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In Formula 1, red was a good color; it was the color of Ferrari, it was everywhere and it was unavoidable. Sometimes Alex wondered, would his red be a good color?
It probably wouldn’t. His red wasn’t like Charles’s red, his red was dark and aggressive and painful and it stained the white sleeves of his fireproofs. Charles’ red was cheerful, it brought happiness to people. Charles likes his red. Alex’s red made him feel sick.
He didn’t like his red, not at all. It was a bad red, that scared people and pushed them away and made them unnecessarily worried. They didn’t need to worry, it was just a bit of red. Just a bit of red.
His red sometimes faded into black, into a maroon color on his skin and the black dots that obscured his vision and made people stare at him and ask him if he was fine. He was fine, why were they worried? Nobody could see his red, nobody could see his black, all they would see was his white.
White. It was all white. Usually people say that white is a calm and peaceful color. It usually was, but not so much when he made his red drip all over it. Sometimes white gave him headaches, when it was too much.
He was in a white room, white walls and furniture and sheets and he also was dressed in white. His arms were covered in white, they always were. They were red or they were white, sometimes they would be pink but not for long. They always came back to red or white. Angry red lines and comforting white gauze.
But sometimes, his red was the only thing that worked. When his chest felt too small and he couldn’t get the air in and he felt like he was going to die, red was the only thing that worked. The red that stained everything, no matter how hard he tried to contain it.
He couldn’t remember how he finished in that white room. His arms hirt, and when his eyes focused better he realized he wasn’t alone. George was there. If Alex was red, George was blue. Not Williams blue, not Red Bull blue, not Alpine blue. Just George blue, a calming presence that always made him feel safe.
George was there, he wasn’t alone. His friend came near him and sat down next to Alex, telling him something. But Alex couldn’t hear. Why couldn’t he hear him? Was he deaf? He could see his lips moving but couldn’t make out what he was saying.
And now he felt like he was being squeezed into an impossibly small tube, like he was being pulled apart and put back together all at once. He couldn’t breathe, his ears were ringing and his chest was hurting, he needed his red to calm down. Two strong hands closed around his wrists, keeping his hands apart. He had a scratch on his right hand, when did that happen?
He looked up at George, straing right into his beautiful eyes with his panicked ones. He couldn’t breathe, was he going to die? It didn’t feel like a good way to die, but George was there.
George was still saying things, sitting next to Alex and making him hug him. He wrapped Alex’s arms around his torso, making sure that he couldn’t scratch himself again, and made him put his head on his broad chest.
It was difficult to hear him over his frantic breaths - he hadn’t even realised how bad it was up until that moment -, but his steady heartbeat was there. It was there, beating loud and clear for him to hear. His chest moved up and down with each deep breath, and Alex tried to follow him.
It was hard, maybe he just couldn’t anymore. Maybe he just couldn’t anymore. Maybe he was dying and there was no stopping that, he was just going to die. He stopped trying, sobbing against George’s shoulder. He hadn’t even realised he was crying.
He needed his red, his red, his red was the way of breathing again.
«No, no, please listen to me.»
Was that George? He could hear him now, he could hear him. He just pressed his face on George’s chest more, wishing that maybe the Brit also realized that nothing could be done and would just let him die there.
In the white room. It wasn’t a nice place to die. George’s arms felt much safer, not like Alex’s own. His arms were red or white and bumpy, angry lines raised on his skin and made it irregular. He needed his red.
«-lex, can you hear me?»
George’s voice again. It was dragging him out of that black hole that compressed his chest and kept him from breathing. He didn’t want it to tough. He wanted to be left in the hole, he wanted to curl up in it and die.
«Alex, please, stop… don’t hurt yourself, focus on me,» George said, hugging him a bit closer and gently wiping his tears away.
George was nice. He was warm, and sometimes he could make his red go away. He was like the sun, he could warm everything up and make everything feel better. Maybe, maybe he should let him in. He should let him take Alex out of that hole. Even if it was only for a while, and as soon as he wasn’t there he would be craving his red again. Maybe he could let himself bask a bit in that sunlight, in that warmth.
