Chapter Text
“What do you mean you’re busy?” Jenson demands incredulously. “It’s the bloody FIA gala and you're busy.”
There’s a crackly sigh down the other end of the phone, sounding far too put upon for Jenson’s liking when, at the end of the day, it’s Jenson being put out by this all. A sigh, as if to say, honestly, Jenson, you again, or honestly, Jenson, what are you expecting. No one ever sighs in the sort of way that says honestly, Jenson, you gorgeous, talented, humble godsend, which is the sort of sigh that Jenson is waiting for.
“Honestly, Jenson,” his dad says, voice distorted by the poor signal, “I told you ages ago that I wouldn’t be able to attend on the eleventh.”
“Well, I can’t ring up Jean Todt and ask him to rearrange! Sorry, Jean, lovely million quid event you have going on here - fancy moving it so my dad can pop along? That’d go down a treat.”
“Take someone else. That lovely woman you’ve been seeing would no doubt be impressed by it all. Win you back some credit and make up for you being a slouch off track.”
Jenson’s lips twist into a sour frown. “No longer seeing her. And I’m not a slouch.”
“Ah,” John says, a little awkward at last. “Sorry to hear that.”
“But you’re still not coming?”
“I’m on holiday. Non-refundable deposit.”
“I will literally pay you to ditch your holiday and come with me. Double the non-refundable deposit.”
“Look at you, splashing the cash now you’re all high and mighty, Mister World Champion. No can do, unless you want to break your stepmum’s heart.”
Jenson does not, in fact, want to break his stepmum’s heart. Jenson, in fact, likes Pippa an awful lot and both he and John know that this point is a checkmate. It all goes to prove that winning the world title is one thing - and Jenson had thought that it would be the hardest thing that he ever had to do - but winning a quarrel with his dad is a whole other thing. Jenson’s been practising his whole life for it and still hasn’t sorted it out.
“It’s a bit sad having your dad as your plus one anyone,” John points out. “Not very rock and roll.”
Jenson is not feeling very rock and roll at all and tells his dad that. Jenson does not like feeling not very rock and roll, which is supposed to be the entire vibe of driving super cool cars super-fast in super cool places, but mostly Jenson just feels tired. Very tired - curl up in bed with a cheat meal and a romcom kind of tired - and has done since the middle of the seasons, when the ready stream of victories and podiums had choked and sputtered into nothing. He tells his dad this as well, who sighs again, in the sort of way that means, honestly, Jenson, I wish you would pull yourself together. Which Jenson gets, objectively; his dad has already given him several emotive pep talks to the effect, which had worked, and Jenson had sealed himself a championship with a - in his opinion - phenomenal recovery drive from incredibly far back on the grid with Sebastian Vettel chomping at his heels like an overly enthusiastic chihuahua, all tiny cuteness and bloodthirsty, hell-driven rage.
“I know you’re not feeling very rock and roll,” John replies. “Honestly, Jense, the last party we went to together, you ditched to go to bed to in the middle and left me to keep up with all your hooligan colleagues. I’m not as young as I used to be.”
Jenson had done that. On reflection, abandoning his own victory party had been a choice and a half, one that Shov and all the others had ribbed him for endlessly afterwards, but Jenson had figured that breaking down into tears is something better left for being curled up under a duvet in bed rather than in the middle of a raucous bar party. He still doesn’t feel bad about it in the slightest, and he knows that his dad - underneath the teasing - understands why Jenson had had to leave, even if he didn’t understand it completely.
“Scroll through your phone book, Mister World Champ,” John advises him. “There’ll be someone he wants to kiss your arse enough to go to some mind-numbing ceremony with you.”
“Give my love to Pippa,” Jenson says, exhausted and defeated, but his dad has already hung up on him. Classic.
The afternoon passes as Jenson might have expected. He holes himself up in his tiny little Monaco flat and paces the kitchen, all seven steps of it, with a phone propped under his ear and a notebook of scribbled phone numbers held in hand. It’s times like these that Jenson wishes that he kept a more legible list of contact details, but really, no one uses phone books anymore, except for is dad and other such old people, and Jenson had every important saved in his phone anyway. All of them, however, are already attending, and Jenson somehow doesn’t think that Rubens will be easily convinced to abandon his wife in favour of being Jenson’s arm candy.
He makes himself a drink (blackcurrant juice, although he puts it in a wine glass to try and convey a sense of the despair that he is feeling) and contemplates asking Mark to come with him, except he thinks that Mark might actually end his life, still slightly sour over being outdone by his wunderkind teammate. There’s Fernando, but then Jenson often thinks that it is better to keep Fernando away from polite company, lest he stage some sort of evil coup. It’s at time like these, Jenson thinks, reviewing his list of friends, many of whom are most definitely busy and quite candid about the fact that they are looking forward to some Jenson-free time, that a man discovers how antisocial and/or annoying he truly is. There’s no one, except -
No. No, it would be ridiculous. Audacious. Incredibly, obviously, completely pathetic and sad of him.
Jenson dials the number anyway.
His call is answered after four excruciatingly long rings, though Jenson had almost hoped that it would go straight through to voicemail and Jenson could blame it, through text, on a butt dial or something. No such luck, or maybe all the luck - Jenson really isn’t quite sure how he should think about it.
“Allo?” Alain Prost says, sounding somewhat bewildered.
Jenson flings himself down onto his sofa and plasters a beaming grin on his face, though there is no one to see it. Which is good, considering Jenson thinks that he might actually look quite deranged and not at all fit to be seen by anyone - let alone Alain Prost, four-time world champion, arguably one of the greatest of all time, and rather unfortunately Jenson’s old boss and occasional career advisor.
“Alain, you old toad,” he replies, “how’re you doing?”
“Toads and frogs are different animal, Jenson,” Alain says, with the world weariness of someone far too used to having the same conversation over and over again.
Jenson shrugs. “Po-tay-to, po-tah-to, amirite?”
Alain makes a noise of confusion. “Please tell me why you’re calling me.”
“Are you in Monaco right now?”
“Why?”
