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“I’m going to win.” his new teammate leans forward ever so slightly, offers a challenge as easily as one might offer a handshake. Holds his desire to win between his teeth, shows it off in a way that only those who already have gotten a title pinned to their chest can. Youth is no excuse here, not when he’s battling with experience.
“Oh no, you’re not.” Esteban in return makes a spectacular display of defiance, knows the other well enough by now to know when to push, when to step around the set outlines. Youth still brings him something, if only the ability to be a bit cheeky with the other.
A quick handshake and a formal introduction had been all they had gotten, the team had been aware of their familiarity, too. There was no need to make a bigger deal out of things that were already carved into stone. They had danced around one another for years now, meeting in paddocks and team events when the walls of the building were still coloured yellow and black. Renault had become Alpine, and the two-time champion had become his teammate.
As easy as that, they had slipped into a new role and into a new dynamic.
“Want to bet?” Spaniard raises his eyebrow at him. Lips turned up into a teasing smile. They’re already pushing one another, already seeing where the line is. This is what they do, head full speed down the straight, hit the brakes mere seconds before diving into the first corner.
A heartbeat passes, during which he takes his time to assess the situation. This part of the factory is still blissfully quiet, and if anyone would give them trouble with stern words and disappointment written across their features, they could always proclaim it was simply team building .
The conference room holds empty office chairs, and the hallway outside the door is deserted. What could possibly go wrong?
Fernando already has his hands resting on the back of the nearest chair, fingers tapping against the black fabric. The wheels underneath are slightly worn from use, but still reliable all things considered. The older man still smiles, still challenges him without words. “What are we betting for?” his own hands reach for another chair, sees that the condition of his own wheels is much better. Nearly beams, nearly gives away his self-proclaimed sure victory.
“The first round of drinks.” teammate leans against the chair, puts his knee down on the fabric. The plastic groans, shows the tell-tale signs of wear. It spins ever so slightly underneath his weight, and Esteban can’t tear his eyes away from the dip. Watches as it adapts, shapes itself around the point where knee connects to cushioned seat. An imprint. He licks his lips in thought.
“I didn’t know we were going out drinking.”
“It’s an open invitation.”
They don’t need much more than that. Drag their respective choice of weapon out onto the empty hall. Line them up at the mark. Pretend that there’s a checkered flag waiving them down as Fernando counts back from five. Esteban thinks it’s an odd number, would much prefer three or ten, realizes around the two that his new teammate is mimicking the lights above a track.
It makes sense for Fernando to be like this. Consumed by racing, to the point of challenging a new teammate to a child’s game. Especially so, while they are very much supposed to be acting as the respectable drivers the team thought they would be when the ink dried on the dotted line.
Knee rests against his own chair. Bone meets a piece of metal covered in threaded cloth. Decorative zipper placed a few centimetres below digs into his skin. He flexes the muscle in his calf, glances over at the other. Sees the determination of an actual race depicted on his features. Esteban has nothing to lose, but neither does Fernando.
“Go!”
They make it a few paces. His longer legs an advantage on the first stretch, the distance between them created with ease. They don’t even make it to the first corner of the corridor. Fernando’s fingers wrapping themselves up in the fabric of his shirt, pulling on the hem as he tries to get caught up. Tries to pull himself forward, and Esteban backwards in the same motion. Succeeds to the degree of making him tumble backwards, a mess of limbs, as he takes the offender down to the floor with him.
Gravity does its job well. Pulling them both down onto the tiled floor. Leaves them breathless from laughter, covered by Fernando’s chair as his own crashes into the nearest wall. Esteban has his head on the other’s chest, a giggle being ripped from his throat as Fernando’s fingers still cling to his shirt.
No one comes to ask about the laughter and the raucous happening. They either truly believe that the two of them will be diligent in their attempts to uphold themselves as the faces of the future of the team. Or, and this is the much more likely option, they are all too familiar with Fernando’s antics to truly believe that the man is capable of behaving himself for a mere moment.
Esteban glows, breathless with laughter, as he nudges the Spaniard’s shoulder with his own. They place the chairs back in silence. Keep silent about the events which happened in the still blissfully empty hallway. Fernando stretches out his hand, offers it with an insistent smile playing on his lips and a twinkle of mischief reflected in his brown eyes.
“We shall call it a tie, then.” accent clings to the words as he holds out his hand. The moment passes in slow-motion, the frame frozen as Esteban looks at it. Lets the gesture settle, holds the implications between his own hands and studies them. It’s an alliance which goes far further than anything the team could ever hope to write down in their contracts.
Maybe he is just so desperate for a fleeting friendship that he’s willing to view their partnership as such. But he isn’t about to turn this opportunity down. Not when it is presented to him so clearly with an offered handshake, and technically, their first ever race as teammates already over and done with.
He shakes Fernando’s hand, and knows he’s absolutely lost the second he does.
*
Fernando is incredibly easy to get along with. Esteban needs little more than a quick glance or a raised eyebrow to get him laughing, and even when Fernando’s mind is set to business, there’s a comfortable air which settles on the two of them. The both of them are well aware that Alpine is a midfield team, just as they are both aware that Fernando has made miracles happen with less.
“See - ” older man points at the data before them, doesn’t even look back at Esteban over his shoulder to know that he’s watching closely. “ - you lose some speed here.”
He’s used to fighting for what he has, used to clawing at the walls trying to break through in an attempt to carve out his space in the sport. Fernando has already done that. Has already proven to the world that he is a champion. He does not cradle secrets to his chest, not anymore, not when it comes to Esteban. They’re working as a team, these days. And Esteban can’t begin to describe how grateful he is for the opportunity to learn from the other.
