for him to say, despite a twitch of his grin.
The wine in Alain’s throat seemed to get stuck in his airways as he coughed, reaching for a handkerchief to cover the wine bubbling out his lips.
He stared at Ayrton in borderline shock, a red blush blotting down his neck. “Your wife never said the same to you?” He tipped his head to the side as he stared at Alain, knowing exactly what he was playing at. “Aren’t the French meant to be romantics?”
“Ah, shut it Ayrton!”
Alain waved his hand dramatically in the air, wiping and covering his lips for a second longer before putting the handkerchief to the side of his plate.
He glared at Ayrton through his eyebrows. “It’s a historical farce, don’t hold me to it.”
Alain kept his head low, the flush on his face lightly visible in the low light of the restaurant, “How do you make me regret everything I ask? Must be a God-given skill at this point.”
The end of the night was spent with Prost helping Senna back to his motorhome.
Ensuring Ayrton got home safe.
Ensuring Ayrton didn’t cry himself to sleep over grief.
Ensuring that for a little while longer, Ayrton had a choice to confide in his want to back out the race. No matter how small the possibility of that occurrence.
While driving he spoke of earlier that year to keep Ayrton’s mind busy for a little while longer.
They'd celebrated the New Year together in Portugal after much pestering from Ayrton last year. The sky lit up with a blue so brilliant before it faded into yellow and white before burning up.
He remembered how he’d turned and watched Ayrton’s reaction, bright with childish wonder, breathing in the smoky remains. He wouldn’t trade that moment for a billion of those fireworks.
After clumsily opening the motorhome door, he hauled Ayrton to bed, practically dragging the drunk, ataxic man onto the mattress as he almost fell over and speared himself on the bedrest like a fool.
When Alain asked where Adriane was, Ayrton gave him a far away look, slurring something about being ignored by her for the past month. Alain knew he shouldn’t pry. This wasn’t something Ayrton would admit sober.
Before leaving, he made sure to leave aspirin, a glass of water, and a powerbar on Ayrton’s nightstand, knowing he’d likely have a hangover. He looked over his shoulder for a long moment, watching Senna deep in fitful sleep, blankets bunched up at his feet.
He pulled them up and turned on the AC before he left.
Nevertheless, Ayrton raced the following day, his face marred with a broken expression masked as someone who was deep in thought. He was grieving in his own way, the entire paddock knew this, his arms unsteadily wiping at the steering wheel as he sat in his car waiting.
He had called Alain early that morning, to which he received no reply and hence left a voicemail instead.
“Let’s go out for dinner after the race.” Ayrton’s sultry voice spoke from the other end of the receiver, “You and I both. There’s a nice restaurant nearby, my treat this time. Let me know your reply when we meet later, sim?”
The voice-message cut with a crackle followed by a low buzzing sound and a voice asking whether he wants to delete the message or archive it.
He let it archive without a second thought before dragging himself to the hotel’s shower.
|---------------------|
Alain greeted Senna for lunch before the race started, trying to act as a gentle distraction.
Ayrton’s voice came sharp yet smooth as honey to his ears.
“I will watch your commentary after the race, sim?” Which Alain responded by closing his eyes and Alain chiding his claim.
A smile played at his thin lips as he shook his head, arms crossing as he gently reminded him,
“How are you to understand it, Ayrton? It’s all in French.”
Ayrton, rolling his eyes in playful disregard, quipped back, his accent thickening from the underlying passion of his words.
“It’s your voice after all, no? That is enough to look forward to, my dear friend.”
For once, Prost failed to have a sufficient comeback to that, and instead resorted back to the very premise of his primary reasoning.
He smacked Ayrton’s back, intending to give him a mere jostle.
“It’s French.” he emphasised, to which Ayrton repeated the action in equal fervour.
“Not your most unforgivable flaw. I can look past it. Só para você.”
“I have no clue what you said at the end.” Alain briskly replied, his head giving a slight tipping motion as he spoke.
A retaliatory look crossed Senna’s face. “Neither do I when you speak French. Doesn’t matter in any case, no? I’m still me. You’re still you. That’s all that matters.”
Worry still pricked at the edges of Alain’s thoughts as he circled Ayrton persistently while his engineers and mechanics hovered around him like a halo, briskly setting everything up and ensuring his comfort in the car while making sure everything was in working order.
It was fitting to Alain, Ayrton Senna, the man whom God and Brazilians loved to equal capacity. Being treated as an angel cometh to Earth being encircled by his most devoted disciples.
“You’ve nothing to be afraid of Ayrton.”
Alain briefly whispered in his ear shortly before his departure.
“You’ve done this track many times, It’ll come natural to you. The day is young and we still have a night to spend together, non?”