Like many French people Jenson has met, Alain is far too suspicious for his own good. Sure, there is likely precedent for why Alain should not trust a word that Jenson says, bearing in mind, of course, that Jenson had been young(er) and stupid(er) when he had first signed for Alain Prost’s truly awful backmarker of a Formula One team and therefore, in his opinion, cannot be held accountable for his actions back then. Though Alain is still awfully fond of reminding Jenson of several social faux pas he had made, and several somewhat regrettable DNFs, as if he suspects Jenson of having done it deliberately to undermine him. It truly is a miracle that they still like each other as much as they do.
“Answer the question please.”
“Oui, Jenson, I am in Monaco. Please do not turn up at my flat again.”
Jenson rolls his eyes. “That was once.”
“Once too many.”
Jenson rolls his eyes again, harder. It doesn’t matter that Alain can’t see him; he imagines that the sentiment of it is potent enough to carry itself down the phone line and smack Alain in the face with the force of all his exasperation. Alain is good enough doing it to Jenson, and Jenson feels as though he ought to learn something from their connection
“What do you want?”
“Will you please come to the FIA awards ceremony thing with me?” asks Jenson, fixing on his best smile. “Free food and free booze.”
“What about John?”
“Holiday. Non-refundable deposit.”
“You’re a world champion. Pay him off.”
Jenson sighs, honestly, Alain, who do you think I am? “Tried. Can’t, unless I want to break my stepmum’s heart.”
“We like Pippa.”
“We do like Pippa,” Jenson agrees.
“Not enough to go however,” Alain says. “I’ve attended more than I ever wanted to in my time. You’re on your own.”
“Alain!” Jenson cries. “I’ll keeping calling you until you change your mind.”
“I’ll block your number.”
“You don’t know how.”
“To Nelson’s delight - that is true.”
Alain hangs up anyway. The cheek.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” Jenson asks serenely, before leaning forward to address the driver. “Take a left here,” he says, a moment before the satnav echoes him.
Alain huffs. “Define nice,” he asks, voice sharp.
Jenson is undeterred. “You and me against the world,” he says. “Just like old times, about to reap the rewards of the second hardest trial of my career.” When Alain doesn’t bite, as Jenson had hoped he would, he continues, “the first, of course, being that I survived my stint at your team with my reputation intact.”
“I know what he means now - concrete post,” replies Alain. Jenson snorts, and there’s a small twitch of Alain’s lips, as if he is on the verge of smiling as well.
Jenson twists to face him properly, made a little awkward by the fact that his seatbelt jams as he does, the force nearly yanking him back against the seat. “Honestly, toad, I am grateful that you’re coming with me,” he says.
“Toads and frogs are different animals.”
“In what way are they different? Anyway, that isn’t the point. The point is that I’m glad you agreed to come with me -”
“I didn’t really have a choice.”
“- and it makes a sort of sense in a way, don’t you think? My first ever boss and sometimes career advisor, here to witness the product of all our efforts.”
“I was the last person you called,” Alain deadpans. “Also, you never listen to my advice.”
“And that’s helped me immeasurably. After all, one of us took your advice and one of us didn’t, and one of us is, like, a bajillion quid in debt for a racing team they no longer have and the other one of us escaped the racing team to become world champion, so.”
“Can’t hear you over my four titles.”
“I knew you had a bit of an ego on you,” Jenson says, and leans forward again. “Take a right turn here, mate.”
When he settles back, the look Alain gives him is a lot less teasing and a lot fonder, his eyes softening and the smile on his face genuine. There are a hundred different ways that Alain and Jenson’s dad are entirely different people, but sometimes, in this and the faith that they have so carefully cultivated and maintained in Jenson all through his career, even when he is undeserving of it, they are the same.
“You deserve this one,” Alain says, and squeezes Jenson’s knee bracingly. “A lot of pressure, and not many people could have driven like you did at Brazil. I’m glad that you were a Prost driver at least once. I’m also glad that you are a Prost driver who didn’t let my God-awful car come between us. But even if you hadn’t been, or it had come between us, I think I would have been just as proud of you as I am now.”
“Aw, toad,” says Jenson. His eyes burn uncomfortably - something in them, an eyelash maybe, that he blinks to dislodge, scrubbing away the blur with the heel of his palm.
The car pulls up in front of an opulent hotel front ten minutes later. Alain had managed to bargain with Jenson, encouraging him to sit back and let the satnav do its job, and so Jenson had spent the last ten minutes trying and failing to convince Alain to play I Spy with him. When Alain had refused, Jenson had settled for asking after Nico, Sacha and Victoria (who were doing well) and listening as Alain reminisces about the celebrations for Niki Lauda’s title win in ‘84. Sometimes, to Jenson’s chagrin, Jenson forgets the fact that Alain had once been a driver in the eighties, where all things were fair game and hotel lobbies could double as parking lots. The Alain he knows is calm and paternal, a little anxious ball of overthinking who obsessively checks the weather app a least five times before walking to the corner shop. Not a hellion at all.
“Swanky,” Jenson says, appreciatively, as they are let out.
The hotel looms tall above him, a marble edifice with fancy windows and decorative stone, and a wide set of stars leading up to a revolving door entrance, looking as if it’s been planted from a James Bond movie, the sort of place to order a martini, shaken not stirred, and woo beautiful ladies with knives hidden under their dresses, prime for double crossing when the night is young and Jenson is knee deep in a punch up with some international terrorist long presumed dead. In short, it looks like a good time is ready to be had by all.
Jenson adjusts his cuffs quickly, hands sweeping away the creases that the car journey has imprinted in his suit. Already, the stairs are lined with a straggly hoard of sports journalists, all of them arrayed behind two velvet cordons which clear a path up the stairs for guests to enter by, up a red carpet of all things that makes Jenson feel more important than he probably is. There’s the sound of camera shutters, and brilliant lights flash and dazzle, leaving Jenson blinking against the after burn.
He turns to Alain, clambering out the car after him, and wolf whistles. “Those pictures of you are going to be looking sharp,” he says, eying the smart - and rather basic - black suit that Alain is wearing. The only redeeming feature is the fact that Alain has forgone a tie, leaving the top few buttons of his white collared shirt undone.
“Can we get this over with?” asks Alain, world weary. “I want a drink.”