«There you go, nice and easy, breathe. It’s okay, I’m here,» George said, soothingly rubbing his arms. Right over the white, that was over the red. But he wasn’t pressing, it didn’t hurt like it did when it was Alex doing it. And maybe this time Alex didn’t want it to hurt.
Or maybe he did, and he was mad at George for not letting him. How could his friend not understand how much he needed that now? He needed his red. He didn’t know how he ended up in that white room, he just knew that he needed his red and George wasn’t letting him have it.
He fought against the restraints, against George’s grip on his wrists. That felt nice. He couldn’t free himself, but the added pressure that George had to put in to keep him still hurt beautifully. It hurt so much, red blossoming on the white on his arms, that Alex wanted to cry. But it wasn’t because of how much it hurt. He wanted it to hurt more. He wanted it to hurt without getting the white dirty, the white had to stay clean.
He found mesmerising how easily his skin opened again around the red, letting it out from the tiniest amount of pressure. It was just like that now, his body didn’t have time to make the red lines go away and cover them with that ugly pink. Alex always made sure to keep the red on his arms, and now pressing on the lines was enough to let the red flow down them.
George didn’t get it, he couldn’t get it. And Alex wasn’t going to blame him for that, but he just wished that he tried to understand him. Then maybe he would let him go, if only he understood how good that made him feel.
His red wasn’t as ugly as people made it out to be, maybe his red was as comforting and warm as Charles’ red. But Charles’ red didn’t come from his body, Charles’ red was in his clothes and his car and his life. Alex’s red came out of him.
«Please, Ax, listen to me,» George said, holding him still and making sure he couldn’t take his red.
This time, Alex answered. He shook his head, he knew he would upset George but maybe one day he would understand him. Maybe one day George would also get how good his red was.
George had always been scared of Alex’s red, ever since he saw it the first time. And with time, it never changed. The only thing that changed was that Alex was starting to get scared of it too.
The red swallowed him, it drowned him and gave him no space to breathe. It was just like the dark hole, but the red could also bring him out of it. It killed him and gave him life at the same time.
He still couldn’t remember how he ended up in the white room, but probably it wasn’t a good story to know. Both of his arms were covered in white, probably because before they were red. Too much red. It hurt, and it wasn’t good this time. It just hurt, no pleasure. Nothing good. It didn’t bring him out of the hole, this time it just pushed him further into it.
Now that he could remember, he wished he didn’t. His mind was a mess, a dark place with pieces scattered all around. And sometimes, his mind would decide to hurt him, to make it worse. To break it a little but more, to break him a little bit more. To leave some more pieces around. And it was all painted with red, dark, deep red that covered everything.
He had finally calmed down, his racing mind slowing down a bit. He could see more clearly now, George looking down at him with a concerned but still sweet and affectionate look on his face.
«Hey, you better now?» he asked, keeping his voice low and sitting next to him again.
Alex nodded, his throath too dry to talk; and even if it wasn’t, he felt like he just couldn’t do it. Like someone had ripped his vocal cords out and had played with them before putting them back in, all tangled.
«You scared me there, do you want to talk about it?» George carefully took Alex’s hands in his own, pale skin contrasting with the beautiful tan George was sporting; bruised knuckles and perfectly smooth skin.
He shook his head, it was still all too raw, too new, a cut too fresh. Quite literally, he remembered, the pain on his arm making way in his mind and reminding him why he was there. Fuck. And now George knew how bad it was. He already knew what was happening, of course, but until now Alex had managed to mostly keep him out of this mess.
«Why?» the Brit just asked, softly rubbing his knuckles while looking him in the eyes in that worried and comforting way that was so painfully George.
Alex sighed, deciding to stare at the wall rather than in his eyes. It just made him feel too guilty about everything, and it was the last thing he needed. «It was too much,» he mumbled, his voice broken and raspy.
«But why… why didn’t you call me? You know I would have been there for you, I was right upstairs,» he said, hugging him and gently stroking his hair.
«I didn’t want to worry you…» he sighed, burying his face in his chest.
«We’ll make it through, okay? Together.»