Ayrton looked up at him with a crooked grin as he brushed his knuckles against the back of Alain’s hand before bringing it into his to hold.
He didn’t need to voice his answer, the brief squeeze of Ayrton’s hand in his was enough.
Taking a towel from a nearby workbench, Alain pushed up Ayrton’s visor from its semi-ajar position, wiping away the build up of sweat in his undereyes and nosebridge, watching his eyes flutter closed in relief.
In those moments they spent together, the world seemed to blur into a mix of unrefined watercolour paint, sound becoming a buzz at the back of their minds.
Their fingers interlocked briefly before parting from one another.
The quiet recognition of their mutual yearning.
It was enough to make Alain’s lips twitch upward for a mere second before his ears popped and life resumed.
With the steady approach of the race-morning warm up and the heat of reassurance blooming in his stomach like a belly well-fed, Prost retreated to where he was stationed nearby to commentate on the race for the French Audience in the rear end of the paddock.
Ayrton would still start on pole, his time set on Friday remaining the fastest time despite his lack of attendance on Saturday.
Following second behind him was the Wunderkind himself, Michael Schumacher, having joined the sport in 1991 and having proven himself to be a capable racer despite having joined Benetton, an arguably less competitive team.
Berger would start third in his Ferrari, followed by Ayrton’s teammate, Hill.
Alain knew there was additional concern looming over Ayrton regarding the new Yellow Flag regulations and procedures, regarding the introduction of the Safety Car starting next year. It had been a small point of discussion during their dinner the previous night with Alain justifying it as a developing measure to prevent further tragedies.
Alain assisted Ayrton in supporting a proposal for the reformation of the GPDA, their efforts further catalysed by the events of the previous day.
Much to his surprise during their breakfast outing, Ayrton had insisted on filming a lap before the race dedicated to Prost’s channel. He couldn’t refuse the offer, smiling as he watched his friend traverse the familiar corners about Imola.
A radio message crackled through the speaker connected to both him and his audience.
“A special hello to my… to our dear friend Alain. We all miss you, Alain.”
Senna’s voice sparkled with a hidden mirth which only Alain could see below all of the pain his heart emanated. A crevice in his chest he and Alain shared in concealed mutuality, a vaulted sanctuary, theirs alone.
Prost’s heart felt like it had begun floating up into his throat, restricting the airflow into his lungs as his mouth fell agape.
By instinct, he began trying to repress the smile breaking the passive facade on his face, hastily stammering out a comment about his surprise and how touched he was regarding the comment.
“Typical of Senna.” He’d mumbled half heartedly to no one in particular, somewhat shrinking into himself.
In his faux indifference, Alain’s lips pulled upward into a taut smile, eyes gazing at the pebbles on the floor while his colleagues gushed and laughed.
Inside, all he could hear was blood rushing in his ears and the quickening ‘lub dub’ of his heart.
He chalks it up to the surprise of the moment. Even the warmness in his cheeks and sternum.
|---------------------|
The cars took off for the formation lap. Ayrton led with a breeze as he rocked his car left and right across the racing line, giving the spectators an exciting prelude with the thick, heavy smell of burnt rubber in the air.
The crowd roared with anticipation at the sound of the throttle coming from the Williams’ V10 engine leading the field to the start line. Each of Senna’s downshifts sounded in conjunction with the beat of Alain’s heartbeat.
All took their starting positions, a green flag being waved from the back of the grid to give a final all clear before the countdown commenced.
Letting out a sigh, a soft prayer left Alain’s lips as he leaned back in his chair away from the microphone, his colleague’s excitement palpable as he spoke to the audience.
The red lights illuminated
A bundle of nerves tightened in Alain’s ever cramping abdomen, forcing him to lean forward on his chair. Sweat began slicking his palms as he fought to steady them on his lap.
He could feel himself behind the wheel again, but those hands encased in blue weren’t his own.
A cobalt coloured chassis with white highlights, a yellow and green helmet reflected in the mirrors. .
In his mind’s eye, he could see the glimpse of Ayrton’s smile.
This wasn’t Alain’s race to fight.
Lights out
Almost immediately there was an explosion of tyres and carbon fibre in the middle of the grid mere seconds after the race commenced. A Benetton, Lehto’s Benetton, had stalled on-grid, and Lamy’s Lotus, having started further back and not seen, had slammed to the back of it.
The right side of the Lotus was in pieces, both tyres completely blown off.
Thankfully, Lamy clambered out his car once stationary as smoke poured out the back, jogging away.
Meanwhile, Lehto thankfully also seemed fine from what Alain could see on the broadcast.
He’d been extracted from his car almost immediately and was walking away as it poured fuel out onto the track like an open faucet, marshals standing to the side blowing their fire extinguishers at the car.