Jenson gestures him on.
Of course, it is not as simple as simply heading inside. Jenson is stopped for quick chats and a few autographs, shaking hands and smiling. These pictures will end up somewhere tomorrow, to be viewed by people who maybe care that a guy from Somerset has succeeded in driving morbidly expensive cars around in a circle without stuffing it up too badly, and Jenson wants to make sure that they are good pictures and clever quotes. Usually, he would not care so much, but he thinks that there are only so many times that someone can be called a concrete post by another old boss before you really start to take stock of what you’re saying and to who. The unfortunate casualty of Jenson’s diligence is Alain, who is stuck alongside him shaking hands and dialling up whatever vestiges of suave French charm that he has.
By the time that they escape inside, they’re both gasping for a break and maybe a drink. Alain wipes his hand on his pants, nose wrinkled. Jenson runs a hand through his hair, letting out a deep breath, and then yanks it away when he realises that, somewhere, the hairstylist who had agonised so long over what to do with it is weeping in horror now. Jenson thinks that he and Alain could quite happily stand in the lobby all night, in silence and focused on simply breathing.
But there’s even a moment before a black suited man with sunglasses is sweeping over to them and gesturing them down a hallway, rather helpfully labelled FIA PRIZE GIVING AWARDS 2009. Jenson groans, already feeling the urge to turn around and go back to bed, Jean Todt’s million quid party be damned, but obligingly troops down the hallway, Alain at his side looking similarly fed up. There’s a pair of double doors at the end, and another sign that reads FIA PRIZE GIVING AWARDS 2009. Jenson wonders if they are in the right place.
“Once more unto the breach,” Alain says grimly, staring in what Jenson can only describe as horror at the door, where the low pulsations of music and conversation can be heard.
“God speed,” Jenson agrees, and pushes open the doors.
It’s like stepping into another world entirely. The lights are low, and the room is dark enough that it takes Jenson’s eyes a moment to adjust. There are smaller lights around the room, cast up high onto the ceiling that is truly a dizzy height away, but the main point of illumination is the stage at the very far end of the room, pinned by glaring spotlights even though it is empty. Yet the shadows don’t seem to bother anyone else in the room, as people mill between round tables set out in rows and trail up to a bar in the left corner closest to the doors. Jenson can only describe it as a ballroom on steroids, far bigger than any room has any business being, and it reminds him somewhat of a primary school lunch hall, except, instead of snotty nosed children, it’s full of snotty nosed businessmen.
“Time for you to mingle,” says Alain, somewhat more cheerful in the face of Jenson’s misery, and claps him on the shoulder. “Your manager wants you to real in those supporters for your sojourn with McLaren.”
“As my sometimes career advisor, you’re coming with me,” Jenson hisses, and latches on tightly to the Frenchman, dragging him through the crowd even as he squawks a startled protest.
And truly, he’s glad to have Alain with him as they strike out into the room. Mostly because Jenson is terrible at remembering faces and because Alain seems to know everyone, able to mutter a quick prompt before Jenson is launched into another round of handshaking and hobnobbing. All in all, they make a pretty effective team and manage to work their way around a lot quicker than Jenson had ever hoped they would. Alain proves especially talented at ending conversations. But’s glad, nonetheless, when he is the one to recognise someone, just to prove that he is not entirely useless, and leaps at the chance eagerly.
He points across the room, eyes latched onto his target. “Look, it’s Lewis,” he says. “Let’s go say hello. Teammate bonding.”
Obligingly, Alain lets Jenson steer him in that direction, using his talents to brush away attempts to stay them in conversation. It’s only when they get three quarters of the way there that it begins to go wrong; Jenson, in hindsight, feels like he should have recognised the car wreck even a few seconds before they’re t boned. Except he doesn’t, eager to escape the nattering businessmen and their strange business agendas to talk to a racing driver, whose agenda he understands a lot more.
“Who’s that with Lewis?” Alain asks, feet slowly. There’s a queer sort of dread in his voice.
Jenson propels him forward, squinting. It’s hard to make out in the dim lighting but -
“Oh my God,” he whispers. “That’s Ayrton Senna.”
“Look,” says Alain, stopping entirely. “It’s Rubens. Let’s go say hello to Rubens. I haven’t spoken to him for a while.”
Ayrton Senna. In the flesh. It’s like all of Jenson’s childhood dreams rolled into one. He had, of course, always been a Prost fan when he’d watched the races as a kid, something about the smoothness of his driving and the total surety - but it is Ayrton Senna, who really is like a god when it comes to racing. And he looks it, set apart from everything else at the gala by the sheer fact that he is Ayrton Senna alone. He’s unmistakeable, an awe-inspiring figure. Jenson still remembers watching his accident in Imola all those years ago - the one that had ended his career and nearly taken his life. A snapped steering column, cold tires, a litany of mistakes; there had been the months of waiting with no news, the racing world holding their collective breath, knowing he was alive but comatose still, the only font of knowledge willing to give at least some updates to the press being Gerhard Berger. Jenson had wept watching Imola, and he had wept when the news had come four months later that Ayrton Senna would live.
And the evidence of his battle is still evident, now seamlessly incorporated into the persona of Senna. The brain injury and the coma had paralysed the left side of his face, along with weakening the left side of his body - in the interviews after, his words had been slurred, which he candidly admitted would improve - and had improved - with the help of a speech therapist, and the whole world had watched as he had progressed from being wheelchair bound to using the aid of a cane. Complications in his recovery had led to a blood clot in the brain, a stroke, and the effects would last a lifetime. Everyone had known that Senna would never drive again.
But he had lingered in the world of racing, first trying his hand at written journalism and then opening his own karting school in Brazil to encourage progression into racing for less extortionate fees and then signing a deal with McLaren, as a racing advisor. Jenson supposes that it is in that capacity he is here tonight, cutting an impressive figure in a black suit (again, basic) and orange tie, curls carefully arranged around his face in a way that makes him look like the muse behind a classical statue. Lewis, despite a somewhat abysmal season, being at the gala probably means that he’s the guest of Senna, who had been his manager, and can’t help the thrill of excitement at the thought of having some link to Senna, an excuse to talk to him. Senna had been wandering the pitlane throughout Jenson’s career, but their paths had never crossed beyond a nod hello.