“Don’t go so wide. Keep it tight.” Fernando places his hand on his shoulder, squeezes in a way that he’s sure must be intended to reassure him. It does. It always does. He’s smiling, allowing his gaze to flicker from the screen before him to the profile of the man next to him. Spaniard does not even look at him in return, keeps his eyes fixed on the data.
It’s endearing. How Fernando doesn’t even need to look at him to find the curve of his shoulder.
They do this well. Without question and without regret. Dance around jokes and comments made with the intent to rile the other up. They push and pull, yet never go too far. Esteban hides flattery along the lines of nearly every word, makes a fool out of himself when a reporter asks yet another question about Fernando’s age. Says he still looks young, not a day over twenty .
It wouldn’t have seemed so desperate, if not for the immediate glance he had shot his teammate, asking for silent approval.
Hand falls away from the curve of his shoulder. He misses the contact immediately. The unspoken hint is taken, Fernando wants him to pay attention. The team needs him to pay attention. There is much to learn from a far more experienced teammate, much knowledge to be gained from paying attention to the little details. Youth makes him reckless, but experience makes the other wise.
Esteban leans closer, looks at the data through squinted eyes. As if there is anything more to see, when the coloured lines and scribbled numbers grow a bit fuzzy in his vision. Chin comes to rest against Fernando’s shoulder, Fernando doesn’t comment on it, and neither does he.
Neither one of them needs to, they are comfortable in the silence of all things unspoken. Keep their dynamic between the two of them. Communicate with passing glances and raised eyebrows. A look from Fernando tells him more half the time than full sentences in English ever could. They walk a fine line, but they walk it well.
It’s easy, with the older teammate. Finger points at a spec of data, a minor line across the map. Shows where he lost momentum, the build up too sharp, the curb too easily taken with a lack of finesse. Fernando scolds him without letting a word fall from his lips.
Esteban memorizes it, commits the ideal line to memory. Stores it away at the back of his mind until later, when the world is calm and his bedroom dimly lit. When he scribbles notes down on a notepad, that’s when he’ll take out the memory and let it run between his fingers. Fernando knows this, too. Demands no answer from him, a simple nod and a nudge from chin against shoulder will do just fine.
*
They spend a few days at Fernando’s place after the Spanish Grand Prix. A week off for them to recover from the first four races of the season and the mediocre results they’ve gathered so far. They train together, in the privacy of the man’s personal gym, without the ever-watchful gaze of their respective trainers. If Esteban stares at the other man’s arms while Fernando’s working out, it isn’t anybody’s business.
He gets Fernando to take a selfie with him, post workout, with his hair still tied together in a small bun at the back of his head and sweat still sticking to his skin. He has to swear he’ll never post it anywhere, but Fernando also demands that he’d sent it to him, so there are a few mixed signals all together.
Their schedules don’t perfectly align. Fernando spends more time working on his core, while Esteban focuses on his legs. Their trainers had written it all out for them, into the fine details. It feels as if they’re cheating, when they take a break for a minute or two longer than is technically set in their schedule. They’re both sitting on a bench, knees touching, as they talk for a moment too long.
Fernando always has interesting things to say, tells stories about a different time. Talks about races Esteban watched in his youth with such conviction that the Frenchman can nearly believe that he was there, too. Watching the older man cross the finish line with a car that would eventually become the one they’re currently driving.
He talks too, if maybe a little less. Talks about watching the races in return, talks about karting and how much it has cost his family. He skips around the lines, doesn’t tell much more than he has already told the press. They all know, or at least most other drivers do, about the sacrifices his parents made in order for him to chase his dreams.
Fernando doesn’t take pity on him, doesn’t soften his gaze with a weak imitation of regret and sorrow. He simply nods, runs his hands up and down his own calves to massage the muscles there, preventing them from cooling down too much while they pretend to not having a responsibility to keep on top of their schedule. Esteban likes this about the other man, does not need a ‘I’m sorry to hear about that’ or a ‘but look where you are now.’
Especially not from Fernando. Least of all from Fernando.
His teammate doesn’t complain when he rummages through his kitchen in the early hours of the morning to make breakfast. Just as he in return does not complain when he can’t find the eggs anywhere.
“You keep them in such an odd place.” his voice is free from a hint of annoyance, merely meek wonder, when his fingers finally wrap around the fragile shell of an egg. “Why are they there? In a bowl with a lid on?” it’s a genuine question which he asks when fingertip digs into the egg, splitting the shell and making a mess when a bit of the liquid spills onto his hand.
“I have a cat.” Fernando shrugs, leans back against his own kitchen counter as he watches him work. Not a great cook in the slightest, but he is capable of making pancakes in the morning. “Cleo likes to play with eggs. I got tired of cleaning them.”
It’s simple, easy, and exactly right. Esteban laughs as he cracks another egg. Whisks the ingredients together in silence. He won’t allow himself to get distracted by the cat that’s currently parading next to its owner's legs, mewling up at Fernando with the intent to demand affection.
Somewhere between his second coffee and his third pancake (“you really do have hollow legs. Don’t eat so much, you’ll get a stomach ache.”) there’s a stray dribble of syrup clinging to the corner of his mouth. Lips are still shaped around the words of a story he’s telling, a tale from his karting days cut short when a thumb reaches out to stroke the offending condiment away.
They add that to the ever-growing list of things they don’t seem to talk about. Things which happen in passing, a quick brush of their fingers as they pass one another in the paddock or at the factory. The way Fernando has told him to just leave his toothbrush at his place, for next time.