As expected, the safety car came out almost immediately, leading the grid for the next few laps. Marshals orchestrated a cleanup to ensure the heat of the rubber tyres did not ignite the fuel still on the tarmac near the start line. Simultaneously, both cars and the rubble they left behind were also cleared.
Alain watched the crash footage of both the Benetton and Lotus with a frown as multiple angles were shown. It had been an act of God nothing bad happened to either of them given the tragedies that had befell the weekend thus far.
A slow, sinking feeling formed in the pit of Alain’s stomach, one he couldn’t swallow down nor wash away with the bottle of water on his desk. He casually cleared his throat, blinking away his tunnelling vision.
The safety car was pulled off track by lap 4, though the race restart was announced to begin at lap 6. Inside, he remarked it was no doubt an effort from the FIA to try compensate the already dropped tyre temperatures to facilitate a ‘safer’ race restart. After all, the cars had been stuck for 4 laps behind a relatively slow Safety Car.
Ayrton crossed the start line with his foot hard on the throttle at the start of Lap 6.
Upon crossing the line, Schumacher’s Benetton practically stuck its front up Ayrton’s rear end, sniffing him out like a rabid dog on a hunt. He followed the Williams closely behind like he was tied behind it by a leash, consistently trailing behind him in the corners.
Despite putting some space between the two of them, Senna pushed hard into Lap 7, intending to take the Tamburello curve flat out to put more distance between himself and the Benetton once he passed the first main turn on the circuit.
Ayrton pushed the throttle hard as he entered the curve, accelerating through it as the driver’s angle flashed, showing the grip he had on the wheel and the steering, pulling left on the wheel for the corner and preparing for the exit.
He never got the chance.
The New Year's fireworks flashed again.
The Williams chassis exploded into a flurry of grotesque cobalt blue and black and white. The tyres detached from the main suspension upon impact with the concrete wall, flying then rolling back onto the track along with destroyed shreds of the car.
It had gone right.
How could it go right?
Alain covered his mouth in shock while the commentary box fell silent. The aerial view showed Senna’s car rolling back slowly, his head lolling uselessly, his neck slightly stiffening causing it to twitch, the view panning out to show the carnage.
“Sa tête a bougé. Il va bien, n'est-ce pas ?” His colleague croaked out, looking at Alain for reassurance, for expertise, for him to speak as The Professor. Prost could say nothing, feeling deaf except for the blood rushing through his ears and the thudding of his anguished heartbeat.
He excused himself right as the broadcast showed marshals and medics rushing up to Ayrton.
He puked his guts out into the bathroom sink.
Praying that it would change a thing.
He washed his face with ice cold water till his hands and nose felt numb.
Praying that it would change a thing.
He uttered rushed and desperate prayers to God.
Praying that it would change a thing.
When he looked in the mirror, cold realisation washed through his blood, for this was no nightmare.
It was a reality.
And that pit in Alain’s stomach that had sunk so deep within him like concrete finally broke through his vocal chords and oesophagus, ears ringing.
It would be a colleague that snapped him out, trying to force him to breathe, grounding him with strong hands on his shoulders, not soft yet firm like Ayrton’s, never.
His throat felt like a string pulled taut. Alain realised he’d been screaming.
His shouts bubbled down to sobs and the static in his ears quieted. Knees shaking, he collapsed onto himself, onto the piss-soaked toilet paper on the floor near the urinals.
A pair of hands were poking and prodding and tugging at him to get up even when his legs were unable to do so, acting boneless and like jelly when he attempted to do so.
“Tell me it’s a lie,” Alain rasped, the spit and drool that had built up in his mouth spilling from the side of his mouth clumsily between heavy breaths and loud, pained whimpers. “Tell me he’s still-”
“He’s being treated Alain, they’re going to air lift him to the hospital. In Bologna.” The man, his colleague for the night, Laffite provided. “He’ll be treated by some of the best, but Alain, s'il te plaît, calme-toi.” Jacques rubbed his shoulder and tried once more to help his friend up, keeping an arm below his underarms to support him out the bathroom.
“Donc c'est mauvais ?” The words felt like ash in his mouth. “They’re taking him to Bologna, ça doit être grave.”
Jacques didn’t reply, his eyes transfixed forward as he took Alain to the nearest changing room in hospitality. The hands on him felt foreign, alien, like wet rubber sanding against his coarse skin while Jacques pried his pants off, tossing it to the side.
After a short moment, he returned with a spare from a nearby locker. The fabric felt like it had been washed too many times, lint scratching against the back of his knees and quads, pulled up with far too much force to be considered ‘gentle’. It all felt cold and clinical, like sitting in a sterile doctor’s room as he grabbed and touched at his shoulder and neck the one time he crashed.
The Crash.
