Chapter Text
Alain closed the door to his hotel room, feeling the weight of the routine he had unexpectedly adopted since his arrival.
Every morning, the same walk to the church. Every day, the same route through streets he knew far too well. Every meeting, the same silence between them before words dared to appear.
But something had changed.
Ayrton, though still quiet, no longer rejected his presence as he had on that first day. His posture remained rigid, cautious. But his eyes, at times, revealed a recognition that hadn’t been there before.
He had started to accept the inevitable.
He sat across from Alain, as he had in the days prior, next to the simple table in his room.
—You look tired —he finally said, breaking the silence.
Alain exhaled with a faint smile, leaning back in his chair.
—So do you.
Ayrton didn’t respond.
The Frenchman studied him for a moment before continuing.
—I’ve been thinking about what you’re going to do now.
Ayrton lowered his gaze. It wasn’t the first time they talked about this. But Alain always returned to the point, as if he needed to make sure Ayrton understood what it meant to be here.
—I don’t have answers for that, Alain.
Alain nodded, but didn’t let the conversation end there.
—Then let’s talk about something else.
Ayrton raised his eyes, a barely perceptible hint of curiosity flickering across his face.
—The world has changed. Formula 1 has changed.
The Brazilian remained silent, but Alain noticed the way his expression hardened.
—Now everything revolves around technology. There’s more simulation, more real-time data. Driving is different. —Alain paused before adding—: No one has to guess what’s happening with the car anymore.
Ayrton furrowed his brow slightly.
—It’s changed that much?
Alain let out a short laugh.
—You have no idea.
Ayrton slid his fingers across the wood of the table where his hands rested, his eyes lost in thoughts he didn’t share.
—And you, Alain… what have you done all these years?
Alain looked at him closely, surprised by the question.
—I stayed in motorsport. Managed a team, got involved in driver safety. —He paused, his tone softening—: Formula 1 learned from what happened to you.
Ayrton narrowed his eyes, feeling the conversation tread into a place he wasn’t sure he wanted to go.
Alain noticed his reaction, but kept going.
—You’re not just a memory to people, Ayrton. You’re much more.
The Brazilian exhaled heavily, as if he suddenly felt the full weight of his existence in this time.
—Don’t say nonsense.
But Alain shook his head.
—It’s not nonsense. To a lot of people, you’ve become something more than a driver.
Ayrton looked at him with a warning in his gaze.
Alain held his expression, unwavering.
—You’re almost a religious figure to some.
The silence between them grew so thick that Alain thought Ayrton would simply shut it down, dismiss what he was saying with his usual skepticism.
But Ayrton didn’t.
He didn’t respond immediately.
He just lowered his gaze, as if the information truly affected him.
As if the idea of being something more than himself unsettled him in an unexpected way.
The light from the window fell on him with an unsettling familiarity, highlighting each feature as if time had never touched his skin.
Alain exhaled and studied him closely.
—This is incredibly unfair.
Ayrton raised an eyebrow.
—What is?
The Frenchman rested an elbow on the table and gestured with his hand, as if it were undeniable proof.
—You still look exactly the same. I, on the other hand, am an old man.
The comment came naturally, without resentment, but clear enough to emphasize the contrast. Ayrton looked at him a second longer than necessary before replying.
—You haven’t changed that much.
Alain frowned with a half-smile.
—Don’t tell me I’m still insufferable.
For the first time in days, Ayrton let out a brief laugh, almost hidden in his breath.
—Not as much as you used to be. But it’s still there.
Alain made a mock-offended gesture.
—Such sweet words.
Ayrton shook his head, a shadow of a smile crossing his face, though something still lingered beneath it. As light as the conversation seemed, the underlying truth remained.
Ayrton was still here.
It was a thought Alain still hadn’t managed to fully grasp—not because it was hard to understand, but because it simply shouldn’t be possible.
It didn’t matter what words they exchanged. It didn’t matter that familiar gestures were starting to reemerge between them. Ayrton was still an unknown. An unresolved mystery.
And Alain couldn’t stay away from him.
The nights passed with the same restlessness as the first. Alain had now been in Imola for three days, and each one had brought him back to the church, facing the same silence, the same unanswered question.