The way how, by the end of the four-day stay, Esteban seems to know Fernando’s kitchen better than his own.
*
Fernando comes to his motor home on the morning of the Monaco Grand Prix. Neither speak about it, but Esteban makes pancakes without question, while Fernando sets the table and pours him his coffee exactly how he likes it.
*
He’s shaking with adrenaline. Grip on his steering wheel tighter than it has any right to be. He’s won, he’s won his first Grand Prix . He can hear the garage erupting over the static of the radio, can hear the cheers and excitement. Esteban has no idea what he ends up saying, just knows that the word merci rests heavily on the tip of his tongue, and that he wants to do nothing more than to thank Fernando.
Part of him knows he wouldn’t have gotten this if it hadn’t been for the other man.
The other Alpine appears next to him as they do their victory drive. It’s for the cameras and the press, he knows this. Knows that the French fans are losing their minds in this exact moment. A French team claiming a win, a French driver doing so. He knows it’s for the fans, for the money they can make selling the footage to news outlets and printed papers.
Yet, it feels more like a private moment between the two of them. Especially so when he glances over at Fernando, only to find the Spaniard already looking at him in return. They wave, give one another a thumbs up from behind the wheels of their respective cars. We did it. You did it.
He runs to the podium. Does not care that his legs are aching from being locked in the car for so long. Does not care that he’s sweaty and worn from putting his body to the extremes these last few hours. Esteban needs to move, needs to feel the wind hit his face as he lifts the visor, makes his way down next to the gravel and the grass.
He doesn’t really know what he’s running towards. Dashes towards the sea of black and blue waiting for him. Sees familiar faces looking at him, joy plastered over their features as well. Hands touch him. Make him a champion for a fleeting moment. They land on his back, his shoulders, one wraps fingers down his neck, pulls him towards the mass of bodies. There are kisses placed on his helmet.
Joyousness cloaks him in divinity. Lifts his feet as he jumps, stomach pressed against the fence. Bruises his hips with eagerness and youthful desire to commit this moment to memory. And yet, even when he’s surrounded by arms and hands, he glances to his left. Catches sight of the familiar colours of teammate’s helmet. Moves towards him without thought.
Time stands still at the moment eyes meet across the stretch of tarmac. The podium looms above, yet he barely sees it. Sees nothing but the pride which is written across Fernando’s face. Heart grows inside his chest, bangs against the confinements of his rib cage. It wants to spill, crawls up his throat as Fernando stretches his arms for him to walk into.
He’s won, and he’s home.
Fernando wraps his arms around his waist. Lifts him as if he barely weighs anything at all. Esteban doesn’t feel like he does, his entire body feels fuzzy, as if he’s floating, rather than walking towards the podium. He’s twirling around, the other’s arms still wrapped around him as the world spins by. It doesn’t matter, it never really mattered in the first place.
He knows he’s laughing, can hear his own voice being carried by the air as his palms rest against Fernando’s shoulders. Frenchman is far drunker than any liquor has ever made him, they all want to win, of course they do, but winning never tasted quite so sweet – until he got to share it with Fernando.
“Let’s do that again.” words are whispered, held back by his helmet as he turns to look at the other standing beside him. The open palm of Fernando’s hand against his chest is grounding, reminding him that this is real, that he really has just claimed his first victory.
Other looks at him, too. Pats his chest affectionately for a moment. “Next weekend works for me.”
*
The near drunkenness from the thrill of victory is replaced by actual intoxication brought on by the copious amount of alcohol Fernando keeps ordering. He keeps insisting that it’s cheap in Budapest, and Esteban can do little more than drape himself across the other with a pleased little smile plastered across his features.
“You deserve it.” teammate feeds him poison as he raises a glass to his lips, let’s clear liquid slip from the rim of the glass into his mouth. Esteban tips his head back in response. Swallows until there’s nothing left. Chases the taste with the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t like it, hates the way it burns down his throat until it rests heavy inside his stomach, but Fernando has an arm around his shoulder, squeezes the flesh of his arm. There is very little he won’t do to hold on to this sensation a little longer.
“And you - ” finger pokes into the other’s stomach, finds the abs of the other man underneath his touch. Hand lingers, is spread out across other’s shirt. He’s too far gone to remember to let it drop, to let it hang next to his side. Esteban wants a lot in this life, and on the evening of his first victory in Formula One, he is allowing himself to take it. “ - are getting me drunk on purpose.
If anyone from the team sees him basically crawl into Fernando’s lap from the privacy of their small, shared, booth, they don’t comment on it. It takes some effort, to tug his legs underneath him without placing his shoes on the well-loved fabric, but he manages. Resting his cheek against the curve of Fernando’s shoulder, smile buried safely in the crook of the other’s neck.
It’s raining outside. Drops of water clattering against the windows of the bar, he watches them from the corner of his eyes. Picks a winner from the lot as it fills to the brim, slides against the slightly fogged up glass. They race against one another. It feels familiar. He, too, feels like he’s filled up to the brim with something . He, too, feels like he’s going to spill and unravel, sliding down into a path of uncertainty soon.
The bar is warm, the heat of too many bodies packed into a space too small to hold them all. The women behind the bar laugh, fill the void between passing notes blasting through the speakers with something kind. They all mean well. They’re all here to have a good time.
No one spots the two drivers in the corner.
