Ethical Madness

It's past five fucking AM as I'm typing this ficlet up in the ljapp. I was snuggled up in bed, all ready for sleep (duels with the bastard mosquito in my room notwithstanding) when the effing muse hit me over the head and I had to lunge for the iPod and start typing. FML! Argh. And I feel a headache coming on. Brilliant.

Title: Untouchable
Pairing: Michael/Ayrton, unrequited
Rating: G/PG, surprisingly enough. I don't think this is comm material so I'll keep it here^^
A/N: Written at 5am on the iPod and unbetad, of course it might not make sense! Also, this in memory of my WriMo :p Also, angsty with a side of almost emo? Also, omg comments! They are my ambrosia.

You wake up with his name on your lips on the morning that marks the anniversary of his death. It's been fifteen years and yet you still dream of him. You can't keep your thoughts away from him when you are sleeping. It is the only time when your mind and heart betray you for they are kept in check when you are awake, your memories and thoughts of him stored in neat little boxes that are hidden in the more obscure parts of your brain.

Today is a holiday, ironically enough, so it is too early to wake Corinna and the children up. You leave the warmth of your bed after pressing the softest of kisses to your wife's forehead, seeking refuge in the kitchen that is brightly lit by the newborn sun.

You put the kettle on and make yourself a strong cup of tea. Coffee would only make you more fidgety than you already are and it wouldn't do to be too restless when your family joins you for breakfast.

The laptop greets you in a way that seems much too merry and you check various news websites before opening another and being slapped over the face with what you have come to call "Gerhard's annual eulogy."

You read it despite the feeling of rising bile in your stomach. All very beautiful and tear-wrenching, as usual. Every year, reporters flock to Gerhard for a few words about Ayrton. After all, Gerhard is the Ayrton connoisseur, Ayrton's best friend, Ayrton's secret-not-so-secret lover, the one who had taught Ayrton how to laugh, quote, end quote.

You don't know whether to scowl or throw the laptop out the window and you decide on a run around the house to keep your thoughts focused on other things.

The morning air is fresh and it smells of the summer that is almost upon you, the scent of flowers and sunlight and mountains penetrating your lungs with a balmy effect.

You inhale deeply and break into a jog. You haven't brought your sunglasses or your headphones, craving the blinding clarity that sunlight offers and the sounds of waking nature.

You try to block out all thoughts, but he still intrudes in your mind, his face as clear as always, never fading in your memory, deep brown eyes, full lips curving into that beautiful smile, the smile that was reserved for wins and Gerhard, never for you, but you witnessed it enough times to remember it perfectly.

You wish the pain weren't still so vivid, like a succession of kicks in the gut. It's been fifteen years and you still miss him. The bastard has had too big an effect on your life and you find yourself wishing for the millionth time that he would have never noticed you, that he would have sticked to his Gerhard and kept you out of it all. He did promise he'd ruin your life but you hadn't expected him to keep that vow even from beyond the grave. He haunts when you'd rather forget all about him. You'd hate him more than you've ever hated anyone if you wouldn't still love him. He's the pathetic crush you've never gotten over and you despise yourself for it.

Ayrton has no room in your perfectly ordered life, the feelings you harboured for him for two straight years notwithstanding. He loved Gerhard. He played with you because it kept him entertained, especially as it was a way to make you bend to his will on and off track. He couldn't kill you when you got better results than him so he used you like a whore and then went off to spend his time with Gerhard. And still you loved him. You loved him like a mindless teenager and he's still in your head now. Fifteen years later and still lovesick.

You did your best to beat him on track but in bed you would have done anything for a glimpse of affection in his eyes. You would have begged him to hold you and kiss you like he did Gerhard if your pride hadn't kept you from uttering the words.

You still remember the night before he died, when you walked out from your motorhome only to see him with his head on Gerhard's shoulder, love written in every pore of their skin as they gazed at each other. He'd pushed you away with your attempts at comfort earlier that day, claiming that he wanted to be alone.

You never told anyone. You don't have the necessary words in your vocabulary to explain how much it hurt then, how much it still hurts now. When Gerhard lashed out at you publicly for smiling on the podium after his crash you felt the urge to cry like a silly little mistreated child, both for the pain of Ayrton's loss and for the cruel injustice of the accusation.

It should all be water under the bridge by now. Gerhard's the rightful widow. You're simply one of Ayrton's many rivals, not outstanding in any way. You've no right to him.

If only you could forget, if you could erase all memories of how he felt, steel silk, of how he smelt, sunlight and ocean, of how he tasted, salt and victory. If only you could never recall how he looked like when he was inside you.

If only Gerhard wouldn't read your emotions like an open book whenever he sees you, pity and regret written in his eyes. He's never brought the subject up. He knows you'd strangle him if he did, with the utmost pleasure. He's not stupid but you wish he wouldn't know so much about what you would rather have lost at Tamburello along with Ayrton. Memories are no good when loved ones are lost, especially when they couldn't have cared less about your feelings in life.

You bring up the pace of your run, your feet moving almost of their own accord, your body setting into that rhythm you feel comfortable in.

The house is still asleep when you return, but your mobile phone is ringing incessantly, vibrating noisily against the wood of the kitchen table.

Gerhard's name blinks at you from the display and you stare at it for a few seconds before walking past the table and towards the nearest bathroom for a shower that will rinse off the sweat and the memories.

Some things are better left buried. Gerhard should know it.

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