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VI

The steady beep of a monitor reached his ears, the murmur of concerned but professional voices flitted about his surroundings, and it was, in general, a relatively quiet scene. Francesco just felt his entirety nearly pulse with an aching pain and he forced himself not to move as his back protested with several sharp stings. Awkwardly fidgeting into a more comfortable position, he slowly blinked his eyes open, staring up at ths pristine white ceiling before he properly registered where he was.

The hospital, clearly; but why?

Taking in a deep breath, the cool air from the oxygen mask strapped to his face seemed to chill him from the inside out. A faint disinfectant scent as well.

Definitely the hospital.

He tried to remember why on Earth he was in hospital; trying to remember the events that led up to his rather less-than preferable state.

Didn't he crash? Something along those lines anyways; a flaming wreckage doing somersaults in the air before taking a very sudden stop on the dirt with him still sitting inside the bloody thing.

Well, he would have been flung straight out had it not been for his seatbelt strapping him - trapping him - in his own perfect burning chariot from Hell.

With his entirety still aching, he let his eyes shut again, the steady beeping of the monitor lulling him into a dreamless sleep. 'I'll remember later,' he thought to himself, drifting off as a small part of him hoped that there would be a 'later' for him to live in.

----

McQueen had come in hoping that the Italian racer would be up by now; he even brought some churros from the café downstairs in case he was hungry. Alas, he missed the brief minute that he was awake.

Pulling up a seat, he sat down with a gentle sigh, leaning back and wondering what on Earth had happened to cause this. The doctors had said that Francesco had been lucky; smoke inhalation was limited due to his helmet, he wasn't too badly burnt, and he would've sustained a lot worse if he actually had been thrown out his car like a lone leaf caught in the wind.

Let's just say nobody wanted to imagine what the worst scenario would have been.

McQueen ran a hand through his blonde hair exasperatedly, giving his head a small shake as to not fall asleep in his seat. He hadn't bothered to check what time it was; he had told his crew he was either going to be late back or just not return for the night at all, so that was sorted. Shifting forwards, he propped his arms on his knees, almost tipping forwards into sleep himself as he listened to the constant and steady beeping of the monitor.

He couldn't help but stare at the wires and tubes that tangled their way around the bed, some connecting to nothing, others sticking to the racer laying there unconscious and taking God-knows what readings to make sure he was still alive. The oxygen mask steadily fogged up with the small breaths he took, and, for now, that was good enough.

Instead, McQueen took this time to try to think back on the race, mere moments after he saw the formula car in front of him go up in flames and do very extreme gymnastics off the track and onto the dirt. He wondered why he didn't instantly yank his wheel to the side to follow; maybe then Francesco wouldn't have lost as much blood as he did from that wound on his side; then Francesco wouldn't have asked about the finish line, and he wouldn't have to answer.

He sighed softly again, physically feeling the day slow down. The steady breaths, fogging up the oxygen mask only for it to clear a second later, breathing meant he was alive; the steady beeps of the monitor, the heartrate, alive. Perhaps not entirely well and in the best of shape, but alive.

His eyes slowly drifted shut as he grew more tired iwith every passing minute, and he simply focused on how steady things seemed to be.

Steady breaths fogging the mask.

Steady beats of the monitor.

His surroundings blurring as he slowly drifted off.

The constant beat of the monitor.

He stopped.

The constant, singular hum of the monitor.

He snapped awake, nearly tripping over himself and the masses of wires as he smacked his hand onto the button that called for medical assistance.

If there was one thing he knew was not meant to be still and constant, it was the normally irritating sound from that blasted monitor.

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