One of his arms is draped across the other’s frame, fingertips drawing random patters across the fabric of Fernando’s shirt. Growing bold and brave to slip underneath the fabric, touching the skin of the man’s side. Alcohol makes him foolish, but the Spaniard doesn’t even blink, just sits there, looking smug and cheeky at the same time. Neither one of them speaks, not even when Esteban stretches his legs and slides down until his cheek is resting against a strong thigh. Not even when Fernando’s fingers move softly through his hair.
Esteban still watches the drops of rain, still watches them race one another down the glass. Fernando doesn’t. Spaniard keeps his eyes on him, observes the small changes in his features as they betray if his chosen drop has lost or won. He thinks the other is going to scold him for his childish ways.
Fernando never does. Just keeps running his hands through his hair, a stray thumb coming to rest against his cheek. “Maybe I did get you too much to drink.” it nearly sounds as an apology. Esteban hates it. “But I felt greedy. Besides, you deserve it, after a win. To let go a bit.”
Another droplet of rain wins the battle, but not the war. There are too many of them for that to be even possible. Esteban gives up, focuses his attention back on brown eyes and a smile which is lit by the ever-changing lights in this bar. The bench of the booth underneath him is too hard, wood digging into his spine.
He does not move. Does not dare to even think about it.
*
They walk back to the hotel together.
The rain has finally relented. Leaving the city of Budapest cloaked in the heavy weight of a summer night doused in rain. It takes his breath away, in the way it stifles, in the way it makes his shirt stick to his back. Esteban is grateful for the other man at his side, grateful for the fact he can steady himself by leaning against his shoulder ever so often. Stealing a touch whenever the backs of their hands brush against one another.
Fernando doesn’t scold him when his legs sway, doesn’t demand the straight back and held up head which he should present now that he’s claimed a victory in their chosen sport. He doesn’t ask anything of him. Just steadies him when he missteps on a cobblestone, just grabs his arm gently to move him away from a looming puddle.
Esteban feels safe. More so than he has perhaps ever done before.
“Here’s my hotel room number.” his tongue feels heavy. Like a foreign object stuck into his own mouth. He writes out the numbers with his fingertip against the back of Fernando’s hand, messes up the first two times. Blinks once or twice before the ghost of a touch is sure to have written out 141 onto the skin. He’s staring, committing the sight of an amused smirk playing on equally drunk lips to memory. “Visit me? Maybe.”
He feels silly. Pinning his heart on his sleeve and showing it off to the other. It’s either a medal to show off his greatest achievements, or a target with a bright-red bullseye in the centre of it. “I mean, you don’t have to.” Frenchman fumbles over his words, leans a bit closer against the other’s shoulder. Laughs between words as the alcohol makes his head spin. “Just thought it would be nice.”
“I know your room number, corazón. It’s next to mine, remember.” it comes out soft. Without any sense of dissatisfaction for Esteban’s current state. He leans into the offered kindness, like a flower growing towards the light. He, too, blooms underneath gentle affection and words soaked in kindness spoken in a language he does not fully understand.
Esteban doesn’t recall exactly when he first became aware of his feelings for the other. It wasn’t a sudden realization, not a lightning strike illuminating the dark sky on a stormy evening. It was familiar, the warmth of a campfire spreading until it warmed his cheeks. The soft glow of familiarity, the understanding that this was perhaps what he had always been looking for.
He wants so much, wants much more than he has ever wanted before.
The heaviness of the alcohol makes him spin, makes him bold as Fernando once more guides him to step next to a puddle. Holds out hand for him to take once they reach the steps in front of their hotel, leading up into the lobby. Esteban looks at the digits of the other man’s fingers for a moment too long. Remembers the first time Fernando offered his hand to him like this, even through the haze of his current state of mind, he will always remember.
“Merci.” it comes out breathless, it comes out all wrong .
“What are you saying thank you for?” Fernando watches him, too. Still standing at the bottom step, a step, or two away from where the climb starts. He raises his eyebrow. Sets out the challenge once more without ever needing to use words.
“Not dropping me, when you lifted me earlier.”
Esteban would have liked to say that he didn’t scream when arms once more wrapped themselves around his waist. When Fernando lifted his feet off the ground for the second time that day, cradling him in his arms as if he was something precious, worthy of being carried like that. He would have liked to say that he didn’t burst into laughter, hiding his face in the crook of the other’s neck as he was carried up the steps.
He’s never been that good of a liar.
*
Vaguely, he can recall Fernando guiding him to the bed. A palm coming to rest on his chest, pushing, while he in turn did not even put up a fight. The back of his knees hitting the edge of the bed, his back meeting the soft mattress underneath. The hazed playback of hands tugging on the fabric of his shirt, the way it got stuck around his head for a moment, mumbled words cutting through the fog of the settling liquor.
‘You did so well today’ settles heavily inside his heart. ‘Look at you, a race winner.’
At the back of his mind, he knows he pulled the other man down onto the bed with him. Arms wrapped around Fernando’s frame, until the weight of the other covered him like a blanket. The safety which comes with being covered like that. The laughter of the other, which cuts through his memories with ease. There are more words which fill the silence. All of them are praise.
‘I knew you could do it.’
Wandering hands make an attempt at helping the other undress in return. Once more sneak up underneath the fabric of a shirt, feels muscles underneath his palms. Somewhere between that moment and the next, he’s lost track of time, simply staying there, touching without needing anything more. He comes alive underneath gentle affection, a whispered compliment making him shudder with delight.
Fernando guides his head to his pillow, strokes his hair once or twice, and Esteban can swear that he feels the slight press of lips against his forehead when his eyes flutter close. The room is spinning, but he has managed to entangle their still clothed legs, and Fernando isn’t moving away from the clumsy excuse of an embrace.