Each night in his hotel room, the lack of answers kept him awake. The phone rested on the nightstand, the screen lighting up occasionally with notifications he didn’t check. Calls he didn’t answer, messages from his daughter, from colleagues, from acquaintances.
None of that mattered now.
The only thing circling in his mind was Ayrton.
How could he help him?
What was he going to do with him?
The most obvious option had crossed his mind more than once: contact his family. But every time he considered it, the thought faded before becoming real.
He didn’t know how to explain it. He didn’t know where to begin. What if they didn’t believe him? What if they thought it was madness?
No. It wasn’t just that. There was something more. Something Alain didn’t allow himself to examine. Because deep down, he didn’t want to share him just yet.
Without realizing it, that idea had taken deeper root in his mind. But he still couldn’t name it. He still couldn’t see it clearly. He only knew that each night, when exhaustion finally claimed him and his eyes closed, his last thought was of Ayrton.
The days at the church passed with a stillness impossible to find in the outside world. Ayrton had grown accustomed to the rhythm of the place, to the slow cadence of morning prayers, to the light filtering through the stained glass, to the sound of footsteps over ancient marble. But despite the apparent peace, his body was out of balance. His strength was fading with the lack of training. His skin, once marked by the sun and effort, looked paler.
He knew it. But he still couldn’t do anything about it.
He had tried to help with the church chores more than once, looking for some way to fill his time with something concrete. But they hadn’t let him. The priests were kind, deeply generous, but they treated him with a reverence that made him shudder.
As if he weren’t a man. As if he were something else. As if he were to be served, protected, honored.
Ayrton hated it. But he didn’t know how to stop it. And worst of all, despite his discomfort, he didn’t dare leave the church either. He could still feel the uncertainty of that first day in the city—the streets, the stares, the memories immortalized on every corner. He wasn’t ready to face it again.
So he spent most of his time wandering the cathedral, pacing the hallways, exploring the hidden corners between columns, letting his thoughts get lost in the pages of the Bible or in conversations with the priests. They weren’t conversations about faith, not necessarily. They spoke to him about their childhoods, the paths that had led them there. They told him stories of people who had found refuge in the church, of moments of doubt and revelation.
There was something human and sincere in the way they shared their lives with him. Ayrton listened with respect and attention. For the first time in a long while, the silence didn’t feel like an enemy.
One of the priests had lent him his phone. Smartphone, he repeated the word to himself—smartphone. Father Leandro had patiently taught him how to use it; the touch screen, the apps. The way everything seemed to exist within that little magical rectangle.
It was absurd. It was fascinating. It was a tangible reflection of the time that had passed without him.
Ayrton ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the device, exploring it with curiosity. Then, his mind drifted elsewhere.
He thought of Alain. Of how he had changed. Of the time reflected in his face, in his eyes, in his gestures. Of what remained unchanged. Because despite the years, Alain was still himself.
He smiled, without realizing it.
The church bells rang mid-morning as Alain stepped through the front doors.
Ayrton was there, as always. Not in prayer, not speaking with anyone. Just in silence.
But this time, Alain noticed something different in him. He had lost more weight than was reasonable. His movements were slower—not from exhaustion, but from a clear lack of routine. Ayrton wasn’t used to inactivity.
Alain approached him, but before he could say anything, Father Lorenzo appeared from the side corridor, already wearing the expression of someone with a decision made.
—Signor Prost.
Alain gave him a slight nod. The priest stopped in front of them, looking at Ayrton intently.
—You can’t stay here, cut off from the world.
Ayrton didn’t answer, but his body tensed slightly at the statement.
Alain glanced sideways at him.
—I’m not ready.
Father Lorenzo shook his head.
—You never will be if you keep hiding here.
Ayrton’s silence was enough for the priest to go on.
—Go out. Explore the city. Alain will go with you.
Ayrton’s eyes darkened with a mix of discomfort and reluctance.
—I don’t need to go out.
The priest smiled patiently.
—It’s not a matter of need. It’s a matter of reality.
Before Ayrton could reply, another priest approached, clearly in disagreement.
—Is it wise to allow this?
Father Lombardini, one of the most respected in the church, came forward with a stern expression.
