Chapter Text
Rouen, late summer 2000
“Tata!”
Pascale looks up from where she’s hidden away under an umbrella, shielding herself from the burning midday sun while trying to finish the book she started months ago. Worry creeps up on her when she sees the little girl running at her at full speed, arms flailing as she tries to keep her balance on the bumpy field of grass, skidding to a halt that almost has her crashing into the lounge chair Pascale’s sitting on.
“Tata!” The girl is panting now, her eyes wide and pointing somewhere behind her, “He climbed up the tree- And- And I told him not to- And,” a sob escapes her then, “And he fell, Tata. And now he’s crying. And-”
“Oh shit,” Pascale curses quietly, on her feet in an instant, stepping into the flip flops she kicked off just minutes before. She crouches down then, her hands cupping the hot, tear-stained cheeks of her best friend’s four-year old daughter, trying to calm down the little girl somewhat even though the attempt is futile. “It’s going to be ok, ma puce,” Pascale tries as she scoops up the little girl and heads towards her son.
Pierre’s wails get louder the closer she gets and she tries to tell herself that’s a good thing, because at least he’s still conscious. Right? She doesn’t know how bad it is, doesn’t know if he’s broken an arm, or a leg, or- She doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to assume the worst even though it’s hard not to. The little girl directs her to a group of trees on her right and it’s then she sees her son standing there, feeling very sorry for himself no doubt, and a wave of relief washes over her.
Pascale kisses the little girl on the cheek before she sets her down, “You did good, sweetie.” She shakes her head at Pierre then, but there’s no hiding the relieved smile that tugs on her lips because even though he looks an absolute mess she doesn’t see any serious injuries. His hair is sticking up in every direction and she spots at least two twigs and a handful of leaves sticking to his dirty blonde locks, his jeans are ripped from where he must have landed on his knees, and his hands are covered in dirt but that’s about the worst of it. She kneels down and puts her hand under his chin, to make him look up at her, “Are you ok?”
Pierre nods and so Pascale tuts, “What did you do, mon chou?”
Her son’s shoulders sag in defeat, his eyes looking down at his feet, and his voice is barely above a whisper when he says, “I fell.”
Pascale doesn’t say anything, trying to see if he’ll tell her what really happened on his own.
He does, “I fell from the tree.”
Pascale lets out a sigh, one she exaggerates just a little to get her point across, “What did I tell you about climbing trees?”
“I’m not allowed,” Pierre hangs his head even lower, not wanting to look at her.
“Exactly.” Pascale holds out her arms to him then and when he steps into her embrace she pulls him close, “No more climbing trees, mister.”
He nods against her shoulder.
“What did you say?”
“No, maman,” he says, the reply whispered into her ear.
“Good,” she lets go of him and holds out her hand, “let’s go get you cleaned up.” Pascale holds out her other hand to the little girl, “Come on, ma puce.”
They’re about halfway to the house when suddenly the little girl cries, “Am not!”
“Am too!” Pierre yells back, throwing her a look that is far too accusing for a four-year old, their whispered argument from just moments before now a screaming match that Pascale has heard many times before.
“Am not,” the little girl says again, sounding a little more defeated now and Pascale can tell she’s on the brink of tears.
She lets go of the two little ones and lines them up next to each other, giving each of them a stern look, “What’s going on?”
Pierre sticks his chin out, not saying anything, but the little girl quietly sobs, “He says I’m a tattletale.”
“Pierre,” Pascale warns him, one eyebrow raised to get her point across.
“She is,” Pierre replies solemnly.
“Because she went and got me?” Pascale tries, even though she already knows the answer.
Pierre nods, “Yes.”
“Oh honey,” Pascale smiles and ruffles Pierre’s hair. “She’s not a tattletale for coming to get me. What if you were seriously injured, hmm?”
“Yeah, but-”
“No, mon chou,” Pascale shakes her head. “She’s your best friend and that’s what best friends do. They look out for each other.”
XXX
Les Côtes, December 28, 2021
It’s a little after five in the afternoon and the sun has just begun to set, the light disappearing even faster now that you are driving through a dense patch of forest. Your navigation tells you to take the next right in that annoying voice of hers and so you shut it off because after twenty plus years of coming here you can make the drive down from Rouen to here pretty much with your eyes closed anyway. You only had it on to help you navigate the detours between Orleans and Bourges, the roadworks there adding an extra hour to what was already going to be a six-hour drive.
