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The first thing that Alain had noticed about his teammate wasn't his skill. Everyone, even the oldest soul who could barely leave his home during race week, had heard of the Brazilian legend. At least, that was how it seemed to a man surrounded by racing. Even when Alain wasn't immediately concerned with the cars, he heard the whispers. Ayrton, the myth of a man, who reconstructed the rules of each circuit, who raced harder than anyone else, intense and passionate, the sun itself upon the racetrack, laying down a blazing trail behind him. Alain, of course, respected this in his teammate, as much as it was difficult to comprehend. He could see his intensity, and how impactful it was, although he'd dismissed it as useless, even dangerous for quite a while. Ayrton was reckless in driving, in Alain's eyes. But didn't really think about it. After all, you had to be skilled to drive a McLaren, so talent, however inherent or trained, was irrelevant for Alain's judgement of the other man's character.
Instead, he'd noticed that Ayrton treated everything the way he did sitting down in the cockpit. Life, to Ayrton, seemed to be nothing but a race, a very long one, but a race nonetheless. Every opportunity was simply another car to overtake with vigor, each word said and each smile a careful press of the gas. It wasn't necessarily manipulative, but it was somewhat measured, in a way Alain didn't always expect. It was especially true when talking. Speaking to him was like racing with him. He was insistent, careful, and defensive when he needed to be. He'd fly through words and movement as if he was trying to set a new time, but he never rushed or skipped any steps. It wasn't reckless, Alain had found, not like he’d originally thought it was. Ayrton was thorough, firm, yet intense. He put his whole heart and soul into the car, not just his head and body. He wasn’t just another driver, he truly was a legend, not because he was smart or talented, although he didn’t lack that in the slightest. No, he was a myth due to his passion. That was why, despite his best interests, Alain slowly found himself trusting the other man. Trusting a legend he’d once thought too good and far too careless to be true.
Alain wasn't a man of such intensity. Or, in Alain's eyes, insanity. He wasn't someone who felt so deeply and passionately, in fact, he could hardly imagine it. It was odd, to him, how Ayrton saw so much, while all Ayrton felt under his fingers was the thrum of the engine and a pulse of adrenaline. He didn't pour emotion into it, he simply did as he was told to, as he knew how to do, hands steady on the wheel despite its tremors, not living for them. He didn't find passion in his work, he found slow, steady progress. That was how one effectively won. Even if Ayrton seemed determined to destroy that fact, Alain was set on it. Ayrton was a myth, his passion was going to hurt him some day, and yet, he kept winning.
McLaren noted their hatred for each other as soon as it began. They aimed to solve it whenever they could, sometimes, while still hosting this festering rivalry that bit into Alain and Ayrton's view of racing as a whole, the way they bit at each other as if they knew one was proof the other could not exist. They forced the two out some nights into a bar, to get to know each other. To talk, to see each other as people and not as enemies. It was late on one of those nights, the day before qualifying, after a drink or two, or maybe more. Alain found himself watching Ayrton talk…and talk…and talk. The words were blurring a little in his ears, he was too tired to catch them all, but he smiled, tilting his head and resting it on his hand, enjoying the conversation, for a reason he’d later claim was the alcohol, as he always did.
"You think too much." He said quietly, an observation, a thought not quite meant to come to life, interrupting Ayrton. He hadn’t expected to be heard, really. It had been a comment, a thought, not something he thought would be an umbrella in the way of this sun’s rays, a dam on the rushing river of words, something born of looser lips and wine. Suddenly, Ayrton’s eyes were fixed on him, and Alain had the distinct impression of how an ant under a magnifying glass must feel, a concentrated ray of sun suddenly burning into him, attention he'd not expected nor asked for.
“It's interesting that you say that.” Ayrton responded, and not unkindly. He seemed to be trying to figure out what Alain meant, as he knew Alain was much too measured a person to say something for no real reason.
“Well, maybe I meant that you talk too much.” Alain offered, keeping his words concise, nothing like the sprawling tales of the man before him. He cursed his accidental slip internally, knowing that it was a lapse in character, a small push in his usual methodical judgement, brought on by the wine.