Arm is wrapped around the other’s frame, demands that Fernando doesn’t go anywhere. Fernando whispers that he’ll indulge him. ‘I will stay. For you. For the next greatest thing Formula One has ever seen.’ Esteban doesn’t know if the words are real, just purrs softly as he nuzzles his head underneath Fernando’s chin. Takes a deep breath to inhale the other’s smell. Commits this stolen moment to memory too, through the haze of near dreams and bubbling liquor, he truly knows happiness.
When he wakes up in the middle of the night, or at least he thinks it’s the middle of the night, the red digits on the digital clock on the nightstand do seem to imply that it is. He’s greeted by a soft, golden, glow coming from the lamp still burning on the right side of the bed. Illuminating Fernando as he sleeps next to him, snoring softly into his own pillow. There’s an arm draped around his waist, pulling Esteban closer in sleep.
Their legs are still entangled, and Fernando mumbles something in Spanish that Esteban cannot even begin to hope to understand.
*
Morning comes way too soon. Dreams fade, and the world comes into his vision, accompanied by a pounding headache and a dry mouth. It’s been too long since he’s woken up hungover, and never before in his life has he been so glad for a few days off. It takes him a few moments to familiarize himself with his surroundings, the vaguely familiar room and the empty bed seeming more like strangers now in the harsh light of day.
He mourns the loss of Fernando next to him more than he could ever hope to describe.
Fingers stretch, chase the imprint in the mattress where the other has slept. Esteban can feel it, the dip which has not yet risen, the warmth which he can almost envision still lingers there. He shifts, buries his head in the now-abandoned pillow. He feels foolish, clinging to a memory, but there’s a faint hint of Fernando’s smell, which has stayed even when the man has gotten up and left the room.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise, he should have known that the other would have come to his senses before the start of the day. Esteban had simply pulled him down, held him hostage in a drunken haze of need. Fernando would have never stayed if he hadn’t been trapped, so much was clear, so why was he even upset about it?
Because Fernando had complimented him. Because Fernando had taken care of him. Because he had probably wanted this since they became teammates.
Pick your poison, and drink it too.
The emptiness cuts like a knife. Wraps itself around all the things said underneath the golden light of the bedside lamp. Words which had filled his chest with a sense of pride. Esteban tries them on for taste, allows himself to repeat them over and over again inside his mind.
‘You did so well today’ has to be his favourite. It’s the one which truly tastes best on the tip of his tongue. It’s the one which makes him shudder slightly, makes him bury his head a bit deeper in the pillow. He has wanted so much through the years, but he doubts he’s ever wanted something as much as he wants this.
There’s a sound at the door, a key card sliding into the slot, and his heart stops for a moment. Holding his breath, he waits, listens for the tell-tale sound of the door opening and closing softly behind whoever slips into the room. He hopes, wishes harder than he ever has before. Still holds his breath when Fernando appears around the corner, looking at him with a special kind of softness inside those familiar brown eyes.
“Good morning.” it’s soft, unbearably so. His hair is still wet from what must have been a shower. The clothes he wore last night are replaced with comfortable pants and an oversized hoodie. The colour of broken white looks good on him, it brings out the slight tan of his skin. “You look surprised.”
Fernando lingers too far away from the edge of the bed. Waits a respectful distance, as if he’s no longer sure if he can enter the room which they shared last night. Esteban wants nothing more than to reach for him, to wrap his fingers into the fabric of that hoodie and to, once more, pull him close.
“I am.” the confession sounds small, settles uncomfortably between his teeth. He knows he’s a fair bit taller than the other, towering over him on a good day, but he feels tiny in the empty bed. Blankets pulled up to cover his naked chest, and a splitting headache forming behind his eyes. “Didn’t expect you to come back.”
He rips out his own heart and offers scraps of it to the other without a regret. They have danced around one another for far too long, there is barely anything of the muscle left between his trembling fingers. All of it has long since been devoured, and he doesn’t mind one bit.
“You missed breakfast.” the explanation is honest, said with a quick shrug of the man’s shoulders. A heartbeat passes, and Esteban can feel the uncomfortable tension slipping from his frame as he relaxes in the familiarity of it all. Fernando might be something else on the best of days, but he had never made anything feel weird between the two of them. “Thought that maybe you would like to go out, grab a bite to eat before your flight.”
“Can we get pancakes?” he sounds way too hopeful. Sounds way too much like someone who’s truly desperate to cling to whatever it is they had between them when he was a guest in Fernando’s home. The ease with which they slipped into a pattern then still calls to him. Still makes him believe that they could have whatever they had back then, all the time.
“Of course, what else would we eat the morning after your victory?” Fernando, in return, sounds way too proud, and Esteban has long since forgotten about his previous worries.
Such is the ease which comes with being so close to the other. Such is the ease which comes with falling head over heels.
*
They meet up during the break at Esteban’s house in Switzerland. They go for hikes in the mountains and aimless drives through the countryside. Esteban makes an effort not to point at every cow they pass in the fields. He lets Fernando drive on the mountain roads, busies himself with picking music that they’ll both like. Neither of them says anything when Fernando places his hand on his knee while driving. Just as they don’t comment on the thumb stroking soothing circles across the covered skin.
His spare bedroom becomes Fernando’s room. They don’t give it a name, just as they never seem to do. But Esteban tells him to leave the toothbrush, just as he still has one somewhere at Fernando’s place. It’s natural. It feels right.