When you make the final turn onto Les Côtes something heavy settles in your chest while at the same time there is an onslaught of butterflies fluttering around in your stomach and so you’re a little confused by the melting pot of emotions you’re feeling right now even though it has been brewing ever since you got into the car this morning.
The driveway up to the house is narrow and so you keep your eyes peeled in front of you in case any wildlife decides to dart out of the forest and onto the dimly lit road. You’ll never forget the rabbit your Dad hit a little bit further up the road. You must have been seven or eight and you were absolutely inconsolable when you found out the poor thing hadn’t survived. When your Dad joked you should take it back to the house so Mamie could use it for her famous rabbit stew you refused to get back into the car until your Mom promised she’d go back to pick up the rabbit and give him a proper burial in the backyard instead.
The memory disappears from your mind when the big house comes into view and then another emotion is added to the mix, one you prefer to focus on for now because it’s the best feeling in the world. The feeling of coming home.
You pull up not much later and before you can even honk the horn to let them know you’ve arrived the front door opens and Pierre comes rushing at you, a boyish grin plastered on his face and his arms outspread. You hardly have time to unbuckle your seatbelt and get out of your car before he throws himself at you, making you stumble backwards a bit from the sheer force of his hug.
“Took you long enough,” he teases, but his voice is barely above a whisper and too full of emotion for you to take it personally.
Instead you wrap your arms around him and pull him close because it really has been too long, “God, I’ve missed you.”
He lets out a shaky breath, “Missed you too, Flo.”
You smile at the use of your nickname, which is so connected to him and to this place that it makes the tears that have been burning in your eyes all day finally spill over. You try to blink them away but know it’s a futile attempt and so instead you just relish in the hug a little longer. When you finally pull back you see his eyes are a little glossed over as well and so you stick out your tongue at him while you wipe your own tears away, “Don’t go soft on me now, Gas.”
He makes a face at you before he presses a kiss to your cheek, “It’s just good to have you back.”
“Yeah,” you nod, “it is.” When he lets go of you, you reach into the car and grab the package you brought him from where it’s been sitting in the passenger’s seat and hand it to him with a smile, “Here. Merry belated Christmas.”
He turns the oddly shaped package over in his hands and you can see his smile growing wider when the realisation hits, “You didn’t!”
“I did,” you counter with a wink. “How could I not?”
“But how? When did you go to-”
“I didn’t,” you say as you bump your shoulder against his on your way to the trunk to take out your suitcase. “Got it online.”
“Really?” He tears through the wrapping paper rather unceremoniously, pumping one fist in the air when he sees his present, and lets out a rather obscene groan, “Oh my God, I love you!”
“I know,” you say as you gently pat his arm before you hand him a big grocery bag, “There’s another two in here, so-”
“I won’t have to share?” His eyes light up and he lets out a cackle, “If Pyry finds out I ate an entire Galette des rois by myself he is going to kill me.” He gently flicks your arm, “And you, for giving it to me.”
“Pfft,” you scoff, “I can take Pyry. No problem.”
Pierre laughs even harder then, “No you can’t.”
“I totally can.”
“Flo-” he counters with a grin, shaking his head.
“Yeah, ok, no. I can’t,” you agree quietly, knowing all too well you’ve got nothing on Pierre’s trainer who absolutely towers over you and looks like he could break you in half if he wanted to. He wouldn’t, because if anything he’s just a big softy, but still. No need to take any chances.
Pierre hands you the grocery bag back then, taking your suitcase out of the trunk instead, and nods towards the house, “Come on.”
XXX
Are you surprised to find Pierre’s mom in the kitchen, quietly singing along to some Jacques Brel song? No. Not really anyway, because in every memory you have of this place and these family vacations, Pascale, just like your Mom, is somehow always tied to the kitchen.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” Pierre says from somewhere over your shoulder as he gently pushes you forward.
The next moment almost happens in slow motion, Pascale turning around and wiping her hands on the tea towel that’s tucked into the side of her apron, a wide smile on her face as she holds out her hands to you, “Ma puce.”