“Rubens,” Alain repeats, somewhat frantic, trying to tug Jenson away.
Jenson shoots him an incredulous look. “Don’t tell me you and Senna are still embroiled in some post-retirement rivalry. Come on, toad, can’t you talk to the man for five minutes?”
“Five?” echoes Alain, in abject horror. He looks like Jenson has just shot a dog right before his eyes.
“Two, at least,” Jenson placates, reflecting that he really does need Alain to get through the rest of the night. “This might be the only opportunity that you have to be the taller - sorry, the bigger man.”
“He is the one who won’t talk to me.” Alain sounds suspiciously as though he is sulking.
“Yeah, well, I need to talk to my McLaren teammate,” says Jenson firmly, “so if you guys could be grown-ups for two minutes, that would be nice.”
Lewis sees Jenson only moments later, and his face lights up as if he and Jenson are best mates, eyes wide and teeth flashing. “JB, man,” he exclaims, and goes in for a very awkward, very masculine, back slapping, one armed hug that Jenson returns with the fervour of a rib-breaking octopus. Lewis’ smile, when he pulls away, is approving, so Jenson thinks that he must have passed some sort of test, which honestly makes him feel brilliant because he very much doubts that it’s the sort of test that Fernando would have passed back in ‘07.
“Mister Senna,” Jenson adds, and tries not to look too eager as he leans in for a handshake.
Except he is left devastating and humiliatingly hanging. Senna doesn’t even spare him a glance, nor acknowledge his presence in anyway - his eyes, burning with righteous and heavenly fury, and fixed firmly over Jenson’s shoulder, to where Alain is idling, hands stuffed deep in his pockets and a grimace already planted firmly on his face.
“You,” Senna says. He practically spits the word.
Alain scowls. “Back to refusing to say my name, Senna? How mature of you.”
“I’m worried that if I say it, I will summon you, like Bloody Mary,” sniffs Senna. Really, it is impressive, how contemptuous he manages to make himself look as Alain sidles his way to Jenson’s side, wandering closer as if he can’t help but be drawn closer to Senna’s magnetic presence.
“Don’t worry,” he replies, “there’s no force strong enough to compel me to your side.”
Reprimanding, Jenson socks him on the arm, and sees that Lewis is doing something similar with Senna, pinching his hip and levelling him an unimpressed glower. Alain hadn’t even lasted two minutes, being civil, and Jenson wonders why he had even bothered trying to enforce it. He also wonders what it is about Senna that’s excited such a strong reaction from Alain, who is looking at Senna as though he is Satan reborn instead of a rival from sixteen years ago. Jenson really can’t picture Alain stoking a grudge for that long, except he’s never really asked what Alain gets up to in his free time. Maybe, Jenson thinks, he has dart boards with Senna’s face tacked up on them and practises his aim every night. Jenson doesn’t think that would surprise him, now.
“Sorry about the old toad,” Jenson japes, trying to bring the conversation back from its tense beginnings. Really, this is his only shot to fulfil his childhood dream of a perfect first meeting with Ayrton Senna and he refuses to let Alain ruin it. “He didn’t get a mid-afternoon nap today.”
Jenson has only a moment to regret it when Senna’s eyes snap to glower at him instead, lips curved down in a very pronounced frown.
“That is not kind at all,” he snaps. “He isn’t a toad.”
Before Jenson can turn himself into a back-peddling mess, Alain returns, “it’s a joke, Senna. Not that you would know much about them.”
“I can funny. I am funny.”
“You have a stick shoved so far up your -”
“Oh my God,” Jenson cries, “it’s Rubens Barichello! What a fabulous specimen of a man. Alain, we should say hello to Rubens.”
Lewis levels him a strange look, but realisation dawns as Jenson treads - heavily - on his toe. “Oh, wow, yeah, Rubens. Love that guy.”
Jenson doesn’t have time to chastise Lewis for stealing his escape, before Senna is perking up, craning around to stare at where poor Rubens has sensed the sudden influx of attention on him and is looking over at them like a deer in the headlights, clutching his wife to his chest like he is about to use her as a human shield.
“Let’s say hello to Rubens,” Senna agrees eagerly. “He was raised right. Polite."
Jenson tightens his grip on Alain to stop the Frenchman from springing at Senna’s unguarded back as the Brazilian, rather abruptly, beats across the room to where Rubens is looking wildly for some sort of escape. He thinks, if he let go, that Alain would claw Senna’s eyes out, and then the mess would end up on the table clothes, and then Jean Todt would ask a lot of questions about why his million quid party has been ruined by Jenson’s fuming sometimes-career-advisor guest.
“I’m so sorry,” Lewis says, mortified, just before he beats a hasty retreat after his manager. “Mister Prost, it’s wonderful to see you again. JB, I’ll come see you soon, yeah? I really have no idea what that was.”
“Yeah,” says Jenson, when Lewis is out of earshot, rounding on Alain, “I have no idea what that was either.”
Alain is unrepentant, arms crossed over his chest. “That was old business,” he insists. “Nothing more. I told you that we should steer clear.”
“Not good enough,” snaps Jenson, nudging Alain. “I have to work with that man, and he hates me. He hates me, Alain. And you promised that you would be the bigger man.”
“I’m never the bigger man.”
Jenson stares down at Alain, at the way that his lips are pursed thin and his eyes spark with anger, indignation, and something else that Jenson cannot quite name. Maybe it would be easier to see if Alain would look at him; instead, Alain’s eyes flicker past Jenson, to where Lewis had left and to where Senna is still visible, now hanging off Rubens’ arm and intensely muttering in Jenson’s ex-teammate’s ear, the look on his face dark and furtive. Jenson, slightly worried that Alain is about to storm across the room in pursuit of Senna, tugs him around until their huddled against the nearest table, like they’re hosting a tiny secret council, Lord of the Rings style.
“Come on, Alain,” Jenson cajoles. “You maybe owe me an explanation, don’t you think? If I’m now going into a hostile work environment, I think that I should know why.”