Ayrton-
Right as pin pricks and blurriness assaulted Alain’s vision, Jacques’ hand smacked lightly against his face, bringing him back to the locker room. “Je ne veux plus te voir pleurer. He’s going to be treated by the best and ton petit copain will be fine.” Though he wasn’t even sure himself if he believed his own words.
A dark, humourless exhale left him. Jacques added that last part as a joke. He must’ve been God’s favourite idiot, because he didn’t know if it was a joke anymore, and he’s realising this far, far too late.
Licking his cracked lips and keeping his head down as he wiped roughly at his cheekbones, Alain queried, “How long would it take to drive to Bologna.” Jacques’ expression soured, eyebrows knitting together and lips slightly parting to show his teeth while they curled into a deep frown. “Alain do not do this to yourself-”
“You don’t understand.” He hissed, heart pounding, standing up with adrenaline working to soothe the aching weakness in his legs, “I must go.” Alain gave Jacques a pleading look, expression imitating broken porcelain.
Realising he’d lost the argument before it even began, Jacques pinched the bridge of his nose, “An hour, give or take the traffic, and the speed limit- Je le jure devant Dieu, Alain you better not drive there yourself. Stay awhile and I’ll find someone to take you, oui ?”
A subdued nod escaped Alain despite his very prominent displeasure. The race restarted only 37 minutes after Ayrton’s incident, once the debris was removed. There was still Senna’s blood on the gravel. He was still there, being airlifted to the hospital. All he could taste was acidic bile in his mouth.
He didn’t say anything for the entire race, he refused to even partially watch it. Eyes transfixed on the clock, he bounced his leg up and down. Beside him, Jacques covered his microphone and leaned back and toward Alain, “Berger, Lauda and Ecclestone are at Race Control. They’re requesting the race be stopped.”
In response, Alain only dipped his head further, only speaking in a low, grieving voice, “It shouldn’t have been allowed to continue in the first place. Not after Ratzenberger. Not after Senna.”
Shortly after, Alain caught the grim expression Jacques had shot him as he spoke, trying to keep his voice neutral. The answer was obvious. The appeal had been rejected and the race was continuing either way, still, the confirmation felt like shrapnel twisting into Alain’s heart.
At 16:20, Schumacher crossed the finish line first, taking P1. Prost could only feel hollow as he shot his friend a pleading look to finally take him to Bologna. The pleading look was not met with mercy, as Alain was still there when the podium celebrations occurred. It felt more like a funeral rite than a celebration, No champagne was sprayed out of respect for Ratzenberger’s passing, however Alain could feel a deep pit in his stomach that this was also regarding Senna’s condition too.
He felt as if they were burying him before he was even dead.
It was only at 18:11 that Alain left on his own accord to drive, forgoing telling Jacques his intentions knowing there would be deep opposition to his request. He drove with the radio on, though the music played did nothing to soothe him as he drove tight knuckled through traffic and to the motorway. He caught himself breaking the speed limit multiple times but doing nothing to amend it, he’d rather the ticket than wait any longer to see Ayrton.
The time ticked to 18:46, and the music cut off to a news channel. Alain’s hand turned the steering left around the hard shoulder of the road. “Brazilian Driver Ayrton Senna da Silva has suffered a crash in the Formula One San Marino Grand Prix.” The voice began, choked up and aggrieved. Prost felt his heart sink. “It was announced at 6:40 PM in Maggiore Hospital in Bologna that he has been declared dead after fighting for his life. The cause of death is listed as a fatal brain injury sustained at the time of the crash.”
Alain felt his breathing still, his hands straightening on the wheel around the corner. He’d been too late? But he hadn’t even said goodbye. He’d promised to take Senna to dinner that night, he couldn’t- he couldn’t go back on his promise.
Shrieking fireworks sounded in his ears, an ear-splitting terrible sound. For a moment, he could feel crisp night air, an arm around his, a gentle warmth against his side as the noise quieted.
Then a booming sound as fireworks exploded.
Ah. I never got to say I loved him.
|---------------------|
Darkness swallowed him instead of being met with maldive-blue light.
In the distance, he felt words that felt foreign and familiar simultaneously echo in his mind and lips, as if he were speaking them.
“You’ve done this track many times, It’ll come natural to you. The day is young and we still have a night to spend together, non?”
As if shocked by ice cold water, in the next moment, a blue did come along with a blast of light. A cobalt blue emerging in his murky, light-shocked eyes. Green and yellow swirled together in a spherical object in front of him, and Alain blinked his eyes and was startled by the loud chatter around him.
The garage.
How was he back in the garage?
Even more confusing still, the man before him was a corpse. Or should-be corpse. That was very alive and smiling with glinting eyes and staring at Alain with ample mirth and a crooked smile.