You step into her embrace with an equally wide smile, your chin resting on her shoulder comfortably, “Salut Tata.” It’s been a few weeks since you last saw her but it is as if no time has passed, her hug as warm and comforting as ever, “I’ve missed you,”
She lets go of you then but keeps her hands on your arms, her eyes wandering down from your head to your toes and back up before her eyes find yours, “You ok?”
“Yeah,” you nod, “I am now that I’m back here.”
Pascale eyes you suspiciously but doesn’t push it. She doesn’t really have to either because she knows you’ll tell her eventually anyway. It’s always been like that. As a teenager you’d often go to Pascale with whatever problem you were having because instead of judging you she listened and let you talk your way through whatever it was you were dealing with at that time. You know it frustrated your Mom to no end and looking back it might have been a bit unfair to rather talk to your Mom’s best friend than to her, but isn’t that what all teenagers do? If anything, you remember Pierre did the same thing and always went to your Dad for advice. “We’ll catch up over dinner, ma puce. Now go,” she says with a wave of her hand, effectively dismissing you, “Tonton is over there somewhere-” she nods towards the living room, “-go say hi.”
“You sure you don’t want me to help with dinner?” You already know there is a very detailed roster somewhere that tells each and every one of you exactly when you are expected to do what and where, and you doubt she’s put you on it for today but still you offer.
“Oh no, no. Not tonight.” She points at her son, “Pierre is on kitchen duty with me. And it’s only the five of us anyway, so it shouldn’t take too long.”
“And yet there’s still a three-course meal going out,” Pierre mutters under his breath, shaking his head, and you can’t help but laugh when Pascale throws him a warning look.
When you pass Pierre you throw him a wink and whisper a quiet, “Good luck,” knowing all too well Pascale takes no prisoners when it comes to her cooking or her planning. You make your way to the living room but you only find Katerina there, curled up on one of the big couches, with a book in her lap. You’ve met here once before, at the Qatar Grand Prix earlier this year which Pierre invited you and his parents too as well, and so you’re quick to make your way over to her, “Hi.”
“Hi,” she responds with a smile, getting up to give you a hug.
“How have you been?”
“Good.” She waves her hand around, “You weren’t lying-” she says, referring to the talk you had with her back in the paddock, “-it really is a gorgeous house.”
“It is.” The house has been in the Gasly family for generations and it's where you would celebrate New Year’s Eve ever since you were born, the annual trips always one of the highlights of the year for you. If anything, the place holds a lot of memories and maybe that’s why you’re still so torn between whether to feel happy or sad to be back here.
“How was your trip down here?”
“Good.” Then with a smile, “I always forget how long the drive down actually is, but it’s good to be back here.”
“Pierre’s Dad is over there,” Katerina says then, with a nod of her head, as if she knows she wasn’t the one you were looking to find per sé.
“Thank you,” you mouth quietly, promising her you’ll have plenty of time to catch up later before you make your way to the dining room where you find Pierre’s Dad squatting in front of the fireplace, trying to nurse what seems to be a dying fire back to life by softly blowing on the glowing embers. You keep quiet for a second, leaning against the doorframe as you watch him for a while.
“Tonton?” Your voice is a little rough and just as you’re about to clear your throat to try again Jean-Jacques looks at you from over his shoulder, a tender smile forming on his lips.
You watch him as he gets up with a groan and you think you hear him curse getting older as he turns around and makes his way to you but still his smile never wavers. He wraps his arms around you so gently that it’s almost as if he’s afraid you’ll break if he isn’t careful, the polar opposite of the way Pierre hugged you not even ten minutes ago. He’s always been like this, has always been extra gentle with you, but even more so after that dark July day all those years ago, when he promised that from there on he would take care of you as if you were his own. “Salut, ma petite.”
“Hi,” you reply, your voice a little muffled by the fabric of his sweater.
“I’m glad you came,” he admits easily as he lets go of you and, like Pascale did earlier, holds you at arm’s length for a little longer. “It’s been, what, three years since you were here last?”
You nod, “Yeah.”
“You’ll be fine,” he tells you with a wink. “I’ll make sure he behaves.”