“What did you want to do today?” he settles down next to his teammate on the couch, wiggles his toes until his sock covered feet are underneath the man’s thigh. Fernando doesn’t complain about it, and he is grateful for that, too. His fingers are wrapped around the coffee mug which balances on his knee, and he hasn’t gotten around to styling his hair yet. The day is still young, and they have two more days together before they need to head to the factory to prepare for the next race of the season.
“We could stay in, or go out. I don’t mind either way.” Fernando is reading something on his phone, barely glancing up at Esteban as he slips even closer. Knees pulled to his own chest, long arms wrapped around them with just enough space that his fingers could move against the Spaniard’s arm. “It is a vacation, no? We have to do something we both enjoy.”
Esteban wants nothing more than to say that the activity hardly matters, as long as it’s something they’re doing together, but chickens out at the very last second. Just agrees before taking a sip of his coffee, silencing himself swiftly with the action.
At the end of the day, they stay in. Dressed in comfortable clothes and nothing more to do than simply enjoying the proximity of having the other existing in the same space. Fernando promises to help him cook dinner, and they end up bumping hips more so than ever before in the modest space of his kitchen.
Neither one knows how they ended up like this, with Fernando pinning him against the refrigerator with steady hands on his hips and laughter still lacing his lips. A smudge of tomato sauce against his cheek, and flour in Esteban’s hair. It just happened, as all things seem to do between them. They don’t have to think about it, moving around one another as natural as breathing.
Fernando looks up at him, gazes meeting underneath the yellow light of the ceiling lamp. He looks hungry, and Esteban is sure that his own eyes reflect the same sentiment. Hands wander, become nomads for a mere moment, until they finally rest on the other’s shoulder. He doesn’t know where else to touch, doesn’t know where else to hold.
They burn the homemade pizza, and end up ordering one instead.
“Next time, we do need to pay attention to the food.” Fernando speaks between bites. Glances at him from across his slice. “We will ruin our diets otherwise.” Esteban simply nods, ignores the lump which has suddenly appeared in his throat. Fernando had spoken so casually about a next time. Whispered something into being that had not been there before.
He was living on borrowed time, this much he knew. So to hear the other all but promise him that this was not a one-time thing between bites of his food, had truly felt like another victory.
*
“You two have certainly gotten more touchy, after Hungary.” James, their press officer, is raising his eyebrow as he corners Esteban near the coffee station during the red flagged race at Spa. “I saw you two, during the briefings. Your knees were touching.”
Other doesn’t make an insult out of it. Does not hold it against him with a raised eyebrow and a look of pity. He knows he’s treading into dangerous waters, knows he wants something which Fernando will never give him. Esteban has seen the footage of his teammate with the guys who have had the honour to call him that too. A fleeting kiss to the cheek here, a hug there.
It was almost enough for him to not feel special at all. Perhaps it as just the way Fernando was. Offering affection to those who stood close to him. There was nothing special about him, just the man who got lucky this time around. He doesn’t talk to anyone about this, just grips the paper coffee cup between his fingers a little tighter as he swallows down words laced with iron.
James is giving him a glance, blocking his access to the coffee machine with his shoulder and an air that heavily implies that he isn’t backing down until he has an answer to an unasked question. Esteban doesn’t want to give it to him. Wants to hold on to this little piece of information that he has. Wants something for himself, just for a change.
Esteban is already restless, the weather putting him in a horrible mood, and the fact that he isn’t out on track, racing, right now isn’t helping him much. James is just fuel to a fire, and even when he understands that it’s the man’s job, he still feels strangely attacked by the whole situation. “What are you asking?”
“Nothing. I just want to know what I should prep for. You know, when a picture leaks to the press.” James shrugs his shoulder, steps aside to make room for him to get his coffee. He had planned on getting a cup for Fernando, too. Decides against it for now. Does not wish for more rumours to spread like wildfire through the garage.
There’s nothing to prepare for, just as there is nothing more between the two of them than friendship. Esteban can envision it, the ease with which it could be more. Can see it played out before him like a sappy rom-com every time he closes his eyes and allows himself to really think about it. But just because he can envision it, doesn’t make it true.
“Just prep for a disappointing race. If we end up having one.”
*
The hotel they share in Mexico has to be one of his favourites this entire season. The beds are soft and the private pool for hotel guests is inviting and welcoming. They’re both slightly jet-lagged, the last two days spend flying back to France to visit the factory for some last minute emergency meetings. It had done very little except thrown them off their rhythm, making them the only two people in the pool at the tender time of four am on a Wednesday.
He feels like he’s floating. Trapped somehow between this moment and the next. The world does not extend past this room, ends at the door. These days, he is simply sure that it stops existing past wherever Fernando is.
“What was wrong in Russia?” Esteban finally finds the nerve to ask the question which has been plaguing him for many weeks now. The pool is indoors, the room silent except for the rushing water of the jets. “You were a bit weird there, my fiend.”
He hopes that it does not sound as an insult. He has long since pushed down the weird feeling which had settles inside his chest when he’d noticed the way Fernando’s eyes would glaze over slightly, the way he would get distant on that particular weekend.
It had felt like a loss. The absence of a lingering touch. The lack of banter throughout the weekend.
Fernando had given him glances, almost as if he was waiting for something in return. The build up to a joke hanging heavy in the air, the punchline never spoken. Foot flat out on the gas, the thrill of speeding up, heading head first into the first corner. He had waited for the impact, the dazzling smile, the laughter which rumbled like thunder through the garage. It never came, and it had left him empty in its absence.
