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For a split second, the world around him disappeared into a hazy, numbing buzz of static. No feelings ran through his body except the prickly itch at the top of his fingertips as his knuckles tightened around the steering wheel. For that second, car skimming across gravel, he felt weightless. Almost untouchable as the cheering crowds blurred into a background, the surroundings forming splotchy streaks of colours, spinning too fast for anything to be clear.
In that moment, he was shunted out of his own body, grasp on reality slipping past his palms and shattering against the floor, scattered across the stones he'd just flown over.
Then everything collided into him.
It forced him back into his body, bones aching and pain searing through his muscles, tightly intertwined with the stringed ligaments holding him together with feeble threads. He was stationary, crushed into an awkward angle that pulled his edges in all the wrong directions. Through the crackly ringing in his ears, he could make out the sounds of each breath, heavy as they fogged into his helmet, too thin with the way his chest had been punched.
Ollie, are you okay?
The response died on his tongue, words sticking to the roof of his mouth stubbornly, claggy against his molars as he ground them down to keep himself scarcely coherent through the searing pain.
Ollie? Are you okay?
Throbbing coursed through the back of his skull, at the base where it met his spine, thundering upwards in waves. A stab of pain through his hip that ran down his leg, squeezing muscle and grinding against bone. A flash of orange sparked in his peripherals, marshals waving to flag his attention, thumbs up, thumbs down— it did not matter, Ollie couldn't move yet, couldn't give the cameras what they wanted to see.
The car is safe. Car is safe.
Even gripped by the paralysing fear, the knowledge that he wouldn't be caught in an inferno of burning metal eased him somewhat. Enough to set his mind on an action, bumbling through the agonising waves that pulsed under muscle, he grappled with the belts and wheel, unclasping and abandoning it all as he hauled himself up past the halo, using it for stability.
Cheering crowds surrounded him, the noise too loud, the lights too bright, everything morphing into a pressure that threatened to burst. Hands found him, helped him stumble off the top of his car, caught him when his leg gave out, not even half a step later, guiding him to a place where he could be lowered to the floor.
Nausea rocked him like the waves that tilted the boat in the storm. His stomach churned, deep-sea waters murky and unpredictable, and he lowered his head between his knees that were pushed to his chest in an attempt to allow himself to breathe. There were more hands, a murmur of a voice next to his visor, but nothing registered except the palm on his back, a splayed out connection, a touch that made him aware of his own flesh, that made him feel real.
Alive and real. Not a simulation, or a dream, but rather the reality of being flung into a barrier and managing to pull himself out alive.
Eventually, he had to stand up. It did not mean he was ready, legs still wobbly, head still pulsing, and the violent need to claw his skin away and start anew still swirling around with the nausea. Though sitting for longer wasn't an option, the marshals helped him up, allowing him to use them as a crutch as he limped off the track.
The next pattern of events came to him in fragmented pieces. Not fully there, but too conscious to shut himself off.
A car ride, every bump of the wheel against tarmac making his heart jolt. Taking his helmet off, more hands that weren't his own there to assist him, prying off what felt like a vice, air rushing into lungs. More faces, more voices, and a penlight swinging into his vision, invasive and aggressive, eyes flinching at the searing pain it brought. Mumbled responses. The grip on the base of his skull never once relenting, the churning in his stomach stubbornly not ebbing, the flare of hot pain still scorching down his leg.
Then, suddenly, he was clapped on the back and thrust back into his own driver's room. Someone— his trainer, an engineer, Ollie wasn't sure, but he could tell, despite the haze that made up his vision, that they wore the Haas kit. Whoever it was instructed him to go back to the hotel, to take it easy, and his body wishfully agreed, too close to collapsing.
Getting back to the hotel was much harder than he anticipated.
Someone— again, Ollie wasn't sure who— was meant to be picking him up. Yet he was stranded, trying to sneak through shadows and back alleys to avoid the still-bustling crowds. A gaggle of fans had spotted him earlier, and whilst their kindness to wish him well was appreciated, their enthusiasm was too loud, everything was still too loud, and it grated against him uncomfortably. It all came in like nails on a chalkboard, screeching, so high-pitched it hurt.
He wasn't sure where he was meant to be going; directions melded into one, and the floor felt like a safer place to be than wandering until he collapsed.
"Ollie?"
It broke past the wall that muffled his surroundings. His own name, that voice, a life ring chucked out to help his flailing body in hopes he could grapple it and fight the waves, hanging onto the buoyancy to keep him afloat long enough to be dragged back to the foam-kissed shore.