You can’t help but laugh, knowing all too well it isn’t Pierre he’s talking about, and press a kiss to his cheek as a thank you before you nod towards the fire, “Need a hand with that?”
Jean Jacques chuckles, “Oh no, sweetheart, that’s ok.” A wink then, “Wouldn’t want to stray away from Pascale’s roster already on the first day, now would we?”
XXX
With a somewhat heavy heart you make your way upstairs, your suitcase in one hand while the other holds on to the handrail to try and keep your balance. Your room, the one that has been solely yours for the past seven years, is right across the landing and so before you know it your hand hovers over the handle and you try to summon the courage needed to enter. It’s just a bedroom, you try to tell yourself, just a place for you to sleep, nothing special. Problem is, last time you slept here was with him and you know the memories that have threatened to surface ever since you got here will more likely than not come rushing at you once you open that door.
Taking a deep breath, trying to find the courage needed, you push the handle down, open the door and step inside. An instant wave of relief washes over you when you notice the picture frames you were dreading to see are no longer there, the shelves and nightstand empty except for the picture of you and your parents, and you can only assume the rest of them are safely stored away in the small cardboard box that’s sitting on your bed. You wonder who’s packed them away for you, figured it must have been Pascale and remind yourself to thank her for it later.
Deciding you’ll unpack later tonight you push your suitcase into a corner somewhere and walk to the ensuite bathroom instead, figuring you should probably freshen up a bit before you head down for dinner. After splashing some cold water on your wrists and face you search around for a towel, finally finding one in the cabinet under the sink. Just as you take it out a small blue glass bottle catches your eye and a quiet, “Oh,” escapes you.
Just seeing it brings on a rush of memories but then it’s like your body has a mind of its own as you find yourself reaching for the bottle of cologne and bringing it up to your nose. The familiar scent hits you almost immediately and it’s too much. Memory after memory of him and your time together run through your head and you can feel tears starting to form in your eyes. Fuck.
Looking at yourself in the mirror you shake your head and wipe away the few tears that have spilled over, determined to pull yourself together so that when you finally do see him again tomorrow, for the first time after you broke up, you can at least try to pretend everything’s fine.
XXX
Dinner is a long affair but still only a taste of what is to come when twelve more adults and a handful of kids arrive over the next two days, but you don’t mind. You’ve always loved these long, drawn out dinners with the Gasly’s. You are glad it’s just the five of you tonight though, because it gives you a chance to catch up with Pierre and his parents in relative peace.
Pierre is doing most of the talking, animatedly telling Katerina about the five years he spent racing karts because even though she didn’t really ask him about it, that’s never stopped him before. He loves to relive his karting days, not in the least because it was such a big deal in both of your lives from an early age. More often than not you’d be by his side during the race weekends, mostly because you had your own races to compete in but also because your Dad worked as a car mechanic and loved to tinker around with yours and Pierre’s karts in his free time, always trying to improve their performance.
“God, remember that time your Dad made some ‘adjustments’-” Pierre air-quotes the word, “-to my kart and I almost went flying off the track in Reims?”
You can’t help but laugh, remembering all too well how spooked Pierre was after that first training session, his eyes wide and unsure whether he should be scared or thrilled at the speed he suddenly had. “It took Dad years to admit he might have overdone it,” you tell Katerina with a smile. Looking back at Pierre you narrow your eyes, “Didn’t you ask him to-”
“-put it back to its original settings?” Pierre nods but then points at Pascale, “But only ‘cause she made me.”
“That thing was a deathtrap,” Pascale says, shaking her head as she starts clearing out the plates so she can serve dessert. She laughs then and looks at you, “Your mother gave him a pretty big scolding after that race if I remember correctly. I think he even slept on the couch for a few nights.”
“Really?” You feel your eyes widen, because this is brand new information. It sounds like something your Mom would do though and so you don’t for a second doubt that it’s true. It’s both wonderful and a little heartbreaking how even after all these years you still learn new things about your parents, you think as you sit back in your chair, not missing the way Pierre sends you a comforting wink to let you know he gets it.
