Chapter Text
The fallout of the crash is a blur.
Alphonse feels the world return to him in muted waves; The oppressive silence of the circuit. A fire raging on. One man who emerges from the ashes, defiant.
When Byron stumbled out of the wreckage, every single cell in Alphonse’s body screamed to meet him halfway- the only thing stopping him was the flock of EMTs who herded him into the ambulance when he refused to be carried on a stretcher. Always the performer, Alphonse thought in the back of his mind as they took him away, blood roaring in his ears. He lurched to follow, driven by a need to see Byron behind closed doors, but was caught by a hand on his shoulder. Alphonse didn’t need to turn to see who it was.
“Where are you going? The race restarts once they fix the barrier.”
Alphonse stilled. I have to be with him, he wanted to say, to shake off Burkin’s touch. Then, a voice emerged, more damning than the other: Why you?
“Make sure he’s alright.” He muttered, retreating back to the pit without facing his principal. He felt Burkin’s shadow pass him by as he left.
The race carries on like a vision- his hands fixed in a prayer at the helm. Gravity drives into his body, angry welts that strike against him as he carves into the apex of each turn and Alphonse wonders if the forces could tear his heart out his chest. The laps blur in his mind and suddenly, it’s over. The crowd is deafening, cheering for their fifth time champion. He climbs out of the hull, the world closing in on him like he’s something holy.
Alphonse leaves the podium before the roar of the applause dies down.
He manages to wrangle the hospital’s address from Burkin as he berates him for his ‘behavior at the podium’ and gets there in record time. The receptionists are almost too caught up in congratulating his win to tell him where his teammate- his partner- is. He bites back a snappy remark when they finally direct him to the room. Burkin’s long gone, off basking in the light of starving journalists, and Alphonse is relieved to not have to deal with his double-edged words and expectant stares.
He steps into the room and his breathing stops. The curtains are parted, midday sun streaming through, golden and slow. An assemblage of machines and wires chirp steadily, hooked to a single unit. And there Byron was, laying in the bed with sunlight draped across his sleeping features. He’s beautiful, Alphonse thinks unbidden. He shouldn’t be here.
Byron shifts and for a moment, Alphonse fears he has awoken him. A beat later and he realizes he's shivering. Alphonse is already shedding his jacket as a memory lapses in his mind, of windy nights and shared coats. He drapes the fabric over Byron's chest- hospital regulations be damned- and Byron stops shaking instantly. If he squints, his expression almost seems to have softened.
Alphonse settles into the chair as quietly as he can, afraid to shatter the tentative peace of the room. Adrenaline is one hell of a drug to come down from- Byron doesn’t even stir. To anyone else, he would appear unharmed, save for the bandages wrapped around his hands. But Alphonse knows better- knows the strained lines of his body as Byron smiled through the tragedy of it all, the grim understanding that the outcome was already written into his bones. You don’t just walk away from death like that. Not unscathed.
He never saw the crash. Kilometres of streaking asphalt, 10 laps to go with the world buzzing around him then suddenly, the circuit erupted in cacophony. Alphonse could barely hear the garage through his comms before a sinking feeling plummeted in his stomach.
“It’s a red flag, Ford has hit the barrier. Get to the pit lane-”
The rest stutters into static. Alphonse vaguely recalls swerving his car around, clambering out of the cockpit as a swarm of hands held him back from the raging fire, being dragged into the pit lane and watching uselessly from behind a fibreglass wall.
Now he sits, heartbeats away from Byron, still useless as ever. Alphonse closes his eyes, hands gripping the armrests, and tries to remember how to breathe. This kind of thing doesn’t happen to guys like Ford- guys who always played it safe, guys who had something to lose, a family-
Alphonse’s eyes shoot wide open and his pulse rockets. His family. Valerie and Chloe- has anyone-? His hands fumble for his phone, shut off before the race like it always is. His stomach fills with lead when he powers it on to a dozen missed calls and frantic texts. His fingers are shaking when he redials the number. The tone doesn’t even reach the second ring.
“Val-”
“Is he okay, Al?” The voice rushes out, hoarse like she’s been crying. Alphonse’s eyes sting and his throat closes up.
“He’s- he’s alive. I’m in the hospital with him right now.” Alphonse chokes out, his gaze falling onto the resting figure before him, unaware of the turmoil in the waking world. Does he know how many people love him? “He’s going to be fine, Val. It’s going to be alright.” The words feel flat in his mouth.
Something rustles on the other side of the line. “That idiot- I always told him he was gonna end up…” She sniffs wetly, betraying the bite of her words. “My mom’s watching Chlo and I’m heading to the airport right now.”
Alphonse nods numbly. “Do you need me to-”
“Pick me up? No, no, your… manager? He has it covered.”
Burkin. Of course. A strange lump lodges itself in Alphonse's chest. He should be glad that he has the situation under control, the watchful eyes on his back. But the relief never comes.
In his silence, Valerie continues, sounding smaller than she's ever been. “I have to go. Make sure he's alright, okay?”
“I will.” He murmurs instinctively and the line goes dead. The drone of the heart monitor pulses in his ears.
Alphonse shoves his phone back into his pocket, jumping slightly when cold metal grazes his skin. The clawing in his throat returns with a vengeance as he slowly takes the object out, a long chain falling over his glove. In his palm sits a silver ring and he turns it over his fingers. The etchings glitter in the sun like stars.
To the finish line.
Alphonse stopped going to church years ago, when Burkin took him under his wing and hours spent in the pews turned into hours on the circuit. He can just barely remember the scent of incense lingering on his skin, light pouring through yawning arches in reverence. Prayers now a lost language on his tongue, Alphonse clasps the chained ring with both hands and brings them to the crown of his head- elbows digging into his thighs. He squeezes his eyes shut.
Are you there, God? It's me. His breath falters. I don't know what to do.
The indents of the ring burn in the flesh of his palm. He grips the beads tighter. In the absence of saints and martyrs, the silhouette of a wrecked chassis and Byron's figure carve into his mind.
I don't know what to do without him.