"Esteban." He croaked out, throat parched.
"Ollie, what are you doing here?" Esteban was in front of him, concern woven into his features, eyelashes knitted together with worry, "You should be at the hotel, yes?"
"I should— erm, someone was meant to take me, I think? I— well— I still don't feel that good."
"Putain," he hissed under his breath, "they left you? Ollie, I don't think you should be alone right now."
As much as his pride wanted to rebut, to rear its head and tell Esteban he could handle the situation— that would be a blatant lie. There was no handle on the situation, his head still hadn't stopped spinning, and even with the checks and the quick statements to the public to assure he was okay, he knew getting back to the hotel room would not be easy.
"Okay," he conceded quietly. "Will you help me?"
Esteban's features softened, and he nodded as he offered a small smile, "Of course. Do you need to get checked still? Are you sure you are okay to leave?"
"I think so," because it wasn't the full truth, but Ollie reasoned it was not a complete lie either. He supposed that did not matter because Esteban frowned disbelievingly, but opted against saying anything else, instead gently taking Ollie by the hand, Ollie too scared he would flop over at any moment to be embarrassed by it all, and led him away from the bustle of the paddock and into a quiet car park.
His name may have been called when he sat down in the passenger seat, but finally allowing his body a moment of reprieve, the daze took over, and he found himself drifting to sleep.
Light poured in, and Ollie blinked, standing in the middle of the paddock once more, donning his race suit as he moved past the sea of fans.
It was a blur, one moment he was getting ready for a race, the next he was in the barrier, crushed between metal, pressure against his ribs, his waist, his legs— screeching hard until they sliced through skin—
No, that wasn't right.
Then he blinked, as if shunted from one scene to the next, a disordered line-up of snapshots playing out.
He was answering questions, post-race, head throbbing.
Then he was back in the barrier, scream torn from his throat as something snapped harshly, the only sound being his leg splintering, fragmented bone pulverising his skin as they shot outwards. It should hurt, it should hurt, but all that encompassed him was the thick warmth of oozing crimson that pooled around his shoe as medics rushed to him.
He was lifted out, cleared his vision, and then stood in the medical centre. A version of himself pressed against white sheets, his skin too pale in comparison. He watched from afar, watched faces, both familiar and unknown, come in and out and pass him by. He lay there, unmoving, and if it weren't for the unstable beeps from a little wired machine pressing into him in all the wrong angles, he would have been sure he was witnessing his own corpse splayed out for people to mourn over.
He was in the wall again.
And again.
And again.
A broken vinyl, warped with heat, cracked over time, the needle never played smoothly against the ridges. Instead, it caught on a groove too deep, the song he was so used to now jumbled and distorted, too quiet in some places, a rushed whirl of too-quick lyrics in another. It was not what he was used to, but instead a mangled version of what was once dear to him.
He felt the air around him shift, humid and thick and stinking of burnt embers. His chest heaved, pressed up against straps that carved bruised lines into his skin. In front, he could spot a thin line of smoke snaking up towards the sky, thicker at the base as it squeezed past a gash in the car's metal frame, slow at first but soon erupting in a plume of ashen cloud.
Ollie? Are you okay? You need to get out of the car.
It was a phone call happening from a different room, the conversation not quite reaching him at first. He registered the panic that tried to grab him, the car's frame crushed in on him, too tight for him to be able to move. The smoke doubled, puffing from every broken crevice, so much that it forced through his mouth, into his lungs, and coated his throat with an acrid taste.
Ollie? Can you hear me? Give me a sign, mate.
He couldn't, fingers locked, the buttons all left untouched. He was still, frozen in place as the greys washed over him.
A flicker of orange, the heat wrathful and unforgiving, peaked through the silver and black streaks. Then it exploded outwards, flames engulfing the car, and Ollie could only gasp as the burning warmth ate into his skin.
When the darkness subsided, he was elsewhere. A clinical room, too quiet and clean and everyone dressed in clothes too smart for this to be anywhere in the paddock.
No one paid any mind to him. Ollie, his race suit that clung to him like a second skin, peeling against weeping wounds and a mirage of brushing reds too shiny and slick. His attire stood out amongst the sea of greys and blacks, and when he cleared his throat, no head turned to him, no eyes found his own, as if he was a ghost amongst these people.
There was a bed. Too comfy to be for a hospital, too barren to be anything personal. On it lay a figure, covered to the head, obscuring the face that lay beneath it.
