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I.
Alain still finds himself in Monaco regularly. Ayrton had long since abandoned his old apartment, declaring it absolutely insane to continue to pay rent on it given the fact that he was dead for all intents and purposes.
Alain very much does not like it when he goes on such tangents, but he lets it slide as long as Ayrton promises to do the dishes and to great him warmly when he arrives home, whenever that might be.
So yes, Alain still spends ample time in the city, enough to keep his old apartment as a base camp for whatever nonsense pulls him back into the fray of the underground.
And as it has been so many other times, Niki is the one that gives him the call about the chaos unfolding at the casino that day.
He was bored anyway, and with Niki calling it was sure to at the least be interesting.
Alain approaches the day with a casual ease, his note book tucked into the breast pocket of his shirt, a pen tucked behind the ear that holds back some of the more unruly curls of his.
Ayrton had mourned his perm for nearly a week when he finally did away with it, but he eventually came around when Alain smiled at him, twisting his gray strands and reminding him how lucky they both were to even have hair at all.
The memory brings a quiet smile to his face as he stops by the old coffee shop for a croissant and a latte to-go. Though the old woman that worked there had long since retired, her young girl had grown to be a woman and took over the place with the same kind smile and the same insistence that his usual breakfast was on the house, though his services to them had been repaid almost two decades prior.
Alain is never one to mention it though, there are seldom fewer sins greater than that of rejecting a free meal.
So he walks on, not commenting on how the bag has the weight of two croissants rather than his usual one, it's just something to save for later as he weaves his way through alleys to make it to the origin of the chaos still unfolding at the casino.
Niki had mentioned something of a big hit, a heist of some type, a major disruption to whatever syndicate owned the casino at this point in time. Not particularly notable but Alain needed to see it out, gather his information on who was involved, determine if this was a random action or a precursor to a larger scheme.
But he doesn't find that as he weaves his way through the streets, no, because his attention is caught by something else.
A small fraction of movement down one of the streets, a twitch of a leg just behind a dumpster. Alain pauses in his stride, his eyes flickering up to the casino only a block or two away, then down the alley to where he saw the movement, then to the extra croissant he still holds in his hand.
And what a blessing it is for him, Alain has nothing more expendable to him than time.
So he pivots, turning to walk down the alley, croissants in one hand, the other resting on the gun he has clipped under his cardigan.
And what he sees is a familiar memory.
A boy, truly a boy he couldn't have been older than 16, with blood running down his face and a slightly dazed expression that takes a second to fix on him before he bristles and pulls back, shuffling away only to hiss slightly as the motions exacerbated what ever injury he had acquired.
Alain takes his hand away from his weapon and can't help but smile with a small shake of his head as he crouches down to the kid's level, trying to not look like a threat.
It only works slightly, the kid not really relaxing but his eyes moving from fearful to slightly curious. He doesn't run at least, which Alain is thankful for— he is in absolutely no shape to chase an idiot kid around Monaco this early in the morning.
"What's your name, son?" He asks quietly as the kid stares him down, Alain keeping his face a soft smile as the kid glares, the gears in his head churning almost audibly.
"Je ne parle pas anglais." The kid bites. It's familiar, so itchingly familiar to a memory Alain can't help but laugh loudly before he stumbles his words out in clear, perfect French.
"That old trick will not work on me."
The kid seems a bit lost at it, jumping almost at the sound of his laugh before he shrinks even further into himself, glare coming back just as strong in that mixture of anger and embarrassment.
The kid is skinny, bright eyes with blood covered teeth. Something haunted and hungry and dangerous in his nervous demeanor, like a scared dog that bites the hand that feeds.
And Alain knows him, knows him as he knows himself as he slowly pulls out a croissant and passes it to the kid.
And it's surprise, true surprise on his face as doubts make him blink back and forth between the food Alain is offering and the careful smile on his face before he rips it from his hand, standing a bit but still leaning against the wall as he nibbles at it.
There are just a few moments of silence as Alain watches the kid eat, rocking back on his heels to watch him with a discerning eye.