Alain stubbornly juts out his chin. “Senna wouldn’t take it out on you.”
Jenson makes an aborted gesture towards Senna before realising that that is probably too obvious a gesticulation for a private conversation. “He bit off my head there, toad. He doesn’t look like the sort of person to let go of grudges either.”
Sighing defeatedly, Alain leans back against the table, shoulders slumping. “I am sorry, Jense. Really. He is just - ah, he is just so aggravating. As aggravating as he was fifteen years ago.”
“Fifteen years is a long time to hold a grudge.”
Alain scrubs a hand over his face. “No, you’re right. Senna and I - well, it was always complicated, of course. We were teammates and rivals, so we could not be friends. Then we were the furthest from friends that anyone could ever be, in ‘89 and onwards. It was very bitter, Jense. I hope you never have to feel the way that I felt through the course of it all.”
“And that is what is was all about?” Jenson searches Alain’s expression for any hints he can glean.
“Ayrton - sorry, Senna - and I both had the unique curse of understanding each other perfectly. I have rarely found that to be a good thing. No one in the world knew how to hurt me as well as Senna did, except for myself, and vice versa. I don’t think that there is ever any coming back from having that sort of power over someone, especially when you have chosen to use it.”
“But after you retired - you had said that you began to reconcile. There was Adelaide, and - and he said, in Imola, that he missed you. That doesn’t seem impossible to me.”
“I think we might have been friends,” Alain admits, candidly, the words forced out around a shuddery breath. “Maybe we were friends, in whatever way that Senna allowed himself to have friends, but I’m not sure. All I know is that Senna and I could only be friends as long as he was racing. He only spoke to me to convince me to come back racing, to challenge himself so that he could feel like his glory was attainable. I was his goal - destroying me was his goal. What did he need me for when he could no longer race, when in the record books I would always be better than him? We have not spoken since.”
“That’s the worst load of rubbish I’ve ever heard,” Jenson splutters, after a long moment. “Alain, Alain, no one looks that way at just a colleague, no matter what. Your feud can’t be work related - I refuse to believe that.”
“Senna was his job. There was no separating him from it. It was his life, his divine purpose. He thought that God had given him the mission to drive and when he couldn’t -”
Alain breaks off; he looks heartbroken at the thought of Senna’s faith being tested in such away.
“The guy was looking at you like a scorned lover,” says Jenson, a weak joke to try and bolster the mood again, feeling bad that he has forced Alain to reveal things that he had probably never wanted to think about again.
Except, Alain hears the joke and freezes. Freezes, stiller than Jenson has ever see anyone go before, eyes wide and nostrils flaring with panic. His face mottles an ugly red, creeping up his neck and burning at his ears, looking for all the world like a man condemned and being frogmarched to the gallows, like he has been put on trial and found guilty, like he has confessed to crime that he wasn’t even being interrogated about. It takes a moment for Jenson to realise what the look on his face means - what that undefinable look in his eyes before had been - and when he does, he wonders how he had not seen it before. It seems, now, so obvious, and he is so certain that he is right.
“You’re in love with him,” he wonders, aloud.
Alain makes a strangled sound of panic. “No, no, no -”
“You’re in love with Ayrton Senna,” gasps Jenson, “and he is in love with you. Did you break up with Ayrton Senna?”
“There was nothing to break up,” snaps Alain, “and if there was, it would be him who broke up with me. He is the one who hates me, who will not talk to me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get a drink and a break - from you and from everyone in this godforsaken room.”
Jenson watches as Alain stalks away, fury following him like a cloud of smoke. A part of him wonders if he should follow Alain, apologise and placate him and stop him from biting off the head of the next person who tries to talk to him as he seems wont to do, and he supposes that might be the right thing to do. Alain has done him a solid, agreeing to come with him tonight, and it is entirely Jenson’s fault that he’s been put in the position of having to confront his ex-colleague, ex-friend, ex-boyfriend at all. The larger part of him, however, cannot bring itself to move from where Jenson’s feet are rooted to the spot, shock and surprise weighing him down a tonne. This is one hundred percent not how he envisaged his evening panning out.
“What the fuck,” he mutters to himself. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the ever-loving fuck.”
“I know right. Who could have seen this one coming?”
To Jenson’s credit, he does not jump out of his skin nor shriek like a banshee when Sebastian Vettel appears from thin air to lurk at his shoulder. To Sebastian’s credit, he ducks the elbow Jenson sends instinctively straight towards his face with skill, as if he had expected it all along. Chest heaving, Jenson turns to stare incredulously at Seb, who seems supremely unbothered at the near miss, that familiar smug smirk grafted onto his face and his eyes gleaming with wicked intent in his face. Jenson half feels like a protagonist in a Mills and Boon novel, right before being ravished, and thinks, from the way that Seb deliberately shifts closer to brush against him, that that is the intent.
“Were you under the table?” he asks, voice disbelieving.
“Dropped my keys,” replies Seb, with a shrug as he fans out his - decidedly empty - hands in a what can you do? kind of gesture.
“Weirdo.”
Seb simply shrugs again. Then he looks Jenson up and down and shoots him an appreciative grin. “Looking good, hot stuff.”
Jenson feels himself flush, from the top of his head to the bottom of his toes, and stifles an embarrassing little squeak that serves only to deepen the smile on Seb’s face. He looks down at himself, in the (basic) black suit and bow tie combination that he is wearing, and thinks the only redeeming feature is the green handkerchief he had folded in his breast pocket, a pop of colour and the last show of allegiance to Brawn GP that he would have before he was a McLaren driver and they were Mercedes. Then he looks up at Seb and bites down hard on his tongue to stop himself from saying something he’ll regret - because Seb looks good, even in the basic black suit. It flatters him, though he looks a lot more dishevelled than anyone else, golden curls mussed.
“No bow tie?” Jenson observes, looking archly at where the top button of Seb’s shirt is unfastened and the collar of a white tee shirt is plainly visible.
“Maybe when I’m thirty,” Seb retorts. Jenson pulls a face. “Your boss wasn’t wearing one either. You should have seen the way that Senna was staring at his neck and that little bit of chest you could see. Scandalous.”