The pulse in his heart, in tandem with the rush coursing up his throat, pulled him towards the bed. No one looked his way. Not when he moved through crowded people, faces he knew, more than the ones he did not. Not when his fingers shook with such force he felt the joints rattle against the sockets. Not when he put the fabric between his finger and thumb, coarse against him as he tugged it backwards to reveal who was hidden underneath.
His own face stared back.
Hollow, a shadow of what it once was, eyes sunken and cheekbones angular as they pushed his skin out, pulled taught, almost diluted with a green wash. His lips sat chapped against the greying canvas, a smear of rusty, faint red that had been haphazardly wiped away at the corner. Bruising made its way up his chest, wrapped around his neck in veins of cracked purples.
No one saw him as he gasped, a strangled sound that forced his way past parted lips, staggering backwards as a cold, numbing husk of what he used to be stared up, glassy eyes that held no warmth, no feeling, just coloured orbs with a shine that spoke of the end.
Then it was over, thrust forward back into reality, his body aching and an itch he couldn't scratch because it sat too deep under his skin.
The gasp followed him, panic looming as he surged, the world spun into view, and he noted, vaguely, that he was stationary. Pine air freshener and the smell of too-clean leather, the breeze flowed in from a window, filtering into the sweltering heat that formed around him.
Something caught him before he could jolt forward, a strap in front and a squeaky seat behind him. No longer in his F1 car
Breathing was no easy feat. The seat belt clawed at him. His fingers, flitting around like a bird with a broken wing, too clumsy and uncoordinated, felt along the leather until the hard plastic of the buckle was in reach.
It clicked, the seat belt pinged backwards, clattering against the window. A voice rang out, warbled and far off, as Ollie scrambled for the handle, sweaty palms slipping against metal before it finally flung open and he tumbled out. First, the wind hit him, a stinging slap to the face as cold air rushed his warmed cheeks. Then the grass was under his palms as he scrambled away from the car, away from a vehicle, leaving green stains blotted against his trousers. Finally, the shock of the cold, too biting, too sudden, had his body convulse as his head swarmed with a tilted vertigo he could not grapple, chest squeezing as bile clawed up his throat.
Vomit splattered beneath him, speared by the blades of grass, fuzzy as he blinked away the heavy wetness that toppled over his lashline.
It burnt. Each breath ragged, frayed edges of his vision swarming with a threat to pull him under. The crescendo: another round of gagging, almost choking on the burning bile as more hit against the pile.
He was sobbing— broken, gasping sounds that forced what little breath he had left out of him.
His body was limp as it was dragged away from the mess, and a hand clamped onto his shoulder, steady and constant as Ollie wrangled his breathing, his lungs wild, chest no longer in his control.
If any words were being spoken, he did not hear them, just waves of his own whimpering playing out. His lost breaths that whistled through clenched teeth. Snivelling, hacking up what was left of the washed bile, letting everything out until he could grasp his own body again.
Time, a slow trickle like sap that dragged down against the rough grains of bark on a tree, moved in a sluggish, graceless way. It left him empty and cold, shivering as the dusky sky turned into a deep explosion of copper and bronze.
"I can't— don't make me talk about it," he pleaded, words caught between heaving inhales and stretched exhales.
Esteban reached over with his free hand and wiped away the remnants of the tears. That was his answer, unspoken but assuring.
"I had a dream," Ollie spat out, the word tasting tart, soured by the memories of a reality that was not truth but sat too close to the day's events.
Esteban did not question what had happened in the dream; he did not have to ask, the dots already connected.
Instead, he squeezed Ollie's shoulder.
"I don't know if I can stand by myself," he felt weak, the broken confession quiet enough that the rest of the world would not hear it.
"I will help you, then we will go to a hospital."
"What, Esteban, no—"
"I will not fight with you on this, Ollie." he left no room for a rebuttal, adamant as he helped Ollie stagger to his feet again and towards the open car door. "You need to get checked properly, but I will not leave you, okay? We need to make sure nothing is seriously wrong."
As he was buckled into the passenger seat, his body exhausted, he found himself not wanting to dispute Esteban's suggestion and instead let his teammate take the lead.
Once more, his life panned out in segments. Though this time Esteban was beside him through it all.
The hospital smelt of citrus, too artificially sweet, but enough to mask the chemicals that usually came with a place like this. The walls were a muted grey, not too abrasive against his eyes, a tone he could stare at as he sat on the edge of a bed in a quiet corner. Esteban was a constant presence next to him. A hand found his back and ran up and down the notches of his spine, and Ollie felt himself melt into the careful touch.