Careful and cautious, skittish and haunted, angry and frightened. There is no good way for Alain to reconcile the facts— the chaos of the casino and the kid being so busted up not two blocks away. He knows he's looking at the perpetrator, but he just looks so young.
Alain watches the kid eat, a frenzied motion as he looks to him, small and anxious and so strikingly familiar.
"Thank you." The kid whispers softly as he finishes off the snack, starring hard at Alain who just shrugs.
"Don't mention it kid. It costs me nothing." He says just before his phone starts to ring. He can hear the kid jump at the noise slightly as he pulls it out to check who it is.
It's Niki, always is Niki. Alain smiles to himself as he looks up again.
"Sorry I have to take this but—"
The kid is gone, completely disappeared in the few seconds it took for Alain to look down at the phone.
Alain sighs loudly, sparring a glance both ways down the alley to confirm his suspicions that the kid is gone before he answers the call.
"Alain! What took you so long!" Niki says with a laugh as Alain makes his way out of the alley, his vision catching on the chaos of people still milling about the casino.
"I was just chatting with a kid, our heist master I believe." Alain pauses slightly, worrying his lip between his teeth before he continues, "He was really a kid Niki. Are you sure he caused all—"
Alain gestures to the crowds still gathering, knowing full well Niki cannot see him, but his point still clears based on the way Niki sighs loudly over the line.
"Fucking Ferrari. I should've known." Niki grits as the blood in Alain's veins goes cold, a scar itching under his shirt.
He blinks back, thinking about that boy with his skittish smile and haunted eyes. Of blood running down his face.
"Fucking Ferrari." Alain half hisses and whispers as he hangs up and takes the long way back to his apartment just to quell the nausea in his gut.
II.
There is a child climbing through the window of Alain’s apartment. He doesn’t know why he’s there, and at the moment of recognition, there is no telling which party is more surprised. The miserable, wet boy falling through the window with a knife between his teeth, or Alain, still in his pajamas.
The boy freezes up as Alain turns on the light, looking up at him with wide eyes at getting caught and a flash of recognition shocks through the both of them.
It's the boy from the alleyway, not as bruised and bloodied, but cold and silent in both demeanor and physicality.
And he's dripping onto Alain's carpet.
"Could you— not do that please?" Alain asks through a yawn as he gestures to the boy's whole frame, from the top of his soaked brown curls to the bottom of his leather shoes.
And the words are all it takes to unfreeze the kid because his face warps into a determined stare before he takes the knife, flipping it before he rushes Alain.
Big mistake.
Alain catches his quick swing, shifting his weight to catch the kid's momentum and spin him so his arm is flush against the column of his spine.
The harsh sudden movement of it causes the kid to grunt loudly has his shoulder twists, aching under the force of his jab as he releases the knife on instinct and tries to breath through the sudden pain, his wet shoes making squeaky noises against the tile of the kitchen floor.
Alain holds him there for a moment, a quiet tisking noise as he grabs the blade from the floor and releases the kid, panting hard as he falls to the ground.
"You're approach is all wrong. You don't use so much force when dealing with a bladed weapon." Alain says as he looks down at the kid, who looks up to glare at him as he pants, shuffling back to sit on his heels as he rubs at his shoulder.
"I think—" the kid grumbles, choking a bit on his words, "I think you dislocated my shoulder."
And he sounds so resigned, so undeniably miserable that Alain softens at it. Blessed is he to be able to afford to be soft.
"Come here." He says as he lays the knife down on the counter and heaves the kid up with surprisingly little effort.
"If you have to guess weather or not it's dislocated, it's probably not dislocated. Now sit down while I go and get you some dry clothes." He says with a vauge ounce of authority. The kid says nothing, just lets his form hang in defeat as he tries to breathe through the pain.
Too many thoughts, so much fear, an entire nervous system shot to pieces in the fraction of a second it took for Alain to disarm him.
What would Ferrari think. What would they think of him, having only just proven himself if he fails this task.
He breathes deeply as Alain steps away, a quiet kind smile on his face as he deposits him on the couch, and he hopes Alain will kill him quickly.
That's how this works isn't it? Ferrari had sent him after a dangerous rouge operative, told him he would be here, that he was a legend of the old days that needed to be cleaned up. He had failed and there would be punishment for that, swift and thorough.