“You’re staring, Alain.” His honey smooth voice prompted while also glancing at the towel still on his cheek, wiping his sweat. “Are you quite okay? You’ve been like this for a whole minute.” Ayrton’s hand squeezed at his again before moving to brush his cheek in a move so tender Alain almost burst into tears.
Or rather, correction, he did.
Reaching over, he tugged and crushed Ayrton into an embrace with a strained cry, his hands squeezing and grabbing all over him, unable to believe he was there, in front of him. The man, obviously beyond confused for his friend, began spluttering out questions about whether he needs to take Alain to medical to be assessed. In between sobs and laughs and tugs, Alain let out refusals, pulling away and instead holding his hands to the sides of Ayrton’s neck to have a long look at him.
“Non, non, you aren’t racing today Ayrton, forget whatever on earth I’ve been spewing at you here, you’re not racing.” Alain breathed while Senna’s hand reached and tried to wipe away his tears, eyebrows furrowed in concern for his friend. “No, you aren’t usually like this Alain. You know I must race. I’ve tried speaking to the FIA, we’ve tried.”
Instead Alain cut Ayrton off, “You must believe me. There are other races to be raced, other fights to be won. You mustn't race here, if not for yourself then for my sake. I plead of you Ayrton, for once in your life put your foot off the throttle, stop running away, and look. at. me.”
And so Ayrton did. And in slow realisation, he saw that he didn’t just see Alain before him as he was in 1989. It was a new Alain, one with bright eyes no longer dulled by rivalry, filled with that look Adriane used to give him before they-
Ayrton clambered out of the cockpit and took one of the hands Alain had placed on his neck, tugging him out the room to his motorhome nearby, ignoring queries from hospitality staff regarding where he was headed. He didn’t even bother locking the door and instead barely wheezed out, “You cannot feel this way Alain. Not to me. Not when Adriane is still here. Not when God is watching us-”
Prost squeezed his eyes shut, hand breaking free from Ayrton’s and coming up to his forehead, “Adriane? Her? Non, you and I both know how that relationship is going, Ayrton, you don’t deserve to be treated like a trophy by women who use you for a status quo. I know you feel ignored. I know you crave for more.”
Looking up, his hand left his face and went up to his racing suit, undoing the velcro and top half of his zipper to pull out Ayrton’s cross necklace, “And God? He loves his children, Ayrton. Why let us love if it’s so wrong? What is so taboo about our emotions that we must repress it when he himself knows the strength it takes to ignore such feelings.” A smile crossed his lips for a brief moment, “He created us in his vision, he lets us love in his vision. Love thy neighbour he said, and I love you Ayrton.”
An unrecognisable noise left Ayrton as he turned away for a moment, but not before Alain saw a tear escape his eye. Instead, he beckoned Ayrton to turn back with soft hushes, wiping them away when he partially faced him. “You know you can speak your mind with me. You always have.”
Ayrton let out a dry chuckle, humourless and cold, “Prost is Senna and Senna is Prost, they said. Always entangled by fate and narrative, aren’t we Alain?” His eyes darted up to stare at the icy blue of Alain’s, “I’ve spent the longest time wallowing in sin over these urges. And now you’re here and you’re sharing them with me but you’re telling me not to race. My blood runs cold without the engine’s heat, and I’ve already been unable to finish in all races this season, another race and Schumacher will retain the lead.”
“What does Schumacher and his lead matter if you die?” The words tumbled out like a hurricane, fast and sharper than anything he’s spoken before, “I can’t watch the other half of my soul die again when I know in my heart that I could’ve done something to stop it. You cannot ask this of me Ayrton, you’re forbidden! You can’t do this to me again, you can’t leave me alone again.”
Alain smacked at Ayrton’s chest firmly, causing the man to stumble back slightly, though he wasn’t angered in the slightest. Instead his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “Again? Alain what do you mean again? Have you been having nightmares as of late? You never mentioned this to me on our phone calls.” To that, Prost let out a loud and long grunt. “It wasn’t a nightmare, it was real, it was real to me, I’m not insane, you have to believe me.”
In between his violent, insisting rambling, Ayrton calmed Alain, letting out a huff of air as he finally conceded. “I won’t race. But the team won't let the seat remain empty for the race, if there is a problem with the car, speak your truth now and I’ll talk to Newey.” His voice felt silky smooth against his weary nerves before Alain simply asked, “You must ask them to at least check the car.”
Giving a short, sweet smile, Ayrton leaned in to press a peck to Alain’s forehead. It was short, but was worth the world to him in that moment as his heart fluttered and a soft ‘Oh’ escaped him, leaning in without realising it. Pulling away, Senna kept his nose against his eyebrow for a few seconds longer to tell him he’d return in a moment before turning on his heel to head back to the garage.
|---------------------|
The car was checked, and everything appeared to be in order, despite another short request from Ayrton, Alain vehemently denied his usage of the car, going as far as to talking to the reserve driver, Coulthard, to not participate either.