“You heard that?” Jenson glances nervously at where Alain is now leaning against the bar, the dour cloud of displeasure enough to discourage people from approaching him.
“Anyone with eyes could see it.”
Jenson narrows his gaze at Sebastian. “You’re plotting something.”
“I’m not plotting anything.”
“You are. I know you are - I’ve seen that look on your face before.”
“I just think it’s a shame, you know,” Sebastian says idly, fingers tugging at one of his curls drooping across his forehead.
“What is?”
“Clearly, they both want each other and, clearly, neither of them think that they can do anything about it. It would be a shame if someone didn’t help them fix it, is all.”
“You’re bored,” Jenson accuses, crossing his arms. “You’re bored out of your mind and you’re looking for something to do. And instead of a - a crossword or whatever normal people do to alleviate boredom, your first thought is emotional manipulation.”
“Matchmaking.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“Not if it’s successful.”
“It’s the same thing,” Jenson persists. “Read a book or something. Finish your Mark Webber voodoo doll off. Learn how to knit a scarf.”
“I finished that voodoo doll months ago,” Sebastian says, sounding offended. “Besides, don’t you want to help your boss? Maybe he would really appreciate having his old boyfriend back. Senna’s an attractive guy and I reckon that -”
“I don’t want to know the filth that you think about,” Jenson interrupts firmly.
Seb shoots him a salacious grin. “I would not tell you the filth I think about, Jense, when I would much rather show you.”
Jenson kind of wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. It would get him to stop thinking about how he kind of wants Seb to swallow him whole instead - which, no, bad thoughts, very bad thought. Instead, he forces himself to think about Seb’s proposition. Would it make Alain happier, to have Senna back in his life? Clearly, for Alain, something is there still. For Senna, Jenson has to take Seb’s word for it. But if there is, if Alain can have it all back and if it will make him happier… Alain deserves to be happy - out of everyone Jenson knows, probably the most.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, in a low undertone.
“I have so many ideas,” Seb cheerfully replies. But then he pauses, and his smile widens again - except differently, wrong in some sort of way that Jenson can’t put his finger on. Too practised, too light, less genuine. “Lewis,” he cheers, and Jenson turns to see the return of his new teammate, looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else, surreptitiously glancing over his shoulder at where he has passed off his manager to the custody of Rubens.
“Jeez,” Lewis huffs, “JB, I really am sorry for him. I don’t know what crawled up his arse and died, but he’s usually a lot nicer.”
Jenson grimaces. “I hope so. I haven’t even worked with him yet - I can’t have him hating me. It’d make working hell.”
“If you need a job,” Seb says, perking up, “there’s a second seat going at Red Bull.”
“Mark is there,” Jenson points out.
“Psh, Mark.” Seb’s tone is entirely dismissive. “Mark can crawl back down under. You’re a good looking guy, JB - it would be a shame if a hostile work environment sent you grey.”
“Are you flirting with me or trying to poach me?”
“Why not both?”
“Hands off my teammate, man,” Lewis interrupts. “There’s no hostile work environment. Ignore Ron and ignore Ayrton, if you have to. He honestly isn’t like this, usually. Intense, yeah, but rude - well, sometimes.”
“We all know why though,” Seb says wisely.
Lewis nods morosely. “God, I can’t imagine being in their position, after everything they meant to each other.” Seb and Jenson exchange looks; maybe, Jenson reflects, it is more obvious than he thought, if Lewis saw it even without overhearing Alain confirm it. “I mean, you can’t help but see yourself in that position. If me and Nico ever - God, I don’t know what I’d do if that ever happened to me and Nico. Die, probably.”
Jenson takes Lewis’ hand in his, swallowing past the slight discomfort of really not knowing Lewis well enough to have this kind of conversation. “Thank you for trusting us with that, Lewis. It’s, er, very brave of you to share that.”
Lewis looks a little taken aback, but nods gratefully. “Thanks, JB.”
Seb mutters an agreement and then claps his hands. “Well, if Nico and Lewis can do it, then we can certainly get Alain Prost and Ayrton Senna to kiss again!”
“Wait,” says Lewis. “Kiss?”
“Yeah,” Jenson says, slowly. “You said you knew. You and Nico…?”
“Kiss? No, no, no, man - I think you’ve gotten the wrong end of the stick. Me and Nico are both guys, and Ayrton and Prost are also both guys.”
“And when two guys love each other very much,” says Seb, looking significantly at Lewis.
“No way,” he breathes, looking as if he’s been smacked over the head. He looks back at Ayrton, eyes wide. “You think that… Really?”
“Maybe you should call Nico,” Seb suggests sympathetically, patting Lewis on the shoulder.
Jenson frowns. “You mean you two haven’t ever…” He makes a crude gesture with his hands and Lewis turns beetroot red.
“No!” he cries. “I mean, Ayrton goes to church.”
Seb slings his arm over his shoulder and draws Lewis close. “Look, Lewis,” he says, companionably, “you’re having a moment here, I see. But clearly if Ayrton is cool with it - and I mean, how many times do you reckon he’s read that Bible cover to cover? - I think that you’re fine. Nico is also clearly cool with it all.”
“How so?” says Lewis, frowning. He glowers at Seb. “Did you?”
“Not British enough,” Seb sighs. “But, you know, he’s cool with it. I have a sixth sense for this sort of thing.” He pauses. “Also, how normal do you think it is for Nico to caress your arse every time he stands next to you? And why are you doing it in return?”
Lewis, somehow, turns even redder. “Back to Ayrton and Prost,” he blusters. “What are you thinking? You guys are doing something about it, aren’t you?”
Sebastian smiles. Jenson finds that he regrets every choice that he’s ever made to get him to this point, but he’s knows now that there is no escape. He only hopes that Alain does not hate him too much when things inevitably go terribly wrong. After this, maybe, he will be hoping that Mark crawls back down under - this feels like the kind of thing that might cost him a job. That, he thinks, would amuse Seb to no end, if he understands anything about the German at all.
“This is a stupid plan,” Jenson mutters. “How did you decide that this was the best plan?”