But he can't reconcile those thoughts with the man that comes into the room with a set of clothes much to large to be his own, yet thrusts them into his hands and pushes him towards the bathroom to change. Can't reconcile those thoughts as his shoulder aches and his head pounds as he blindly follows along with the request.
He has become completely unmoored by it, by the kind voice and flippant advice and by the sheer speed at which he had rendered him completely useless.
And there is no window in the bathroom to climb out of, and he can't go back to Ferrari with nothing in hand. He can't. So tentatively he steps out of the bathroom to stare at the old man puttering around the kitchen as if everything is fine and content and normal.
So he stands and he blinks at this striking covert assassin that has completely flipped his world upside down as he places a mug of what looks like cocoa on the table in front of him and speaks.
"Are you just going to stand there or do you want some?"
And heaven above knows why, but his feet move before his thoughts can hold him back, coasting him over to sit at the table where his knife lays just slightly out of reach.
Alain, almost as an omniscient force, grabs his own cup and rotates around the table to block his view of it.
And it's silent for a long moment, Alain staring at him until he breaks and takes a sip of his drink as well.
It's warm and sweet unlike anything he has known in a very very long time. And Alain smiles at it.
His smile is so kind. It's baffling, utterly baffling.
"Why?" He asks. And Alain just shrugs, leaning back as he looks out the window.
"Why what?" He responds. And the question becomes a weight on him, a thousand thoughts crashing together until they spill out of his mouth.
"Why not kill me. You could have and you didn't. Why?" He bites, his mug gripped tightly in his hands as he waits for the moment to break, for Alain to realize.
But he doesn't, doesn't move, doesn't so much as flinch as he raises his mug up again.
"I'm not much in the habit of killing people— never have been— especially when I don't even know their name."
And the silence falls long and heavy again.
"Charles." He whispers, looking away from the man slightly, as if overwhelmed by the eminence of his presence. "My name is Charles."
Alain hums, a gentle address.
"And I am Alain Prost. Pleased to meet you. Niki has had uncharacteristically seldom little to say." He responds.
And Charles just blinks at him, a few puzzle pieces sliding into place.
He knows of Niki. Everyone who is anyone knows of Niki. The Rat of the Monaco sewers, the practical king of this underworld.
And Charles had heard tales, spoken in quite ways, of the shadow that wandered by his side.
The Rat and The Professor, the last two giants of the fallen eastern syndicate that had ruled the city for years.
The game makers who had long since folded their cards and chose to stride above it all as quiet omnipresent peace keepers. Dealers that know that the house always wins.
And Charles had been sent unknowingly to it. David who unknowingly stumbles to the territory of Goliath.
Alain seems to pick up on his thoughts spiraling and quickly pulls him back into the conversation.
"Well Charles— I suppose we should figure out a way to get Ferrari what they want, preferably in a way that has neither of us winding up dead." He pauses a bit before whispering to himself, "my partner would kill me if I ended up dead."
It causes Charles great pause, another two questions fumbling off his tongue.
"How do you know I'm with Ferrari? And you have a partner? Is he here somewhere?"
Alain rolls his eyes as he shifts slightly, almost as if there is an ache in his side.
"I'm Alain Prost, my business is knowing." He says with a wry smile. "And as for the partner, no he isn't here. It's just you and me."
The words almost sound like a threat, but the tone off sets it. Quite and soft. Private and personal. Of a secret to be kept, a plot to be hatched. It's unnerving.
"They said you would be dangerous, told me I had to take you out, bring them something back. I've got to do my job." Charles says, but he doesn't move to grab the knife again, just holds on to his mug like an anchor.
And Alain laughs, a real deep thing.
"Ferrari has tried to kill me so many times, they only got close once." He says with a glimmer in his eye, an almost nostalgic adrenaline hidden under the surface.
Charles is convinced this man is insane, but at the very least he is nice to him. He can put up with that.
Seldom few are nice to him, Jules is the only one he could name, and he has grown so distant in these last months.
Alain finishes his mug then, standing and grabbing the knife from the counter and for one startling moment Charles's heart freezes in his chest before Alain slides it across the table back to him.
