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Franco didn't know what was wrong.
Or, he knew but he didn’t know what to do. Or how to fix it.
His drink had stopped working just a few laps after the start of the race. Monza wasn’t one of the hotter tracks, the heat was manageable, he could deal with it just fine. Sure, he had been dealing with a headache for the past couple of days, but it would be okay.
But his head was hurting so bad by lap 20, he didn’t really know what he was doing anymore. He had just enough mental clarity to be able to keep driving, helped by muscle memory.
When he got out of the car, he could barely see straight. He didn’t want to alarm anyone, so he tried his best to at least not walk like he was drunk or about to pass out, which was most likely what was happening.
He didn’t think about drinking something, which was probably one of the stupidest things he had ever done. He just half collapsed in his driver’s room, slumping on the massage table that could serve as a bad if needed. And now it was very much needed.
The time before they came looking for him seemed to be stretching for hours, vision blurring at the edge and swaying every time he tried to move. The nausea was settling deep in his stomach, tying it into knots that he didn’t know how to undo and squeezing tighter and tighter.
Still, when the poor PR dude Alpine had assigned to him came knocking on the door to tell him he had to go to the media pen for his interviews he didn’t say anything. He just brushed it off as being tired after the race, nothing more. Not the pounding headache and the nausea and the asfixiating feeling of being on the verge of falling off of the world’s tallest building.
Fuck.
He tried getting through the interviews as usual, he really did, replying with the humour that the fans loved so much. But it was hard to when all he felt where the cold chills running down his spine. Was he getting a fever too now? Maybe he had caught a virus or something.
His voice was getting weaker and weaker, it was hard to draw in breaths that felt like they were actually giving him oxygen. He wanted to cry so bad, trying to answer questions as much as he could. And as quickly as he could. He wanted to go back to his room, and thinking about the debrief with the mechanics afterwards only made him want to cry more.
He was tired. So, so, tired. Maybe he could lay down there, it didn’t sound like too much of a bad idea. Lay down in the middle of the media pen and take a second. Maybe from the floor he would be able to breathe better. His chest was painfully tight, not unlike when he spent the night awake wondering if he would have a seat for the season after. This time it was different though, like the reason behind it wasn’t anxiety clawing its way up from within.
Franco felt sick. Just sick. He stepped to the side, almost knocking over a couple of mics in the process. He didn’t want the cameras to see him like that, and it was all too bright and too loud and too much and- God he was falling. He stumbled and reached out to hold himself up against the wall, head spinning like he had spent the last five mintes running in tight circles. His PR agent made a step in his direction, worry written all over his face.
«Are you okay?»
The voice was distant, muffled, as if he had cotton stuffed in his ears. Fuck. He was gonna die. He was gonna die, he was gonna die, he was gonna die. His chest hurt, and the nausea that bubbled in his gut threatened to come up all at once. His head was pounding, and his vision filled with dark spots.
So this is how it ended.
Not like he had imagined it for sure, either peacefully in his home or while doing what he loved most. Surely not in the media pen, not like this.
He was slowly sliding down towards the floor, unable to keep himself up anymore, face pressed against the- wall, or whatever it was. It wasn’t properly a wall, he didn’t think so. He didn’t know. It was all spinning too fast, too much for him to process.
Someone took his left arm and pulled him back on his feet, stabilising him when his knees couldn’t hold him up like a baby deer’s ones.
«Careful, careful.» The person muttered, a thick French accent that sweetly rolled the ‘r’s. «Let’s get you to the driver’s room, mh? You don’t look too good.»
Pierre. It was Pierre. It had to be Pierre. His teammate had always been very careful with him, and he also looked out for him. And he knew where his driver’s room was. So it had to be him that was slowly helping him back to the garage, making sure he didn’t fall in the process.
«Throw up,» Franco mumbled, right behind the Alpine garage. «Gonna throw up.»
«Oh, shit.»
Soon enough, the Argentinian boy was doubled over, all the nausea he had been feeling finally finding a way out as he threw up what little he had eaten before the race. He coughed, throat feeling like parchment paper, dry and raw. He just wanted to cry. Cry, cry, cry. A strangled sob escaped from his lips, while Pierre brushed his hair back and cooed soft, reassuring words. There was a steady hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles that made him feel less like his stomach was going up into flames.
«Shh, shh, it’s okay now. Get it all out, then we’ll think about everything else,» Pierre comforted him. «It’s gonna be fine, okay?»
Franco nodded, muttering something Pierre couldn’t really understand. Now that the nausea was mostly gone, his head was hurting even more. He couldn’t understand what was wrong. He was thirsty now, but he didn’t want to drink. What if he felt sick again?
«Maybe I should take you to the medical center, mh? They’ll know what’s wrong and what to do to help you.»
The medical center wasn’t a nice place, but it was practical. They asked him questions he didn’t really know how to answer until they got something clare enough from him to understand that he was dehydrated. That was when Franco understood enough to know that maybe it wasn’t a good idea to not drink after the race. Especially when his dirk had failed not even midway through the thing.
Very smart, Franco, very smart.
They hooked him on a IV and told him to stay put, that it would probably take some hours before he started feeling better, and that after that he still had to take a day or two off before he could train and start doing tiring things again.
It was most likely dehydration, they said, when was the last time he had drank something? Maybe Saturday? He always forgot about it, only drinking a sip or two at lunch out of habit or when his trainer reminded him.
The constricting feeling against his chest stopped after one hour, breathing coming easier into his lungs. The nausea faded after two, and after three they let him go back to his hotel.
The headache was still there, still thumping heavily against his skull, but after a good night’s sleep - as good as it could get when he tossed and turned all night - and being forced to drink at least two liters of water, it went away as well.
Safe to say, he would not forget to drink again soon.