—What if someone recognizes him?
—What if they come looking for him? —added another priest from the doorway.
Alain frowned, understanding the magnitude of the conflict. The clergymen protected him as though he were something sacred. As if Ayrton had to be hidden from the world.
Even Ayrton seemed to flinch at their words, the weight of his situation showing in the tension of his shoulders. But Father Moretti left no room for argument.
—He has to go out.
The others exchanged uncertain glances, but none dared to object. Father Lorenzo turned to Ayrton.
—Get dressed. Wear sunglasses, a cap. Cover your face with a mask if you like. But don’t wear the helmet.
Alain caught the stiff gesture in Ayrton’s posture.
—Why?
The priest held his gaze.
—Because you can’t live in hiding.
Ayrton exhaled slowly, glancing briefly at Alain. The Frenchman said nothing. He just watched, waiting.
Ayrton clenched his jaw, holding back the impulse to reject the idea. But then, without a word, he stood and left the room. It wasn’t acceptance, but it wasn’t refusal either. And that was enough.
The air outside the church had a different weight. It wasn’t the same as the one Ayrton had felt when he first arrived.
It was heavier. More definitive.
The sun struck the facades of the buildings with unyielding clarity, emphasizing the warm tones of old stone and the gleam of windows.
It was a city he knew. But it wasn’t the same.
He missed the place he had known, where cars weren’t so quiet. Where mobile phones weren’t glowing glass rectangles. Where shop windows didn’t project images with impossible sharpness.
Everything was recognizable, but nothing was the same.
Ayrton adjusted the mask over his face, the fabric tightening against his skin as he walked with careful steps. He didn’t look directly at Alain, but he could feel him nearby—closer than necessary. It wasn’t an invasive presence, but it was there. Watchful.
Alain didn’t say much—he just observed him. He didn’t lead the way, didn’t set a direction, but his movements were precise, as if he were alert, aware of something even he couldn’t fully identify. Ayrton barely furrowed his brow when he noticed the change in how Alain moved, how his presence carried a different weight.
The walk through the streets became a collection of silent pauses, moments where Ayrton stopped to process what he saw, to try to understand how the world had kept moving without him.
The traffic lights were no longer the same. The advertisements were faster, brighter. People’s gazes didn’t linger on storefronts; they stayed glued to their phones.
Ayrton felt annoyed noticing that no one seemed truly present in the city. Everyone was busy, trapped in something he couldn’t see: screens, messages, notifications. He was a stranger to all of it.
He exhaled slowly, letting the air filter through the mask, giving himself a moment to process what he was feeling.
A group of tourists passed by, immersed in their own worlds. They didn’t look. They paid no attention.
They didn’t recognize him.
The relief came with a contradictory sensation. He didn’t know if he wanted to be invisible or if he simply didn’t want to be what others expected of him.
Alain turned slightly, barely noticeable, as if he were measuring him without really intending to.
The Brazilian lowered his gaze. The silence between them carried a different weight. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was contained. It was something that didn’t yet have a name.
The walk had been longer than expected. Alain glanced sideways at Ayrton as they moved along the sidewalk, noticing the tension that still lingered in his gestures.
—We should have a coffee.
Ayrton turned to look at him, his expression more neutral than usual.
—I’m not hungry.
Alain let out a short laugh, as if the response didn’t surprise him at all.
—It’s not like you’re about to break a fast. Just coffee. Something light.
Ayrton didn’t reply immediately. His thoughts wandered to the food at the church—simple, tasteless, functional. He didn’t reject it, but he didn’t enjoy it either. Maybe, if he ate something that actually had flavor, it would be easier to force himself to eat. He sighed before nodding slightly.
Alain led him to a quiet café on a less crowded corner. The aroma of freshly ground coffee floated in the air, mingling with the sound of scattered conversations at nearby tables. The place wasn’t elegant, but it had a warmth that felt unexpectedly inviting.
The younger man paused for a moment at the entrance, taking in the details carefully. Before he could react, Alain walked toward a table and, without thinking too much about it, pulled out a chair for Ayrton.
The Brazilian blinked. It wasn’t a usual gesture for him. It wasn’t something he expected from Alain.