Katerina stays quiet and you’re not sure if she knows but it doesn’t really feel like now is a good time to bring it up either and so you don’t say anything, instead listening to Pierre’s Saint Amand story, where he won only because the two leaders pushed each other off the track in the last lap. You’ve heard the story many times before, could probably recite it word for word if you had to, but still love the way he tells it, all wild gestures and wide eyes. Katerina simply listen and even though both you and Pierre try your best to make her a part of the conversation you know it’s not easy for a newcomer to even begin to understand the sort of shorthand you’ve developed with Pierre over the years, often needing nothing more but a look to know what the other wants to say. Even his parents don’t understand what is going on half of the time.
Maybe you should spend some time alone with her, you think, because even though you spoke a little during the Qatar Grand Prix, you spent most of your time roaming the paddock, both looking for and trying to avoid certain familiar faces. You excuse yourself and leave the table, making your way to the kitchen where you find Pascale plating the desserts, “Tata?”
“Yes, ma puce?”
“Do you have the roster somewhere?”
“It’s on the fridge in the pantry,” she says as she points over her shoulder. “Why?”
“I’d like to take Katerina to Issoire tomorrow,” you start. “I still need a dress for the party and I figured it would be a nice opportunity to get to know her a bit better.”
“I think I put you on breakfast together with Katerina,” she says with a smile. “So after that you are free to go.”
“Ah, perfect,” you say, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Thank you.”
“You are very kind to do that,” she tells you, her voice soft. Her expression changes then and she cups your cheek with her hand, “Your parents would be so proud of you, sweetheart. I just know it.”
You let yourself lean into her touch but don’t say anything, not really trusting your voice right now.
“I know it is not always easy and I know you were hesitant about coming here again, but I’m glad that you did. It would not be the same without you.” She throws you a warm smile, “It was weird not having you here two years ago.”
“Yeah,” you agree quitely. When Pascale gives your cheek one last squeeze before she drops her hand you easily admit, “I just couldn’t- It would have been-”
“Shh,” she tells you with a shake of her head, “no need to explain, ma puce. Believe it or not I have gotten my heart broken once or twice and I would have done probably the same thing.”
“Thank you.” You remember the box on your bed then, “And thank you for cleaning up my room. I was not looking forward to that.”
She chuckles and you’re a little confused at her reaction but then she tells you, “That wasn’t me, sweetheart. Pierre did that.”
XXX
Monza, September 6, 2020
It’s when he’s on the podium, the French national anthem blasting through the speakers, that it finally starts to sink in. He’s a winner. He won fucking Monza. After all the shit he’s been through last year with Red Bull he finally gets his revenge. He finally gets to show the world that he’s not the chieur they made him out to be and God does it feel good.
When the Italian anthem takes over from the French to celebrate Torro Rosso he allows himself a moment to take it all in, to really enjoy it. His eyes scan the crowd below and he can’t help but smile when he sees his team looking up at him, the Italians among them loudly singing along to their national anthem. He’s so proud of each and every one of them for all the hard work they’ve put not only into the car but into him as well. When the music ends and he gets the trophy he takes a few steps towards the crew, pointing at his engineer and pit crew to let them know this is as much their win as it is his. There’s confetti then, and champagne, and before he knows it his team principal douses him in the sticky sparkly wine to celebrate his win.
After a minute or so he feels the need to sit down for a moment because it’s all too much. Stroll and Sainz come up to congratulate him, and Carlos jokes that he could have taken him in another lap or two and he can’t help but smile knowing the Spaniard is probably right. Not that it matters, because when the race ended he was the first to cross the line. He watches the drivers as they leave the podium not long after, finally having a moment to himself. The tears that have been burning in his eyes ever since he saw the chequered flag finally spill over and he runs a hand over his face, shaking his head because part of him, however tiny that part may be, still doesn’t believe it.
It’s when he looks out across the paddock once more that he sees her, his best friend, standing a little to the side, away from the madness of the pit crews. Even from this distance he can tell she’s crying and it takes everything he has not to start again too. Locking eyes with her then, he shakes his head and mouths a quiet, “Incroyable,” at her. He sees her nod in response, trying to smile through her tears.
To win Monza is one thing, he muses to himself as he takes a sip of champagne, the bottle heavy in his hands, but to win Monza with her here makes it even more special.
