1k, prosenna
warnings: references to character death, grief/mourning
There were hands smoothing down the wrinkles in the sheets by his legs.
“Go away,” he said. “You are dead.”
Ayrton rolled his eyes. “Of course,” he said, and went back to adjusting the blanket.
Ludicrous. Ghost Ayrton was trying to tuck him in. Alain was losing his mind.
“So even in death, you seek to drive me mad.”
Ayrton pulled back, like that stung. Actually stung, physically. Which made no sense. Alain was talking to a shade his mind had cobbled up, in rejection of the reality. Some people had no business lying still. So, his imagination made them move.
“I’m trying to make you comfortable.”
“I am quite comfortable, thank you.”
“Then why can’t you sleep?” Ayrton said softly.
Alain stared down at his hands, tangled in the sheets by his waist. He had lost faith in the veins running along his body to carry blood. If he looked in the mirror, he knew what he’d find. Haunted eyes, and a tiredness that stuck to flesh like wet film. Why couldn’t he sleep?
“Because you left,” Alain said. “Without so much as a goodbye.”
Ayrton’s face seemed whiter than before, if that were even possible. Even now, when nothing between them mattered any more—even now, they hurt each other.
“I am trying,” Ayrton said, “to right this wrong, can you understand that?”
“Then let me sleep,” Alain said.
It was close to eleven when Alain awoke. His alarm had been switched off. He did not remember doing that. There was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. Ayrton had not left.
“Now, to the shops,” Ayrton announced, sounding so much like it was the tallest order of the day. “Get dressed, Alain.”
“No,” Alain said. He had not left the house in—weeks. Since Imola.
Ayrton pursed his lips and squinted. It was all so familiar. He used to make that expression right before they argued. Alain could close his eyes and conjure it up, every frown line etched in its precise position. He supposed he was getting exceedingly good at recreating Ayrton from memory.
“Get dressed,” Ayrton said menacingly, “or I will dress you.”
Alain barked out a laugh. It grated against his ears like metal on metal, a crash on the track. He hadn’t heard himself in what seemed like eons. Fine, fine. He could humour Ayrton, if only because he had made him laugh.
Ayrton watched with satisfaction as Alain drew clean clothes on. It didn’t seem strange that Ayrton watched him while he changed, with something in his eyes Alain couldn’t quite place. Or rather, something Alain couldn’t bear to place, now that the something was no longer within reach.
They went to the market.
“Why can't they see you?”
Ayrton scoffed. “Why would I choose to appear to them?”
Alain shook his head. “Why would you choose to appear to me?”
Ayrton looked at him as if Alain were deliberately being obtuse. Which was just typical. And comforting enough for the crack in his heart to tear open and bleed freely.
The shopkeepers must certainly think him mad. He was holding up produce for Ayrton to inspect. He was holding them up to thin air.
“Pah,” Ayrton said. “You call those oranges?”
Alain inspected the offending fruit. “What would you call them?”
“Those are yellows at best. This is what you’ve been eating? No wonder you’ve grown so thin.”
The weather was crisp, and Alain’s lips cracked when he smiled. He poked his tongue out to get at the blood, and let himself be bullied into purchasing grapefruit instead.
There was a light drizzle when they were finally done. Alain kept his walking pace while Ayrton seethed behind him. By the grace of the universe, Alain had been spared an apparition that could touch. If Alain could imagine the feel of Ayrton against him, then. Well. He wouldn’t survive this.
“Walk faster,” Ayrton demanded. Every time he tried to push at Alain, his hands went clean through. “You are getting soaked.”
“I don’t mind,” Alain said. The chill of the air was refreshing, actually.
“I do,” Ayrton said. “Come on, your house is just around the corner.”
But Alain would not listen. He stood under the clouds as the sky opened up and mourned for Senna.
“Come in from the rain,” Ayrton pleaded with him.
Alain stayed, like a madman who would not be swayed. The immovable object to Ayrton’s now very stoppable force. The paper bag holding his groceries tore, and the grapefruit thudded to the ground, coming to rest in puddles. He was allowed to relish in the anguish he was inflicting upon Ayrton. In return for the sorrow that now bound his every waking moment.
“What would you have me do?” Ayrton was shouting now. The rain adhered to his cheeks like tears. “For you to come inside, Alain, what would you have me do?”
“Come back,” Alain said to the storm.
The rain kept falling. Alain did not know for how long. Could have been seconds. Or years. Alain was looking his grief right in the face. He was dimly aware that he was shivering wildly, that his teeth were chattering.
“I will never forgive you,” Ayrton said, his final attempt at moving Alain. “If you allowed this to break you, I will never forgive you. You will never see peace, Alain, for I will never leave you.”
“What if,” he said, sounding for all the world like a child, lost and pathetic, “I wanted that?”
“You are a fool,” Ayrton said harshly. His hands hovered a mere millimeter above Alain’s cheeks. He looked so much like he wanted to stroke Alain. It looked like pain, that he couldn’t. “Come in from the rain, Prost, and live.”
Alain looked up. The sky was clearing. The earth continued to spin, as she always did. Alain crouched down, and picked up his fallen fruit. He took his time. Dragged it out. Allowed himself the taste of longing. When he turned to go home, Ayrton was no longer there.