The man is most definitely insane.
"I have some old field notes from ages ago you can take from my office, and I'll be out of town tomorrow so for all Ferrari knows you will have just done a great heist in getting them this. It isn't much but it should keep them off your back." Alain says as he walks to the office and back, shouting out the words as he returns with papers in hand.
Charles stands to grab them, only for Alain to hold them back.
"Not so fast. In case you haven't noticed, it's still the middle of the night, and it's absolutely pouring outside still. I'll give you these in the morning." He says with a glare, emphasizing his speech by hitting him with the folded sheets of paper.
"So what? You're keeping me here?" Charles complains. It comes out whinny in a way that disgusts him but just makes Alain chuckle.
"No, I'm offering you a deal. Stay the night, leave in the morning with your information, and I might even teach you some things in the meantime. All for the low price of giving me peace of mind." Alain says.
And Charles stares at him, thinking of Ferrari that had been so trusting of him in this task, of the old legends of Monaco Jules would tell him late at night, of terrifying gods still walking the earth.
And he thinks of how easily Alain had disarmed him, yet how he offered him food and warm drink. Of how he said his business was knowing and how he laughed in the face of the memory of death.
"Alright, it's a deal." He says, offering a hand to shake. And Alain takes it with a smile.
It's the start of something neither of them can quite comprehend.
III.
Jules had been supposed to pick him up hours ago. Had promised he would.
Charles guesses that this is what he deserves for trusting Jules with something these days.
The thought spins like black ichor around his heart as he thinks it, something bitter and sad and ugly.
He might be young, but he was not stupid, nor was he blind.
He had seen the bruises, the fatigue he wore these days, the sheer worry he held on his face when he thought Charles wasn't looking. It aches, but when Charles tries to ask he blows him off, tells him not to worry.
Charles can't do much but worry, worry until it becomes something bitter and dark and poisonous.
He shakes it off, gripping his backpack on his shoulder as he thinks of a plan on how to get back to Monaco since Jules isn't there to pick him up.
"Hello Charles."
It's only a touch of social grace and years of stealth training that keeps him from screeching at the sudden presence to his side, but he does jump something fierce at it as he turns.
It's Alain, who else could it be.
"Jesus Christ Alain. How do you do that?" Charles gasps as his heart rate starts to fall back to normal.
And Alain, in that way he always does, just smiles.
"It is so scary when you do stuff like this. You know that right?" Charles says with a laugh.
"Yes, that is why I do it. Now come on, I'm driving you back." Alain says with a small wave, walking off before checking to see if Charles is following.
He does, Alain knew he would.
"So are you visiting Monaco for something I should know about?" Charles asks, jogging slightly to catch up with the man.
"No no— just catching up with Niki, anniversaries and all. He's kept me in the city for a few days." Alain says with a wave of his hand as his spins his keys idly.
Charles cocks his head at him slightly.
"So how did you know I—" Charles starts.
"I told you, I know everything." Alain says with a grin as Charles nods slightly, his brow falling in slight disbelief. Alain can't help but laugh, pausing slightly.
"Kid, I'm messing with you. Your friend Jules called Niki who called me." He says, and Charles rolls his eyes slightly and looks away a bit at the words, frowning before climbing into the car without a word.
"So he did remember, huh?" Charles huffs out. It's so quiet Alain almost doesn't catch it. But it comes out so bittersweet that he can't help but stare at the kid a bit.
It's strange. Rubs Alain the wrong way, twists something deep in his gut.
Fucking Ferrari, fighting their proxy war with child soldiers. Alain had kept tabs on them, saw their fall and rise and shift over time. With Gerhard and Jean, then to the rise of Schumacher, then to what ever it is now.
It was more political now than it was in his day, more a mental game than ever before. But Ferrari is always the same, not changing but shifting. A Ferrari that claims and owns.
The brand in his side aches. And if he thought the physical side of Ferrari sending this kid off to do their dirty work was bad, the thought of how they would push on the political information side is sickening. He has his suspicions, but no confirmation.
