Work Text:
It was Thursday, late at night. Alain was reading a book trying to ignore the urge to open Instagram and scroll down through posts for no reason.
He knew it wouldn’t do him any good. It was May 1st. He couldn't scroll down more than a couple of posts without finding Ayrton's face there with a comment of regret and maybe pity from someone who never knew him, not like him.
The letters in the book began to jumble together and, after the third sentence which he had to read several times to understand, he knew he had to go to bed. The book could wait until tomorrow.
He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes, the tiredness settling is enough to make him yawn. He blinked for a few seconds then got up from his chair and headed for his room, that's when a call came in.
'How odd, who would be calling at this hour?' he thought.
The number was one he didn't recognize, with an international code that he remembered was from Monaco. He didn't remember that he should be getting any calls from there.
The call rang for a while longer until it stopped. Alain lifted his shoulders and simply continued to bed, maybe it was nothing.
The phone started ringing again, the same number.
The strange feeling came again but if they were insisting so much, maybe it was something urgent.
He answered.
"Hello?"
He said, but the operator was ringing with some static. The other voice took a few seconds to answer.
"Sorry, I probably woke you up."
Alain frowned at the response in English, the disuse of the language was more present now than before. But he could understand what he was saying.
"No, I was just going to bed. What can I do for you?"
Silence, Alain was beginning to get angry at the ridiculousness of the situation.
"Prost, you know I can't speak french. I'm sorry if I woke you up, it's just... I wanted to talk to you."
The accent and timbre of the voice was so familiar to him that the anger almost vanished. It was probably just a coincidence.
He hesitated for a moment before replying in rusty English.
"Who am I talking to?"
"I thought you might recognize my voice... I am Ayrton."
Hate, that's what he felt. Someone was teasing him on a day like this.
"I'm hanging up. Don't call back."
"Wait-! Alain! Please..." Alain stopped when he heard the anguish in the voice. "I... I just wanted to apologize, that's all I ask, the idea had been in my head and... I had to call, please listen to me."
This had to be a joke, a horrible, deranged joke created by someone sick.
"Prost?"
But he was too weak and too sad to hang up. There was something in that voice that reminded him of the real Ayrton, there was something in him that refused to let go of someone was most likely a prankster.
Ayrton had been dead for so many years and he still made him take foolish decisions .
"Speak then, what did you want to apologize for?"
Alain sat back in his chair as a migraine showed signs of setting in. He had no idea what this prankster was getting at but decided to play along.
"I know you're upset about what happened in Portugal." Alain's eyes narrowed trying to make sense of those words, what had happened in Portugal? "I didn't mean to make it seem like I'm not interested in your safety, it's just.... these are things that happen on the track."
'Ah, Portugal... That happened in '89... No, it was in '88.'
"It won't happen again, I promise."
Lies. Empty promises from the voice of a man he only got to know well many years after that incident.
"Ayrton?"
"Yes?"
"You don't need to lie to me. I know you were doing everything for the competition."
He could hear Ayrton stir, probably uncomfortably, at the answer.
"I know you would never have refused to get into a car, even if people told you not to.""
"I didn't know you had that impression of me.""
Alain gave a bitter laugh and tears involuntarily spilled over his eyes. He had cried so much for Ayrton, and probably would never stop.
"Why did you get in the car at Imola, Ayrton? You just... You didn't have to..."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Ayrton! You just had to wait, you just didn't have to get in the car... You knew something was wrong and yet..."
His voice cracked and the static in the call became more pronounced.
"I think you're upset, Prost. You're confusing things."
"I'm not confusing anything, shit!" The shout was also involuntary, he was losing his temper. "You're dead and still you treat me like I'm the crazy one, my God, Ayrton. I was fine just a moment ago and then you called and... you... You act like all of this never happened. Don't play games with me, please, don't put me through this again."
The static was more present now, it sounded like the signal was failing.
"Alain, I'm fine."
Said the voice.
"I'm with you."
And then the signal was cut abruptly and the call ended.
Alain did not sleep well that night, the images of Imola replayed over and over in his mind along with Ayrton's voice on the phone.
He tried to convince himself that what just happened was a nightmare, an illusion created by a mind stressed by the trauma caused by that date. It couldn't be real, there was no way it could be real.
Perhaps he should follow the advice he was once given and try a psychiatrist. Finally, Ayrton had driven him crazy, it had only taken him 40 years to achieve it.
At least that was all he imagined until the morning of May 2st. He awoke feeling someone next to him moving.
The early morning light illuminated the room, the sound of cars could be heard through the window....
And Ayrton was resting beside him in bed.