Seeing it as his one chance to experience a race in the current climate, Coulthard refused. If there wasn’t a problem with the car or his driving, then nothing stopped him from participating in the race. Though the encounter ended in a hostile manner, David still gave Ayrton a short thank you for allowing him the weekend to drive. All he could respond with was a grim smile while eyeing Alain from the side.
“Weren’t you going to commentate the race with the radio station and that other friend of yours? What was his name…. Jaquelle? Jackie?” Senna drawled, his index and thumb cupping his chin while Alain face-palmed and sighed. “Jacques, espèce d'idiot.” The man, clearly unfazed, just cheekily retorted with a sly smirk, “You mean to add mon to the start of that meu pequeno professor.” He let out a sigh. It was going to be a long night.
“We’ll speak of your negative reservations towards the race later, sim?” It wasn’t a question, and so Alain nodded, “But for now, I think you need a little relaxation, and a discussion of the other thing you told me.” Well. Alain didn’t know if he should be scared or excited by that statement, especially given the smirk that Ayrton gave him as he finished speaking.
Ayrton’s hand dragged him to his motorhome, insisting privacy while Alain remarked that they should go watch the race. Instead he was silenced when Ayrton closed the door and pressed Alain against it, hands lifting him up by the hips much to his displeasure, and choking out his confused yelp with a kiss. Not that Alain was complaining.
Ayrton’s lips were as warm and insistent as he was, hot as the sun, filled with the same vigour he drove with and lived by. Alain made an attempt to move his hands up to cup his cheeks, only to have his hands seized and collected into one of Ayrton’s own, held above his head. Absent mindedly he wondered if he was being feminized, not that he’d care.
Sighing his name when he was pressed for another kiss, Alain let out a comically pitched squeak when he felt Ayrton’s tongue press up the seam of his lips, turning his head leftward to shoot a glare at the other. He just smiled knowingly with a giddy expression, “Don’t be a killjoy, it’s called French kissing for a reason, why don’t you prove yourself?” and then eyes widening, Ayrton stopped himself to quickly say, “Unless you want to stop? That’s fine too, if you’re only okay with this for now.”
Staring dumbfoundedly at the man pinning him, Alain let out a loud, almost excited laugh, amused and charmed by him, “Non, non, you surprised me. I have no problem with doing such things.” Lowering his head and batting his eyes in an unsure manner, he also added, “I’d also be fine with more if you’d want?”
That statement seemed to be the straw that broke the camel’s back for Ayrton.
He gave a wolfish grin, licked his teeth, and caressed Alain’s jaw with his spare hand, “You really have no idea, do you?” His hand trailed down to lightly press down on his neck, not enough to choke him, but enough to shock the other with the notion that his airway could be restricted at any time. Ayrton pressed a kiss to the corner of Alain’s mouth, muttering, “You will take only what I alone give you.”
Alain stared in shock, mouth agape. Before he could as much as speak or protest, his voice was cut short before its first word by Ayrton’s hard, demanding pair of lips. His knee worked open Alain’s thighs before slotting itself between them, pushing him up against the door and moving his hand from his throat down to Alain’s shirt. Ayrton pushed it up in a rushed and greedy manner to feel the warmth of his skin and the prickly soft hair of his navel.
“So soft.” He remarked, lips smiling against Alain’s own as he squeezed at his stomach, “You’ve softened up since you stopped racing, muito bom. Just for me, hm querido?” His mouth licked and sucked down from his lips to his jaw all the way to the hollow of Alain’s neck, stopping to pay attention to a spot which caused him to whimper and squeal, transfixed by the idea that only he could make Alain sound this way.
“Off.” Ayrton said breathlessly, loosening his grip on Alain’s hand and dratting his shirt up and off, taking a moment to do the same for himself. He hastily unzipped his race suit down to his hips, removing the shirt beneath it before leaning close to Alain once more, Autumn brown and ice blue clashing.
“I’ve never done this,” Ayrton reverently told him, his nose trailing down his neck down to his chest, then stomach, and finally pausing at where his belt sat as dropped to his knees, “I want you to be my first and last, and if you’d allow me to, I’d like to be your first and last too.”
He kept his hands over Alain’s hips, fingers hooking under his belt, asking for permission. A long, shaking exhale later, Alain nodded, knees almost buckling at the look Ayrton gave him. The same look he’d seen at the awe of a new season’s car, the same he had upon seeing his newborn nephew for the same time.
The same look he wore at Church, staring at the statue of Mother Mary before him.