Conversations happened above him, not to him. Esteban handled it. He never once asked Ollie to step up or step in, and discussions about passing information to his trainer and the rest of the team were made. Talks of exercises to gently build his leg back to where it should be over the upcoming impromptu break to ensure walking would cease to hurt, the limp gone. He was ushered to different rooms, saw a collective of people, and left with a small paper bag— the contents? Ollie wasn't sure, but Esteban would know; he was sure of that.
"They say it was a bad concussion," Esteban commented, almost too casually for the weight of the words. Said with care to not spook Ollie. "I do not like how easy the other staff let you go earlier; they should have noted something was much worse."
"Sorry."
"It is not your fault, Ollie."
He shrugged.
"Ollie." They were sitting in the car again. Esteban paused, hands moving away from where he had just buckled his own seatbelt, and instead resting one against Ollie's arm, "It was not your fault. The crash, what happened after, or what will happen next, okay? I mean that."
"Alright," his voice cracked, splintering down the middle with something fragile and uncertain. He blinked, the blur different from before, glossy and wet.
"Ollie—"
"I want to go home," he mumbled. Not the hotel, not the airport, but home.
Esteban retracted his hand, understanding in a way too knowing for Ollie to dissect right now, "I know. I am sorry that you had to go through that."
They pulled off without saying anything else, Ollie closing his eyes and leaning back against the headrest, this time not allowing himself to drift off. Instead, he found himself speaking out into the silence, the words shocking even himself as soon as they left his mouth.
"I could have died today."
"I know," it was not the answer Ollie wanted, but it was the truth. Harsh as it may be, a crash could always be fatal; the concerns for the new regulations showed this, and Ollie just so happened to be the first unlucky victim.
"I didn't, though."
"No," Esteban agreed. "You didn't."
It was final. Not so much comfort, but a way that sealed the conversation. Esteban drove, Ollie listened, and the world passed by until they pulled into the hotel.
When they got to their floor and stepped out of the lift, Ollie stalled.
Esteban did not have to stay; he didn't have to offer, and yet he gazed at Ollie with eyes that had seen too much already. A look that held secrets and memories alike, too complex for Ollie to understand, a branching mess of loss and fear and what ifs and hypotheticals when the truth came too much to carry.
"Why don't you sleep in my room with me?" Esteban suggested. Not patronising, but tender and brotherly, an open invitation for Ollie to take.
He glanced down the hall towards where his own hotel room was, the stretch of carpet stacked with angular patterns, walls crowned with deep wooden beams. Too far for him to stumble down alone, the awaiting room would be blanketed in a darkness that would only offer him an auditorium for his imagination to implode. Sounds of an engine roaring, metal that clashed against a chained fence, the taste of coppery bile forming a film against the back of his throat.
He looked back to Esteban, met true and earnest eyes, and a reassuring smile.
"Yeah," he whispered, not allowing the admission to be louder than that, "that would be nice, thank you."
Perhaps it was uncouth of them to simply take their shoes off and collapse into the bed, but Ollie had already showered twice, and he assumed Esteban had cleaned up after the race too. At first, Ollie was happy to take the floor, lay out blankets for himself and curl up amongst his own nest of pillows and couch cushions. Though Esteban, not even needing to say anything, just nodded to the bed.
Ollie shuffled under the covers first, Esteban following and leaving enough space between the two as they settled down. Though as Ollie looked over, the gap between them was too cavernous, the call of sleep too neausiating to confront alone.
He wasn't sure why he did it, but he rolled over closer to Esteban. He wasn't sure why Esteban allowed him to get close enough so that he rested his head against his chest, Esteban's heart beat thudding softly. He wasn't sure where the lines crossed, that maybe it wasn't smart to cuddle up with his teammate, whom he sort of saw as a brother, but then again, he reasoned that he stopped caring when Esteban watched him barrel out of the car, throw up, and sob into the grass.
Esteban did not push, a hand absentmindedly coming up to card through Ollie's hair, nails against his scalp. His arm wrapped around Ollie's back to hold him close.
Ollie stilled, letting himself get lulled into sleep, and this time he did not dream of anything at all. No smoke-filled cars, or jagged metal sawing through bone, or a motionless body on a table with cloth that covered the morphed features.
He did not dream, just slept, and when the morning rays cut through the curtain and highlighted the tangle of lanky limbs wrapped between the covers, Ollie felt safe.