Seb looks up from where he’s been adjusting his shirt collar, frowning. “You didn’t have any better plans. And no one I asked was willing to flirt with Alain Prost for a laugh, so.”
“Please tell me you didn’t actually ask anyone,” begs Jenson, faintly mortified, and Seb doesn’t reply, simply smiles magnanimously, as if that is enough of an answer. Jenson supposes, knowing Seb, that it is. “Oh my God, this is so stupid.”
But it’s too late by far to bail out on it, though Jenson thinks that’s probably the sensible thing to do. Seb, a few steps ahead of him, fetches up against the bar beside Alain, suit jacket sleeves pushed up over his forearm as he rests both his elbows on the surface. Jenson, eyes almost magnetically drawn to them and the light dusting of fair hair, that he finds unfairly attractive, swallows heavily and pinches himself, hoping the sharp bite will snap him out of it. It works only marginally and he thinks that it must be obvious on his face, the fact that he is panicking about bloody body hair of all things. He doesn’t even have the dignity or self-respect to be shamelessly checking out Seb’s arse.
And he thinks, with dawning horror, that Alain has noticed, having looked up when Seb clattered down beside him with all the grace of a newborn deer, his eyes narrowed as they take in Jenson. Part of it could be the irritation from before, but it’s too knowing for Jenson’s liking, which is especially ridiculous because Jenson is still unsure what there is to know. It just feels significant somehow.
“Jense,” he says.
“Alain, this is Seb Vettel,” he introduces, slipping flawless into step. Seb, beside him, beams at Alain. “He’s a massive fan.”
“You look wonderful in that suit, Mister Prost,” says Seb, dimples flashing. “I’m a massive fan. Of your driving as well, of course.”
“Merci,” says Alain, blinking as if he isn’t quite sure what to make of Seb, which Jenson cannot blame him for. “Call me Alain”
“Alain,” Seb repeats, drawing out the name sinfully. “Alain, I’m afraid I strong armed Jense into introducing us on a matter of business.” His tone is entirely apologetic and convincing enough that Jenson almost believes him. “Christian” - he points vaguely across the room - “wants to ask you about French motorsport. They’ve got a few drivers lined up for the Red Bull junior programme.”
Alain grimaces. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to leave the French alone. It would be nice for some of them to actually reach F1.”
“Helmut is not that bad,” Seb protests, not at all convincingly.
“Lead on,” Alain says, slamming back the last mouthful of his drink and passing the empty glass to the bartender. “You owe me a proper night off, Jenson. Really, I didn’t come here for business.”
Jenson grins. “I’ll organise a proper night out for us -”
“I said night off, not more you,” Alain returns.
So, Jenson is still not entirely forgiven. Noted. Luckily for him, he is especially talented at worming his way back into Alain’s good graces. The only problem, of course, being that Seb finds it all hilarious, chuckling away to himself as he leads Alain towards a fictitious conversation with Christian. Jenson wonders if he should be more worried about how charming Alain finds Seb, who seems to have a talent for being inherently likeable, and their capacity to plot against him, but the conversation - about tyre degradation, of all things - seems harmless enough. Sad really, with how invested they both are. Nerds, thinks Jenson. But it gives him the excuse that he needs to trail behind them, close enough to Alain’s heels that it is very easy to stumble over them. Now, it’s only a waiting game.
Sebastian clears his throat, apologising to Alain as it interrupts the flow of conversation, and Jenson looks up to see Lewis and Ayrton approaching at a rate of knots, absorbed enough in talking to ostensibly not see them about to cross paths, though Jenson knows that Lewis will know that they are there. Rubens, straggling behind, meets Jenson’s gaze and his eyes widen. He makes a desperate slashing motion across his throat, jabbing his finger for Jenson to direct Alain away from the approaching train wreck, and when he sees that Jenson is resolute, grabs his wife’s hand and practically sprints away. Jenson thinks he sees Rubens cross himself and thinks that that is a bit over the top.
He lines himself up, times it perfectly. “Bloody Hell!” he cries, and Ayrton Senna looks up at the sound of his voice, eyes landing on their approach and narrow, mouth opening to say something, maybe spit an insult, but everything is derailed as Jenson sticks his foot between Alain’s just as the Frenchman takes another step, their legs tangling together. It’s artistry, it’s gorgeous, it’s timely, it’s -
Alain strikes the floor face first.
“Shit!” cries Jenson, lurching to the ground. “Alain!”
All Jenson’s ambitions of Alain landing perfectly in Senna’s arms evaporate instantaneously. Seb yelps in German, stumbling as he trips over Alain’s arm, and it is almost perfect the way that he lands in Lewis’ arms, swept up like a damsel in distress. Their faces are inches away; Lewis jolts away and drops Seb entirely, the German hitting the floor with a dull thud. They’re all a mess. The plan is all a mess. And Jenson is really very worried that he’s actually killed his old boss. Alain’s in his mid-fifties now; Jenson thinks that’s the sort of age that you start worrying about broken hips and the likes.
Alain groans. “My nobe,” he says miserably, face still smushed into the floor.
“Tissues,” says Seb, thrusting a handful grabbed from a waiter’s serving tray into Jenson’s hands. “Alain, oh my God.”
“Is he okay?” Lewis asks.
Jenson looks up, and knows that his eyes must look horrifically wild. Alain is on the floor, the plan is unravelling, and Senna’s face is entirely impassive as he stares down at the prone body of the Frenchman. The corner of his lips twitch and Jenson, with a sudden jolt of fury, thinks that Senna looks almost amused, as if the thought of Alain being injured is something to laugh about.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” he snaps, and Senna blinks.
“Jense,” Alain says, hand groping for the tissues. His words are thick and slurred. Jense sounds more like Jeb. “Help me up.”
Jenson levers him up and curses again. Alain’s face is drenched in red, blood gushing from his nose and down his chin. His shirt is entirely ruined, the suit not at all better off. It looks broken, and that is probably the worst thing for Alain’s poor, abused nose that Jenson can imagine. He hands the tissues over and Alain presses them against his face, wincing, eyes fluttering rapidly. The tissues are scarlet only moments later.
“Is it broken?” he asks. “Oh, toad, I’m so sorry. Jeez.”