Tongue becomes a dagger when he forces it to curl around the word friend . Finds it lacking in meaning in the English language. It does not fully describe his feelings, not even in the slightest. He kicks his legs slowly as he floats around in the empty pool, rests on his back, trying not to swallow water laced with chlorine.
He wants to return to childhood. Back to the times when floating around in a pool had meant a reprieve. A moment to pretend to be something else entirely. Ears fall underneath the water line, fill up with chlorine and the thumping of his own heart being echo’d back at him. He can hear the rushing of the jets, the water being pushed forward. The world sounds hollow. As does Fernando’s voice.
“Nothing - ” tone of voice betrays the Spaniard. There was absolutely something happening. “ - just had to deal with some things. Nothing to worry about.”
Current position means that he can’t see Fernando’s naked chest. Means that he can’t see the shape of the other at all. Eyes are closed, forces his eyelids even closer. He can see the lights reflected from the water, patches of light blue slipping into the darkness of his vision. He can imagine what Fernando looks like, right now, with water clinging to his skin. There’s no need for him to actually see.
He moves his arms, forces his body to drift into the general direction he knows Fernando to be in. Bumps his head against the other’s side as he finally reaches him, The silence surrounding them is only interrupted by the sound of running water, the dimmed lights causing shapes to dance across the ceiling. Esteban notices Fernando looks incredibly handsome in the soft glow.
Fernando doesn’t call him childish when the top of his head connects to the man’s side. Fernando doesn’t call him anything. Just stares down at him with the familiar sight of kindness in those brown eyes.
“Well, are you done dealing with them? Because I missed beating you during training.” he means well, means it as a joke, but the words come out desperate all the same. Esteban clings to something familiar here. Moves his arms again to remain floating, water sloshes, reaches up to his lips. He nearly drowns in it.
Fernando doesn’t even grace him with an answer, just dunks him underneath the water with a pleased smile and a laugh which echos between the walls of the pool.
*
“Tell Esteban to defend like a lion.”
He tries, he really does, but between the pace of the Red Bull and his degrading tires, there’s very little that he can do. In the end, Fernando still makes it to the podium. He wanted to have been able to do better. Wanted nothing more than to be able to repay the favour, the gift, which Fernando had given to him weeks ago in Hungary.
Esteban wants for Fernando to taste victory again. Hold it between his teeth. Devour it with the greed of a man who has waited far too long to taste it again. He’s selfish, does not even think about the team when he envisions the other man on the top step of the podium, thinks only about himself. Creates a dream so real it feels like a memory underneath his fingertips. The way champagne clings to Fernando, the way it would taste lingering on the other’s lips.
Third isn’t even close, but it will have to do.
Hands shake as he forces himself out of the car. Hides them by clasping them around the hands of members of the team. Reaches for them as if he is starving for touch, as if he needs the handshakes and pats on his back to keep him upright in an ever-changing world. He does. In a way. But not from them, only from one.
He waits for the other, waits for him with his arms opened wide and a wide smile obscured by his helmet. He can’t lift Fernando in return, can’t give him the same honour of a spin as was given to him in Budapest. But he can hold him close, pat his back with an open palm, and hope that the action conveys the same amount of adoration in the end.
If he lingers, the heavy rim of his helmet sure to press into the flesh of Fernando’s shoulder, a hand resting on the other man’s hips. No one says anything about it, no one blames him when fingers dig a bit harder, when he clings to the moment like he has been starving. Maybe he has. Throat feels dry, tongue fits strangely in his own mouth. He wants, he wants, he wants .
It’s Fernando’s podium that they are celebrating, the entire garage a mess of shouts and screams. Limbs reaching out to hug their drivers, hands patting backs and cheeks. The bottle of champagne passed around for all to take a sip from. They’re celebrating the other man’s victory, but Fernando still wraps him up in his arms, cradles the back of his head with fingers buried in black hair. Presses a fleeting kiss to his cheek.
Esteban is just the next man in line to be bestowed with such affection. Just the next name on the list of those lucky few who had been able to consider themselves teammates. He has seen the pictures, committed them to memory, for when jealousy and want roam freely inside his rib cage. In dark moments, when he has allowed himself to dream – when he has allowed himself to drink too deeply from the cup of desire – he cleanses his palate with a heavy dose of regret.
If a camera flashes, of someone is lucky enough to take a snapshot of a passing moment, he knows he will do his best effort not to see it staring back at him from his social media timeline. He knows he will fail too. Click save on the picture and bury it in a locked folder on his phone. Right next to the selfie he was allowed to take months ago, sitting on a bench in Fernando’s gym.
He hides evidence like that all through his personal equipment. Saves pictures taken at just the right time. When brown eyes are soft, hazed with something he can pretend to be adoration. When Fernando’s smile is just soft enough for him to pretend that it’s a special thing, to be on the receiving end of it.
“You were amazing today.” the compliment comes natural, honesty bleeding from Fernando’s spoken words. The grip of arms around him tightens for a heartbeat, the lingering touch against his neck burns. It’s too much. It’s not enough at the same time. “You did well, defending.”
Esteban feels unworthy. Yet allows for himself to get swept away by the feeling all the same.
“Not as amazing as you.” cheek burns from the press of lips. Makes his knees go weak and his stomach flutter. He’s giddy on a podium for the team, and the fact that Fernando still holds him, wrapped up in his arms as if Esteban was made to be there, clearly doesn’t help one bit. “You’re the one with the trophy.”
Fernando doesn’t argue, just lifts him off his feet for the third time in his life to position him for the team photo.