“I think that there is a difference between those things.” Ayrton responded, his gaze still just as focused as ever. It burned into Alain, the passion, the energy. The rivalry they’d had for a very, very long time, what had burned into sharp hatred within their garage. He was sure Ayrton had found a thing to hate about Alain, just as Alain had found something in return. Often it was small, and easy. The way they moved, the way they put things away in this place, the way they raced, but slowly, they’d come to understand each other. It was amusing, to some piece of Alain. They weren’t friends, perhaps even sworn enemies, and yet here they were, sharing a drink.
“Thinking happens inside your head. Speaking is something everyone can hear. A very big difference.” Ayrton continued, as if he’d never paused, his accent tugging at the edges of his words, making them fit into a rhythm that Alain had long since gotten used to. It was hard not to do so, after hearing it almost every day for years.
“I get the impression that you manage to do both at the same time.” Alain said, taking a sip of wine, a deep red color greeting him as he looked into the glass. It was no different in color to any red, at least to the untrained eye, a color so deep that only the very edges of the liquid seemed to truly be red, painted with a highlighter by a child to alert you that it was a liquid, that there was depth to its color based on how full it was. For Alain, it was looking less and less full. He swirled it around in the glass, watching the liquid move around.
“What are you trying to say by that?” Asked Ayrton, his eyes sharp but not as furious as they could be, dulled by the temporary lull of alcohol fueling their uneasy truce. However, the drinks didn’t seem to dilute him even slightly, still at full intensity, so Alain made sure not to look for too long, if at all, as one should never gaze directly at the sun.
“You talk endlessly. As if you managed to find a thought for every word that leaves your mouth, until you inevitably run out of things to talk about. And if that happens, you manage to turn it into a new discussion entirely.” Alain said. He wasn’t sure how to explain it, in truth. Ayrton spoke like a river: he meandered, wound, and turned without ever finding an end, encountering only new branches as he moved further and further away from the original thought, a beautiful canvas of rushing water, thoughtful and fascinating. However, those were far too many words for his alcohol-loose lips to speak without stumbling somehow, and he pushed them back, determined to not make the mistake of showing what he'd observed again. Ayrton didn't need to know he had Alain's attention, or was on his mind. The fact was, Alain had already let more slip than he needed to, and was facing the consequences. So he kept it as concise as he could, fighting the fog of alcohol for a sense of sobriety that part of him didn't want to find just yet. Ayrton could be the man of metaphors. Alain would stay a man of facts. He had to.
“Well, you change everything into a competition.” Ayrton responded matter of factly, and Alain could see by the glint in his eye, he’d been meaning to say this at some point anyway. And it didn't make much sense, either, if Alain were to be honest. He didn't know how Ayrton's mind had decided on thinking of that.
“That is not what I was talking about. You did it again, Ayrton.” Alain responded with a small quirk of his lips that could’ve been a smile if he weren’t in the room with Ayrton. But there were no cameras, no hatred to act out, no McLaren pushing them to work together even when they were built for competition. There was no reason to pretend it wasn’t a smile. Maybe that was why he allowed it. Maybe that was why Ayrton returned it at double the intensity, a full sunshine smile and a solar flare laugh, and suddenly, the talking started up again, playful and accusatory.
It was alright, for that evening, just that once, to permit it. Something that almost looked like friendship. Alain couldn't complain. He didn't mind it so much. Ayrton had started to leave space for him between his sentences, allowing him to speak, gently herding him into conversation until he realized, far too late, that he was invested now.
But, Alain had to remind himself as he left it behind, it would never truly be friendship. They hated each other. Everyone knew that.
The warmth of the memory followed him back to his hotel against the chill of the night, a reminder of what he'd just left behind, of how he'd smiled as he left, and felt sad to leave it behind. It was just that moment, he assured himself. Just then. It was a one time thing, even though it seemed to be happening more and more frequently. They no longer shared so much hatred, when the team forced them to sit together and talk so they would just work together. There was companionship, somehow.
I just wasn't quite sober, Alain told himself as he settled to go to sleep, and found to his dismay that warm brown eyes and a pleasant smile had been burned into his eyelids and the back of his mind. As he drifted off, he was certain. It was just that moment.
It was just the wine.