Alain shakes his head. “Bathroom please,” he requests.
Jenson shoots one last glower at Senna - perhaps unfairly - before he is helping Alain to his feet again, the older man leaning heavily on him, Seb ducking under his other arm so that Alain can hobble comfortably between the two of them as they make their slightly embarrassing escape.
Alain’s injury looks worse on their way out of the ballroom, magnified by the fact the hallway is line by mirrors that cast the sight of it large and many times over. One of the security guards looks at them as they make their way down the corridor and waves them into a door to the left, which Seb swings open to reveal a marble-floored bathroom with gilt mirrors, three cubicles, a urinal and a large vanity counter. Very fancy, except for the trail of blood droplets Alain leaves behind him like breadcrumbs.
Seb grabs a handful of tissues, wetting them before handing them over to Alain, who gingerly dabs at his face. The flow of blood has slowed to a trickle, and then stops entirely, and Alain begins to the arduous process of cleaning his face and his neck, though his nose still looks painful to the touch. Jenson, unsure what he should be saying, settles for taking the tissues that Alain hands him and binning them.
“Not broken at all,” says Alain, “though this shirt is ruined.”
Seb gives a forlorn sigh. “It was a lovely shirt,” he agrees, and then pauses. Jenson makes a strangled sound as he yanks off his jacket and begins to unbutton his own shirt, and can feel his face burning. “You can have mine,” Seb offers, and strips himself of it, revealing the plain white tee shirt that Jenson had suspected of him wearing underneath. “I’ll need the jacket though, if I don’t want to be chucked out.”
Alain takes the shirt gratefully. “It’s black,” he says, shrugging. “Can’t see the blood. That’s why it’s always the dress code for these events.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” Jenson says.
Alain ducks into a cubicle and locks the door behind them. “Two seconds,” he calls.
Jenson turns to Seb as soon as he’s gone, watching as the German shrugs his jacket back on over the top of his shirt. Seb looks back up at him and grimaces. He sneaks a quick look at the cubicle and shuffles as close to Jenson as he can get before deciding that it’s apparently not close enough, hopping up onto the counter so that his chin is basically resting on Jenson’s shoulder, knees pressed against his hip.
“That didn’t go very well,” Seb whispers.
Jenson shakes his head. “I think we should call it.” The thought of Senna’s face recalls the same twist of anger he had felt in the ballroom. “I think Alain deserves better than someone who would laugh at him when he’s hurt.”
“Are you sure that you aren’t misreading it? He’s a very impassive sort of guy.”
“I’m sure of it,” Jenson insists. “Clearly, the pleasure he gets from seeing Alain out of it is enough to override any coolness of expression. I don’t want to continue with this, Seb.”
Seb’s face sinks guiltily.
“What?” Jenson demands, already dreading the answer.
“I got a server to change the seating plan,” he confesses, voice quiet enough that Jenson struggles to hear it, never mind Alain, still rustling as he gets dressed in the cubicle only a few feet away. “We’re on a table with Senna and Lewis now. It’s you, me, Alain, Christian, Rubens, his wife, Ross, Senna, Hamilton and Nick.”
Jenson’s face falls. He feels a little like he wants to be sick. He can’t think of a more excruciating dinner party. He, Lewis and Seb bound by their ill-informed plots; Alain and Senna feuding still; Rubens, who clearly knows something and is terrified of it all; Christian, who Jenson finds unbearably smug and obnoxious; he feels as if he’s let down Ross horribly, which is something that he never wanted to do in the face of their historic victory; and he still hasn’t spoken to Nick since the screaming match that had ensued when Richard and Jenson had announced Jenson was becoming a McLaren driver.
“Alain’s hurt,” he replies. “I can’t duck out yet, but maybe he can -”
The cubicle door opens and Alain steps out, his eyes sharp and scrutinising. “What’s this?” he asks, eyes flitting between Jenson and Sebastian.
Jenson looks at Seb and swallows, before saying, “we’ve been sat with Senna and Lewis for dinner. I can’t leave yet but I wouldn’t ask you to sit -”
“You’re not asking me to do anything,” Alain interrupts. “Who I am sat near for dinner is immaterial. I’m staying.”
“Alain, you’re hurt and I -”
“Ah!” Alain holds up a hand to silence Jenson. “Jense, you’re world champion. For all that I’ve complained about having to come here, I am honoured that you asked me. Having worked with you as a young driver, having watched you grow into who you are today, I couldn’t be prouder, and there’s nothing in this world that will stop me from celebrating your achievement here tonight. I need you to stop worrying about me and to accept that I will be there to cheer you on, whether Senna is there or not."
“Alain,” Jenson manages to choke out, and launches himself forward. Alain catches him, hugging him tightly, as Jenson buries his face into his shoulder to try and hide the fact that he is, suddenly and inexplicably, in tears. “You old toad, you always say the right things.”
“Toads and frogs are different animals,” Alain says, sounding suspiciously teary himself.
“Literally how?”
“Actually,” Sebastian observes, “frogs have smoother skin, longer leg and are found near water sources, whilst toads have drier and warty skin, shorter legs for more walking and tolerate drier habitats.” When they both turn to look at him, he flushes. “Sorry. You’re having a moment, aren’t you? Ignore me.”
Jenson laughs. “Oh, Seb, you proper weirdo.”
Alain ruffles Jenson’s hair affectionately, and his smile is crooked and kind when Jenson looks over at him, his eyes warm. All is forgiven, Jenson senses, though he doesn’t know if he deserves it. He is glad - always glad - that Alain had been his first boss in F1, kind and patient and understanding, though sometimes unforgivably stubborn and competitive, always pushing Jenson to try his best in a horrible car. He doesn’t think that he would have ever enjoyed F1 as much as he does if Flavio, for example, had been his first boss instead of Frank or Flavio. Frank had been good but Jenson’s dedication had stagnated, and the less said about Flavio, the better. Although Prost GP had been hell on earth, and Jenson had thought it would be the end of his career, he wouldn’t change what had happened for the world.
“Let’s go and get you your award,” says Alain, pressing a brief kiss to Jenson’s cheek, paternal and warm. “You leave Senna to me.”