He sat down without saying anything, though his expression stayed puzzled for a few seconds longer than necessary.
While they waited for their order, Ayrton let his gaze drift around the place without really focusing. Then, a man seated at a nearby table caught Alain’s attention. He was middle-aged, modestly dressed, with a coffee in one hand and the other making a small gesture in their direction.
Alain raised an eyebrow when the man pointed at Ayrton with his finger. Then he gave a thumbs-up. Alain frowned, not understanding a thing. Ayrton didn’t either.
When the coffee arrived, he simply stared at his cup without much interest, stirring the liquid with a spoon without tasting it yet.
The Frenchman looked at him out of the corner of his eye, almost amused.
—Are you just going to stare at it or are you going to drink it?
Ayrton let out a faint snort but brought the cup to his lips.
The coffee had a strong, robust flavor—very different from what he usually had at the church. Much better.
He set the cup back down on the table and looked at Alain with a neutral expression.
—It’s good.
Alain let out a short laugh.
—That’s your elegant way of saying you finally tasted something decent.
Ayrton didn’t reply right away, but he took a piece of bread from the basket they’d been given at the table.
—The food at the church is… edible.
Alain rested his elbow on the table, watching him closely.
—Translation: tasteless.
Ayrton bit into the bread, keeping his gaze on him without confirming or denying the comment.
Alain smiled, openly showing his relief. For the first time in days, there was something in Ayrton that wasn’t completely held back.
—You should be eating better —Alain added, this time with a softer tone.
Ayrton took another sip of coffee before replying.
—Maybe if the food had more flavor, it’d be easier to do so.
Alain nodded approvingly, as if that was the answer he’d been hoping for.
The conversation flowed with unexpected ease—without the burden of doubt, without the weight of the time that had separated them. Just a moment of normalcy, something that, for a brief instant, felt real.
Ayrton set his cup down on the table and leaned back slightly in his chair.
—I never thought to ask you —he said, in a lighter tone—. But… how are your kids?
Alain blinked. The question caught him off guard, not because it was unexpected, but because he hadn’t stopped to think that Ayrton didn’t know that part of his life.
—Nicolas is doing well. You knew him when he was little.
Ayrton nodded.
—Yeah. He was just a few years old, right?
Alain smiled with nostalgia.
—Now he’s older than I was when we were racing.
Ayrton let out a short laugh, like the idea struck him as absurd.
—That’s ridiculous.
—It is —Alain agreed with amusement. —There’s also Sacha, my second son. And then there’s Victoria.
Ayrton tilted his head at the name.
—I don’t know her.
Alain leaned his elbow on the table.
—No. She was born a couple of years after you…
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Ayrton lowered his gaze, but his expression didn’t darken.
He just waited.
Alain exhaled gently before continuing.
—Victoria is brilliant. She’s strong-willed, smart.
He smiled.
—I think you two would get along.
Ayrton let the words settle in his mind. For some reason, the thought genuinely pleased him.
—Yeah?
—Yeah. She’s stubborn. Like you.
Ayrton let out a brief chuckle.
—I see you haven’t changed much.
Alain smiled sideways. The rhythm of the conversation was different now. More natural, more… light.
Ayrton took another sip of coffee and looked at Alain more intently.
—And you?
Alain furrowed his brow slightly.
—Me what?
Ayrton set his coffee down on the table.
—Your love life.
Alain felt a slight hitch in his pulse, not because of the question itself, but because he didn’t have a clear answer. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, glancing away for a moment.
—Bernadette’s doing well.
Ayrton raised an eyebrow.
—That doesn’t answer my question.
Alain let out a small, noncommittal laugh.
—Since when are you so inquisitive?
Ayrton didn’t press the point, but the way he smiled with a hint of mischief made it clear he’d picked up on something in Alain’s reaction.
The Frenchman quickly steered the conversation back.
—Let me tell you about the current drivers on the grid in our category.
Ayrton let out a short, almost theatrical sigh but allowed the topic to shift.
From that point on, the conversation flowed with greater ease. Ayrton smiled more often than Alain had expected. He laughed more than Alain remembered ever seeing him laugh. And Alain felt his heart race—with a happiness he hadn’t felt in years.