Tugging erratically, Ayrton unlooped his Belt and pulled it off to reveal Alain’s zipper, almost snapping it off as he pulled it down and pushed Alain’s trousers to his knees, letting them fall the rest of the way. In mock humiliation, Alain looked away, staring at the soft curls adorning Ayrton’s hair instead and letting his fingers loop in between them as cold air shocked his pelvis and half-aroused cock.
His hips twitched from the sudden loss of warmth, and Alain’s face flushed at the way Ayrton stared so intently at his dick, hands moving closer to it before he ran his thumb along it to the tip. “Ayrton!” He scolded, though there was no real bite behind his words, He just looked up at the other with a sly grin before leaning in and pressing a kiss right where there was precome starting to leak.
Senna licked down from his tip to the base, sucking and fondling at the skin of his balls in long, teasing motions. He continued the gentle squeezing and stroking as he went back to the tip with another lick. Ayrton smeared slick precome beads over the head of his cock with the flat of his thumb before swallowing him down, eliciting a surprised moan from Alain. He let out another scolding call of the other’s name for not giving him a warning, though it became very clear that his body certainly was not complaining.
Biting his lip to stifle his high pitched squirms, Alain tried to keep his hips still, as to not choke Ayrton with a thrust down his throat he was not prepared for. It appeared that Ayrton was taking him down slowly with bobbing motions going further each time, an occasional gagging sound escaping him with a sharp furrow of his eyebrows. Reaching out, he caressed Ayrton’s hair, letting out a shaky sigh while mumbling out praises mixed in English and some in French, his hips beginning to meet each bob of his head.
His cock twitched when the speed was just right, not too fast to be rough, not too slow to be teasing, his voice crackling as he said, “Ah. Ah, just like that Ayrton, s'il te plaît, s'il te plaît!”
His throat felt closed as he wheezed in a suck of air, his throat making an audible whistling sound between moans. In return, Ayrton stared up at him with glossy eyes, undereyes prominent as he smiled, his drool dribbling to the floor. He deepthroated the other a few more times before pulling off with a gasp, letting out a wheezing cough as he tried to laugh. Alain looked confused, a slight whimper escaping him. He hadn’t finished, he was so close, so, so close. How could Ayrton tease him in this way?
“I don’t want you to cum like this.” Ayrton laughed, giving his tip a final kiss as Alain’s poor, now unattended cock twitched desperately for more. “I want to make you cum on my cock. Only if you want to.” He added at the end, looking away momentarily before meeting Alain’s eyes once more. A shy flush covered his face as if he hadn’t just given him the best blowjob of his life. “I- I’m not complaining?” Alain spoke up, his voice weak and tongue tied, in response, Ayrton grinned.
Ayrton stood, hooking his arms under Alain’s upper thighs as he did so to haul him up against his chest. He carried him to his nearby bed and practically fell on top of Alain onto it, shoving off the rest of his race suit and his underwear down with it. He kicked it off his legs onto the floor along with Alain’s pants and trousers, which had bundled up on his ankles already, turning to his lover with his lips curled upwards in mischief.
Opening the nightstand drawer with a loud clack, Ayrton rummaged through it until he found a small plastic bottle of lube and a pack of condoms. Setting it atop the nightstand, as he opened the bottle and squirted a generous amount into his palm, warming it up as he coaxed Alain’s legs apart and onto his shoulders. He kissed his stiff inner thigh, fingers prodding at his hole, “You’re so perfect down here.” Ayrton growled, voice ragged with arousal bleeding through it. “I’ll be gentle, I promise. four taps if you want me to stop, okay?”
With no further opposition, his thumb spread the lube across his hole before his middle finger pressed in and out, a gentle fucking motion, Alain realised. “So tight, aren’t you Alain?” Ayrton said, a smile in his voice as he was two knuckles deep, continuing to fuck his finger in and out, putting slight pressure to lightly curl it. “I’m going to treat you so well, I want to make up for all my mistakes in Mclaren, Alain. You were always the goal for me.”
He was unable to reply, the saliva that built up in his mouth muffling his voice as he tried to speak through moans. Ayrton shushed him, his other hand coming up to hold his sweat-slicked cheek. “So sweet, my dear Alain. só meu, né?” His index finger pressed in next, causing Alain’s hole to tighten and his fingers to pause where they were.
Tutting, Ayrton leaned in and slipped his lips against Alain's. He coaxed them open with a wet kiss, licking into his mouth and slipping his tongue over Alain’s. “Relax, meu amor.” He breathed against his lips, pulling away and slipping his second finger into Alain in the distraction and resumed the back and forth motion. His fingers began searching and prodding and scissoring, causing some initial discomfort from Alain that was soothed shortly after. It felt like Ayrton was searching for something, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he did so.