He has kept careful distance from Ferrari. A tactical distance that had held until he had saw those big green eyes. Until he saw a boy that looked to be mourning someone still alive.
"Are you alright Charles?" Alain asks softly as he starts up his car, and old classic that still hums under the hood with a deep mighty roar as he starts it and shifts it into gear.
"I'm—" He pauses slightly, looking between Alain and the road ahead. Alain had always been hard to lie to.
"—No, not really. I'm worried." He says eventually, holding himself slightly as he looks pointedly out the window. Alain stays silent, letting the quietness of the car push him.
"I'm angry— with Jules. He has been so distant lately. I know something is wrong but he will not tell me what. I'm not stupid Alain, I can see it clear as day, but he still just treats me like a kid and I can't stand it." Charles rambles out, words falling off his tongue getting sharper and sharper.
and Alain knows this anger, this anger born of love and distrust and betrayal.
Had known it in the way Ayrton's face fell as smoke rose from the barrel of a gun in Suzuka. had known it in the way Gilles had sobbed on his couch after returning from Imola. A story repeated time and time again. Alain was always a collector of stories.
He knows how fresh that hurt is, how deep and convoluted and confusing. Better yet he knows Ferrari and how it eats, and eats, and claims and owns and kills.
He doesn't want that to consume Charles, the betrayal and the hate and the Ferrari of it all. Because for all the idea of this kid being on the front lines sickens him, he knows he can't save him from it. He can just try to guide, to protect.
He doesn't know Jules that well, but from what little he knows he is doing the same. The protector and the protected.
Charles needs to hold on to that as much as he can, not to thrive but simply to survive.
"Did I ever tell you about Gilles?" He starts, his voice soft, distant. Charles looks to him with a slight tilt of the head.
"Gilles was great. Absolutely crazy man, helped found the eastern syndicate with Niki and James and Didier, but it was more than that really. He was family to me, him and Didier were like brothers…" he trails, keeping his eyes on the road as Charles leans in but doesn't interrupt.
"They worked for Ferrari, loved each other so much. I thought it was unbreakable, what they had. But Ferrari— Ferrari has a way of breaking even that which is unbreakable."
His fists clinch slightly around the wheel at the words, and Charles goes stiff. Always does when he mentions his dislike of his organization. His burn aches again, as does his heart. He moves on.
"They went on a trip to Imola— I never did find out what happened there but they came back different. Gilles showed up to my apartment with a grief to terrible to name, an anger that was intangible and fiery. Swore to never speak to Didier again."
There is a lull slightly before Charles asks "What happened?"
And Alain's smile grows sad.
"He died, in a gunfight behind our bar. Never got the chance to reconcile with Didier. He loved him, made it his last act to tell me to tell him he forgave him. Tell him that he loved him."
Charles's face falls slightly, leaning back in his seat.
"And not a few months later, Didier was gone too. Truth be told, I think that brief bit of anger killed them both. They let it eat them until they were both gone. Just like that."
He finished his story with a sad sigh, his eyes never once leaving the road as his hands clinch around the wheel and the car goes silent with an oppressive weight.
"Why— why are you telling me this?" Charles asks finally. And Alain looks to him, a deep abstract look on his face Charles saw so rarely. Something sad and ancient and world weary and mournful.
"So you don't let the same hate destroy you. One secret, one moment on the job, and I lost two of my brothers. You are supposed to be smarter than us kid, don't make the same mistakes."
And even if Charles doesn't really believe him, he's glad he heard it at least.
After all, Alain is an old man, far out of the game. All he can really do is try to give him advice.
IV.
Alain desperately needs to change the locks on his apartment. Frankly it's frightening how easy it is for people to break into the place.
For example, when he gets back to his apartment from a day of editing stories for the paper and finds Charles sitting at his kitchen table, a laptop and a container of take away in hand.
There is another one sitting across from him, Charles having clearly been expecting him home soon.
He takes a second to look him over, inspecting him for any injuries or ailments, any reason he might have broken into his home at this hour of night.
He finds none, just a boy in a suit that is starting to almost look like a man.
Alain is getting old.
He lets the door thump shut loudly behind him, startling Charles slightly as he looks up from his laptop with a smile.
