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He has these days sometimes, far less frequent now but still present nonetheless, where he awakes in the low tide of a dream.
The dream is saccharine, thick and honey sweet like summer in São Paulo, fading in like the ring of a phone echoing across the study.
It always fades in, soft and gossamer as prost breathes and looks out. That is always where they find each other; standing in a wide valley, golden wheat swaying gently in the breeze.
In his mind, Ayrton smiles bright. Always to him, Always brilliant.
In the early years, Ayrton would call out to him, voice calling clear across the expanse as he would approach, casually dressed in a white shirt and worn denim jeans. Ayrton still looks the same, but he doesn’t call out any longer. Alain misses the sound of his voice, misses it so now that he cannot place it.
Ayrton is always as he remembers him, tan skin shining in the golden sun, eyes glinting with mischief. And Ayrton always finds him, gliding gently through the grain and reaching out to him. Calloused hands grasp into calloused hands, Alain as young as the day he lost him, exactly like the day he lost him.
If he were to look, he would find himself in Marlboro red, racing suit pulled low on his hips. Ayrton had mentioned once in a late night call how he always found him prettiest when he was rumpled and fatigued.
Alain would laugh at the memory, how he could hear Ayrton smile over the line. A smile like the man wears now, thumb rubbing gentle circles into the soft flesh of his hands as Ayrton pulls him forward.
Alain lets himself be guided through the field, following Ayrton, studying him. He had found it a thrilling pass time in the days and weeks and months after Adelaide. He is thankful for it more than ever now, how he had poured all his focus into the man. After all, memories are all he has now. Memories and a name only spoken in woven tandem.
Eventually they would come to rest under a large oak that stretches against the golden sky, leaves green and perfect as they rustle in the breeze. Then they would settle, catch up. It’s not always the same, how they interact, how they find themselves there.
In early days, Alain would sit and cry, heaving broken sobs and sputtered regrets choking him as Ayrton would stand still, holding him as he wind blew through his curls.
Somedays they would arrive and fight like cats and dogs, screaming profanity and insults like no tomorrow.
Somedays they would play like boys, picking ripe figs from the tree as they would reminisce. Ayrton was always such a diligent listener, an insatiable flirt in turn.
Sometimes they would do nothing, Alain would just settle his body against Ayrton’s and feel the beat of his heart under his skin.
So, the dream is not always the same, but it always ends the same.
In the waning sunlight, Alain will sit and rest his head against the junction of Ayrton's shoulder and jaw. Ayrton’s hand would climb to rest in his hair as his breathing would slow, blinks coming in long slow passes.
He always falls into a slumber and awakes again in the real world.
The first time he awoke from it, he barely had time to make it to the ensuite bathroom before he vomited up everything but his heart.
It felt like his soul was ripped from him as rib shattering sobs wracked his too thin form. Every morning begins like such, awakening from that gossamer field and purging himself of everything as he just feels hollow.
He isn’t able to keep down a meal until Viviane pushes something into his hands after the funeral. She looks at him, somber and knowing. He nods to her and doesn’t visit the grave until the soil is fully grown over.
He would visit once years later, eyes tracing the epitaph.
| Nada pode me separar do amor de Deus |
That night in his dream he remembers turning to Ayrton, letting his head settle on his chest enough to feel the vibrations of his voice.
“I do not know how much longer I can bare this” Alain confesses, twisting a loose grain of wheat in his fingers.
“What do you mean?” Ayrton never speaks his name, even when addressing him. A terrible habbit of his rolled over from their time as enemies.
“Ayrton, I find you haunt me as much in death as you did in life.” The tone is light, not quite a joke, but not quite a confession.
Ayrton just hums, a small tune picking up on the breeze as something settles between them. It takes time for Ayrton to surmount it, voice soft and lacking the bravado Alain had found himself accustomed too over the tie of the phone.
“Oh Alain. My Dear friend Alain—” he swears he can feel tears falling into his hair as Ayrton’s hands twitch against his scalp.
“Nothing can separate me from the love of you.”
The next morning, he scribbles into the front of his note pad:
| Nada pode me separar do amor de você |
| Rien ne peut me séparer de ton amour |
It’s not quite closure, but the dream comes less frequent. It occasionally drops in on him in that way old friends are want to do.
He counts it as a blessing now, a chance to see him again, unfettered by time.
In the early hour of this morning, Alain takes a sip of his coffee and watches the sunrise. In the gentle ease of it, he can almost feel Ayrton next to him, a phantom of a love long past. He settles in, hands finding comfort in the warmth of the cup.
These days life is odd. He finds an old man where he stands. It comes at him in creaking bones and lethargic evenings. He had never planned on being this old. He was never one to be hopeful or unrealistic. To him, death was something as sacred as life, grasped tightly betwixt steady hands.
Truth be told, he had given up on living in full regard on that day in 1994. His body kept aging, but part of Alain died right there, tucked into the pocket that rests over Ayrton’s heart.
So many more years line his face.
So many years so many didn't get.
Alain stands solid, the last of the old guard. One of the pantheons, balanced only by the spirits that cling to him.
He is 69 years old now. 35 years older than Ayrton got to be. 35 extra years lining his face. 30 of those years he had spent without him now, a lifetime entirely.
The sun rises still, a golden yellow hue cast across the kitchen in the early morning. Yellow like a racing helmet. Red like Marlboro race suits. Golden like tan skin.
Alain closes his eyes and basks in its warmth, holding a silent prayer.
"Soon my love, I will be home soon. Nothing can separate me from the love of you."