Finally his fingers pressed up and Alain’s eyes widened, sweat dropping from his brow and back arching against the mattress, his hand moving to desperately grip the blankets. Ayrton seemed satisfied at the reaction and continued rubbing at it, pressing in his third finger sometime during it and stretching Alain open for him with praises thick with adoration. “Do you like this Alain? I always knew you’d love it, you always liked the route calculated and hard, didn’t you? Você nunca gostou de coisas fáceis.”
On his stomach, Alain’s dick twitched, hard and close and so desperate for release while Ayrton massaged his prostate insistently. Ever the cruel man, Ayrton suddenly pulled his fingers out, causing Alain to let out a yelp and glare at the other in a dazzled manner, trying to figure out his intentions. After rolling a condom onto his dick and squeezing another generous serving of lube onto his hand, he lathered up his cock and pressed Alain’s knees into his chest and his feet atop Ayrton’s shoulders and back. The whole position left nothing to the imagination and felt more compromising.
“You remember how to tell me to stop right?” Ayrton asked Alain with a whisper to his ear, hand coming up to brush the sweat-soaked curls off Alain’s forehead, letting his fingers brush his temple. “Four taps.” He said, dilated eyes gazing up at Ayrton before giving a smile. He felt ready and was giving the green light.
A few badly aimed attempts at lining his cock up and a laughing Alain helping Ayrton later, he lined himself up and began to slowly, slowly press himself inside, watching Alain’s reaction. His eyes were scrunched, mouth agape and revealing his front teeth, eyebrows pressed together and head rocking to the side of the bed.
Ayrton felt himself twitch violently and come close to cumming at the sight, a sharp grunt leaving him. “Oh, oh Alain, you feel so tight” Ayrton whispered, his head falling forward and nose pressing against Alain’s hairline, breathing him in; It all felt too intoxicating and like a young teenage boy’s wet dream.
After stilling for a few minutes, Alain encouraged him to move by attempting to push himself up on the bed to pull off Ayrton’s cock slightly, and rocking back down onto it. Ayrton’s wild and unfocused eyes glanced down at Alain, the man smiling stupid below him as Ayrton finally, finally began to rock in and out in an ever slowly accelerating motion.
“So good for me, my heart, meu querido, meu tudo.” He gasped between thrusts, eyes blinking away tears that trailed down his cheeks as he kissed Alain’s cheeks and nose and mouth over and over, slightly collapsing forward. “I can’t live without you, can’t race without you, ninguém se compara, and I’m scared you’ll disappear from my life too. That I’ll die and leave you alone.” Ayrton hysterically babbled through his quick, pistoning motion, breathing the same air as Alain, “So many of our friends Alain, I was scared you’d be next, and now you’re scared I’ll be.”
Alain’s eyes wet with tears, unsteady hands making multiple attempts through the boneless weakness in his limbs to hold Ayrton’s face before they finally did, brushing away the wetness. “Je t'ai vu mourir, et maintenant j'ai peur de te perdre à nouveau.” He cried out in a whine, shaking his head.
When Ayrton’s eyes stared back bewildered at what he said, Alain simply repeated, “I saw you die,” His eyes met Ayrton’s own, “And now I fear I’ll lose you again. To that car.” His voice broke in a hiccup as he looped his arms around Ayrton’s neck. Alain pulled him closer and oriented his hips in an angle that made him see stars with every thrust, losing track of his thoughts until it was just Ayrton, Ayrton, Ayrton..
And.
With that final thought, Alain’s dick gave a final twitch and let hard out splutters of cum up onto Ayrton’s chest and down to Alain’s stomach.
At the same time, Ayrton’s thrusts sped up momentarily before slowing as soft gasps escaped him, still rocking forward slowly as he fully fell forward atop Alain. It left his legs dangling at a painful angle that he could only withstand a few moments longer until Ayrton recovered before he started violently smacking the man’s back to get him up and off into a more comfortable position.
“Couldn’t even give me a moment?” Ayrton commented with a sleepy, tired voice as he hauled himself up enough for Alain to retract his legs off his shoulders. “Sorry,” He replied, tilting his head as he observed the man, “But my legs couldn’t handle a moment longer. I’m not a gymnast, Ayrton.” Grumbling, he pulled out as well, tying a knot on his condom and tossing it toward the trashcan. It missed.
“Now can we sleep, Monsieur Prost ?” Ayrton snickered into his shoulder as he rolled the both of them onto their sides to bundle Alain up into his arms, cradling him close from behind. “Sim, Senhor Senna.” Alain croakily replied, letting his sore body finally rest, all the while using his final strength to hold Ayrton’s arms closer like a lifeline. Maybe then, he’d never leave again.
A kiss was pressed to his curls on the top of his head with a soft admission of love. He smiled.
The final words Alain heard before he succumbed to Hypnos were;
“I’ll never forget your eyes, Like New Year’s Fireworks.”