"Oh Alain! I got you some food!" He says with a cheerful grin. Alain blinks at him.
"Why are you in my house? You normally call ahead when something like this happens." He says as he sits, opening the container of take-away. The kid is still smiling, an eager sort of thing.
"I have come across news that you don't know."
Okay so that is interesting.
"Something I don't know— in this city? Surely you're kidding." Alain says back with a smile, fully pulled into whatever gossiping he is about to hear.
Charles leans across the table, his voice low but his smile still bright as he says "Red Bull has a new leader. I just heard about it."
And fuck, that is news.
Red Bull, one of the newest syndicates that had grown from the lesser snuggling rings. Led by that detestable man Jos Verstappen.
Alain had never forgotten nor forgiven that day in Imola, those frightening days where his heart busted into a trillion pieces, how it had taken nearly a year for him and Ayrton to put it back together.
How that man, that young upstart with the name Verstappen had very nearly taken everything from him, had left his love with a twin wound to his, a bullet to the shoulder.
How quickly he had risen to prominence, with something like that on his resume.
It disgusts him so viscerally that Charles must see it on his face, quirking a brow at him as Alain tries to hold back the terribly cruel and vindictive smile he wants to show.
Ayrton had tried to push him to forgiveness, it never really took.
Charles's smile wanes a bit at Alain's strange expression, tapping his fingers on the table.
"Its a big move for the syndicates, could be the fall of Red Bull as we know it. Rumor says that the sharks of that organization are already looking to eat Max alive. They will not. He's smarter than that, more dangerous."
And there is something in Charles's eyes there, something in his quiet demeanor that has Alain's heart sink just slightly. The part of him that knows that Charles is holding a royal flush of hearts up his sleave. He can see it clear as day from the simple way Charles says that name. Max.
"Max? As in Max Verstappen?" Alain asks, a wild confusion and vague horror in his guts. He suddenly knows viscerally how Elio ha felt when he first told him he and Ayrton were together, that twisting fear and anger as Charles hums.
"Yeah Max. From what I heard it was an absolutely brutal fight but Max came out on top. He always does." He pauses slightly to take a bite of his food. "Can you believe how barbaric Red bull is? That the new leader must kill the old to claim the title?"
"He killed his dad?" Alain asks, eyes wide and Charles nods with raised brows. and that changes Alain's point of view entirely, a faint creeping smile on his face.
"Good for him."
Charles pauses at his shift in demeanor, starring hard at him as he tries desperately to decipher what story Alain is hiding under all these facial contortions, before he gives up and asks.
"Okay, what is the story with you and Red Bull? Your face is being strange." Charles asks with a bit of a laugh. Alain just looks away a bit, and lies.
"I've just— never liked Jos. And this Red Bull shake up— its just due time that someone took him down." Alain says, and he has always been such an accomplished liar, Charles doesn't see through it at all.
"Yeah I mean— Jos rose to his success back in your day, after he took down Senna. Jules told me the story— You knew him right?" Charles asks as something even stranger crosses Alain's face, something sad and dark as he laughs.
"I knew him." He says so softly Charles can barely catch it, something cold and ancient and raw just at the edges.
"You knew Ayrton Senna? Was he your enemy or something?" Charles asks with a laugh, trying to lighten the tone. Alain laughs back, but the tone stays dark as he taps his fingers against the take out and looks away, distant again in that way he seldom got.
"Worse—" he says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "We were lovers."
Charles has fucked up this conversation so bad.
"I'm—" The sorry dies on his tongue as Alain waves it away, shaking his head slightly and turning back to Charles with his careful practiced smile.
"Its ancient history, Charles. Don't worry. Now tell me more about Red Bull and your Max."
The phrasing puts him on the back foot, and Alain smiles like he knew it would.
"Max is not my anything, just an enemy." Charles bites back.
And Alain barely holds back the laugh bubbling in his throat. Charles is a terrible liar— that or he doesn't even know he is lying.
Alain doesn't comment on it though, some things the kid must learn on his own.
"All right, but at the least tell me why you thought this news was important enough to break into my apartment for. I know there is something else you're thinking here Charles." He says, and the boy pauses, an almost nervous blush coming over his face, mixed with something deep and introspective.