Aside from his family, she has been the only constant in his life and they have gone through so much together already, both high and lows, wins and losses. Too many losses for a bunch of twenty four year-olds, he thinks wryly, knowing he thought of Anthoine when he held up his trophy but he thought of her parents when he crossed the finish line.
So when people ask him what the most valuable lesson he’s learned over these past few years is, it’s this: Never take anything or anyone for granted.
XXX
“Here you go,” you say as you hand Pierre his hot chocolate which he takes from you with a bright smile. It’s just the two of you now, his parents going to bed just before midnight and Katerina following not much later, and so you have moved away from the dining room to one of the more comfortable couches in the living room, where each of you are snuggled up in your respective corners.
“Santé,” he says, holding up his mug in the air with a grin.
“To year twenty-five of this friendship,” you say, mimicking his move before you take a sip, careful not to burn your tongue as you have done so many times in the past.
Pierre’s smile drops and so you look at him with raised eyebrows, a little worried about his change of demeanour. He shrugs, “Don’t you feel like we missed two years though?”
“Hmm,” you agree quietly because you can see his point. The last time you spent more than just a few days together was at the end of the 2019 season, when he was in Rouen for two weeks. Not long after you decided to skip that year’s New Year’s Eve celebrations because of your breakup, opting to stay at home instead, the pandemic hit. The travel ban put in place shortly after meant you didn’t get to see any of his races that year except for Monza.
Monza. You can’t help but smile when you think back to that day. You weren’t even supposed to be there, had a work event you had to attend that Saturday, but Pierre insisted you’d come see at least one race that year and so he flew you out on Sunday on the company’s jet. The rest, as they say, is history.
This year you at least got to see him race in Spa and in Qatar but it still wasn’t up to par with the amount of time you used to spend together. Even though you kept in touch through messages and video calls it wasn’t the same and you are the first to admit you have missed him terribly over the past two years. Looking at him from over your mug you try to smile, “It would be nice to catch up on some lost time next year.”
“Just tell me when and where, Flo,” he says with a wink, “you know there is always a paddock pass waiting for you.”
“I’d like that,” you admit easily.
His eyebrows knit together then and he looks at you curiously but doesn’t say anything, almost as if he’s trying to choose his next words carefully. When he finally does speak you realise he has, “Are you ok?”
Taking a deep breath you try to smile, “Getting there.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you echo quietly. When he keeps quiet you know he’s waiting for a more elaborate answer and so you shrug, “Moving back to Rouen was- It was probably the best decision I’ve made in the past two years. I don’t know why I felt this need to move halfway across the country because in the end it hurt all the same no matter where I was.” You look down at your mug, “Rouen is home, you know, and there’s nowhere- It’s where I need to be.”
Pierre’s next question is not what you expected although by now you shouldn’t be surprised because sometimes it’s like he knows you better than you know yourself, “Are you ok with seeing him again tomorrow?”
You take your time, not wanting to give him a rushed, half-true answer. This is your best friend, he’ll see right through the bullshit in a heartbeat and so you answer as honestly as you can, “I think I am. I mean, it’s been two years-” a sad smile tugs on your lips, “-but at the same time, it’s only been two years, you know?” You don’t wait for a reply and instead continue because now that you’ve started it’s hard to stop, “It’s just weird, I guess. I mean, it’s not like he hurt me, right? There wasn’t a big fight or- Neither of us cheated, or anything like that. We just-” you shake your head trying to gather your thoughts.
Again Pierre surprises you, “I think maybe it was a ‘right person, wrong time’ kind of thing, no?”
You roll your bottom lip between your teeth, letting his words sink in before you look back up at him and nod, “Yeah, I think it was.”
“He misses you too, you know.”
You’re about to argue that you don’t miss him but both you and Pierre know that’s a big fat lie and so you wait for him to continue because you’re a little intrigued by this new insight.
“He doesn’t really say it, but I can tell.” Pierre stretches out his legs in front of him so he can nudge your foot with his, “I think he is just as nervous as you are for tomorrow.”
“I don’t know,” you let out a sigh. This time it’s you who nudges his foot with yours, “Thank you, by the way.”
“For?”
“Taking down the pictures and everything else that was left of Charles in my room.”