"I was just— Max is my age. He's fought and he proved himself and he's running their empire now. It just—"
Alain hums, seeing the way Charles looks so eager. Can see what he's thinking before he even says it.
"You are thinking you could do the same?" Alain asks, voice carefully neutral, hiding the fear that sparks at the boy's words. Ferrari wasn't Red Bull. It was older, ancient. A house built with bones in the foundations, A house that always wins.
But for the first time since they have met, Charles looks hopeful as he nods.
And Alain can't help but look to him. Because he had seen this game before, climbed the ranks, played all his cards, and he had been burned by it.
But Charles isn't him. Alain had taken special care to ensure that.
"Ferrari is— Are you sure you want that Charles?" He asks quietly.
Charles pulls back at it, frowning heavily at what weight Alain holds in his voice, a characteristic fire in his eyes as he spits out the question that has been looming between them since they first met.
"What is your issue with Ferrari Alain? You always get so strange when I talk about them. I'm not stupid, I'm not a kid! I know what I'm doing here and—" Alain cuts off his ramble by standing slightly, giving him a cold glare that shuts him up quickly, and just as quickly softens into something sad and painful.
"I know you know what you are doing. I know that Charles. I've just— I have seen so many brilliant talents try to rail against Ferrari, I've seen how they respond to that. And if this goes wrong—" He raises the side of his shirt slightly, and watches as the kid's eyes go wide with horror as he sees the scaring in the shape of a prancing horse on his side.
"—they will not hesitate to burn you."
and its quiet, hauntingly quiet as Charles stares at his scar, eye not leaving it until he lowers his shirt to cover it and suddenly his eyes are bouncing between where the scar is and Alain's hollow ancient eyes.
and eventually they settle on his own hands, clasped gently so they can no longer tap against the table, and it is silent.
and its cold.
And it's heavy.
"But— I could do it. I have to try." He says, a determined glint in his eyes as he looks up before whispering "For Jules— I have to try."
And Alain's heart breaks for him as he can do nothing but watch the boy— no the man in front of him walk away.
That night when he calls Ayrton, he cries.
he knew well an true by now that luck always runs out.
The house always wins.
+I.
Alain had made it a habit of going to the cemetery every couple of months.
A silent pilgrimage, a trek held on those most haunted of anniversaries. Once on the day of James's passing, almost always with Niki, and once in the time between Gilles's and Didier's.
It's a quiet thing, and despite how strange the ritual is, he talks to them. Gives them updates on his life, tells them the goings on of Monaco, clears out some of his backlog of secrets knowing full well that dead men tell no tales.
It's almost always a sunny clear day when he goes, like the universe is laughing at him. He used to find it so annoying, that it was always so perfect, but now he just holds it with quiet joy. A brief glimmer of being thankful to have such a beautiful day to see them on. Thankful to have days like this.
Ayrton calls him a sentimental old man over it, Alain doesn't much mind.
He wakes in the early morning, getting his standard croissant and latte as he walks in. Setting into a quiet routine, walking a familiar path.
There is a proceeding occurring next to the central church, a small gathering of people. He bows his head as he passes, a pain he knows well. But he walks on, and he rests against the warm black marble.
He is too old now to crouch in front of them, he hopes Didier wouldn't mind him sitting on his memorial.
He knows they would laugh about it when they met again.
And he takes a quiet meditative moment to place his food down to the side, and he breathes before he starts to talk.
Talks about Ayrton and his planes, talks about how the peacocks are back and Ayrton is going on a war path about them. He talks about Red Bull, of the shake up there and how the underworld is shifting.
But mostly he talks about the young man that reminds him so much of them.
Charles, the new sun of Maranello. The boy he had watched grow into a man. And he talks, about his fears and his worries, his sick sick fears. He talks about those hopes and dreams, talks about young love. Tells all his stories, hopes they don't mind the repeats.
And when he is done, his coffee is lukewarm and the sun is high in the sky and he doesn't feel as heavy anymore.
The graves say nothing, Alain knew they wouldn't.
He stands, his knees cracking as the birds fly overhead and he starts his small trek back.
The other procession has mostly disappeared by now, save for one lonesome figure standing, the thin trail of cigarette smoke being the only motion in his form.
And as Alain steps past he sees sad green eyes and limp brown curls standing over a fresh grave.
And he knows. He doesn't know how, but he knows without looking what name is on the headstone he stands in front of.
The smoking is new.
"Those things will kill you, you know."
Charles's eyes shift to him slowly, taking another long drag. Alain gives him a slow head tilt, extending his hand until Charles eventually looks away and passes the cigarette to him.
Alain takes a drag and tries hard to suppress a cough. It's been ages since he last smoked, but of all the occasions— this one seems apt.
And he looks down to the grave, the dirt still fresh, bouquets of flowers over top it. A thick cursive script reading out the name Jules Bianchi.
He looks to Charles who just stares at the grave with hollow eyes, and he knows this.
And it wasn't supposed to happen to him.
He passes the cigarette back to Charles silently who stares at it for a long moment, taking a final drag before throwing it down and crushing it under his heel.
"Are you sure they'll kill me?" Charles says darkly, a tone almost like he intends for it to be a joke. It doesn't take.
"Charles—"
"I'm fine." He bites. But the tears start to trail down his cheeks.
Charles can't really lie. Not to him at least.
Alain catches him before he can fall, gently lowering them both to the ground as Charles starts to tremble with it.
"You're not. And it's okay. It's no sin Charles." He whispers as he holds him close.
And Charles breaks.
Horrible ugly croaking sobs coming out of his mouth as he grabs on to Alain, his fingers twisting into the threads of his cardigan, his head tucked just out of view.
And Alain— Alain runs a hand through his hair and tilts his head back so Charles won't feel the tears dripping down his cheeks.
Alain's eyes drift to the grave.
He was only 25. So young, a boy still in Alain's eyes, but not to Ferrari.
Never to Ferrari. That god Saturn.
So much changes but so much stays the same.
It still eats its sons.
Charles had stopped crying after a few moments, just sniffling and breathing hard as he pulls away from Alain slightly.
"I'm sorry." He croaks, it sounds like he's been yelling, been crying for days.
"It's alright, Charles. I don't mind." He says softly, pulling him up a bit and half dragging him over to the church steps. He all but collapses on to them, letting his head lull back and his arms fall limp as he stares up at the sky.
Alain sits next to him.
And it's quiet for a long time.
"So this is what it feels like, huh?" Charles says with a wet laugh. Alain lets his head turn to him but Charles doesn't meet his eyes, just stares at the line of the steeple pointing to the high sun.
And it's a beautiful perfect day, like god laughing.
"This is what it feels like to lose—"
Alain nods slightly, and with a jerk Charles sits upright and stares at him, his lip quivering but no new tears falling.
"I tried—"
"I know."
"No you don't." He snaps suddenly. "He was protecting me Alain. All those months, all those things he let Ferrari do to him. He— He did for me— and he never said a word…"
He slumps forward into Alain's waiting shoulder, a puppet with its strings cut. A hand folded, his horse out of the racing. And Alain catches him again.
"And now he's gone."
Alain rocks him slightly, a hand around the shoulder. A grounding touch.
From his view on the steps, just faintly, he can see the top of Didier's grave.
"That's what brothers do Charles. They protect, and sometimes— sometimes they leave us too soon."
"But— what do I do now? What's the point of it?" Charles asks. And Alain remembers.
Remembers what Niki had said to him a lifetime ago.
He turns to face Charles as he jabs a finger into his chest hard enough to hurt.
"You live, and you continue. And you do it for him." Alain says as Charles stares at him with wide, watery eyes.
And then— he nods. Slightly and shaken and frail, but he nods. And a fire sparks just faintly in his eyes.
Alain smiles and pulls him into a tight hug.
And he knows it's a long shot. He knows the road will not be easy. But something about this man in his arms, something he will never be able to explain.
He thinks this time will be different.
After all, Alain is a collector of stories.
But people aren't stories.
And call it faith, call it luck, but he thinks this time, just this one time, things could be different.