*
They make it through the celebrations semi-sober. Qatar does not lend itself to extravagant celebrations, and while the team is ecstatic, the weight of nearly being through the season is a heavy burden for them all. They gather in the garage, circle around one another with a drink in hand and a smile plastered across their faces.
Stolen moments are tied together with string. He feels stretched, as if the pull of expectations is getting to him. Esteban has tried to be everywhere and anywhere for these last few months, moving from obligation to obligation. He’s been going through the motions with his head held high, and a permanent smile carved onto his features. Shoulder brushes against Fernando’s. Lingers there for a moment of reprieve.
With a clear mind, he’s able to enjoy the celebrations far more. He gets swept away in the pull. Dragged down into the whirlwind of hands clasping his shoulders. Quick hugs from men and women who he’s known for years now. It’s infectious, the way happiness makes puppets out of them all. Frenchman laughs into his glass, sees Fernando doing the same from the corner of his eye.
“Are you ready to go?” Fernando appears behind him, in the near-darkness of night, when the team has already started packing and the lights of the paddock are being taken down one by one. They can’t see any of the stars overhead, but Esteban can fully believe that they’re watching over them all the same. Teammate doesn’t need to wait for him, does not need to linger near the track while he’s busy shoving the last of his personal items into his bag.
Fernando always does, regardless if he needs to or not. He does not comment on it, simply waits without judgment. Esteban never fails to feel guilty for it, surely the former world champion has other places to be.
“Almost. Let me just finish packing.” he does not tell the other to go, does not tell him to go ahead so that they can part for the day. Greed has settled inside his heart along the lines of their friendship, always wordlessly asking for a moment more; just one more hour, until he’s able to string all those stolen heartbeats together into something which lasts a lifetime. “I’ll hurry up. For you.”
“I have nowhere else to be.” Fernando positions himself near the door, leans against the frame with hair still sticky from champagne, the smile of a podium still lurking in the corners of his mouth. “I am at the track. With a nice view, and a trophy in the pocket. I am in no rush.”
Esteban just laughs, folds up a stray towel neatly, no other reason for the act rather than to simply busy his hands. “You call this room a nice view?” joking comes easily, motions with his hand to gesture to the white walls and the limited furniture, all decorated with the team logo. “I thought you had better tastes for interior decorating.”
“Who said I was talking about the room?” raised eyebrow does not cover up Fernando’s amusement. It clings to the tone of his voice, to the way his shoulders are still dropped. He raises them ever so slightly when he is genuinely surprised, Esteban has noticed this. Just how he has noticed many more things about the other man in these last few months.
“You can’t possibly be talking about the towel. That would be weird, even for you.” his throat is once again too dry. A bottle of lukewarm water rests nearby, he looks at it. Tries to decide if the awful taste is worth it. He decides against it.
“I was talking about you, corazón.”
Fernando has to be drunker than Esteban had originally thought. There was no way that he was truly saying things like this with a sober mind. Their friendship had been comfortable from the start, as easy as breathing more often than sometimes. Just because he had wished and hoped didn’t mean that he was really entitled to something more than what had already been given.
He shakes his head, tries to laugh it off. Pretends not to see the flash of hurt which passes through brown eyes in the blink of an eye. There are a lot of things he pretends not to see in the hopes that he can still sleep at night. No need to lose himself in dreams when the reality of things is already tasting sweet.
Esteban does not have the greatest track record when it comes to keeping good things in his life. He’s lost friends, been cut from the narrative of childhood rivalry. Forgotten, when it favoured the press to only have two names written in bold letters onto gossip pages. He’s lost his seat, for a horrible year, when purpose and dreams were stripped from him. At the end, he’s lost too much. He can’t risk losing this, too.
“There we go, all done. See, I don’t take long.”
*
Fernando walks him to his hotel room door. Lingers there in the same way he has done back in the paddock. Somewhere between the car ride, where they both had sat in the back, their knees touching with the same familiar ease, and right now, there had been a shift in the older man’s demeanour.
Esteban has seen him win, has seen him bare his teeth to the odds and overcome them with nothing but determination. He has seen him come back from defeat stronger than before, and he in turn has revelled in it. Has watched in wonder, never once getting enough of the sight before him. Fernando looks at him now in the same way he looks at the track before he gets into the car.
His hand is resting on the door handle, a held breath shared between them in the lingering silence of an unspoken question.
Esteban wants nothing more than to invite him in.
“I - ” make the wrong call and all is ruined. Say the wrong thing and watch it all crumble around you. “ - I have some more good-looking towels inside?” it’s clearly meant as a joke, a quick jest. Just something to be cheeky. It comes out wrong, fumbled and hastily, just words falling from the tip of his tongue. “Unless you don’t want to, which is fine, I’m just - ”
He doesn’t know what he’s offering, does not know what he is asking, either. He can feel something burning underneath the tight pull of his skin. Can feel something wrapping its jaws around the muscle of his heart, tearing into the soft organ. Blood spills from it, warms his chest, gives him hope. He’s bleeding out from the inside, or, he’s simply filling up with something that dangerously feels like love.
He never gets a chance to finish the thought forming at the back of his throat. Words swallowed at the moment Fernando reaches out to cup his cheeks, pushing him backwards into the room with determination. They nearly stumble, nearly end up back where it all started – in a tangle of limbs, drunk on breathless laughter.
Esteban doesn’t know who kisses who first. Just knows that his back is pressed against the nearest wall, that his hand reached out to close the door behind them. The heavy click of the lock catching audible over the pounding of his own heart in his ears. The faint hint of champagne still lingering on Fernando’s lips. Finally, the heavy weight of the realization that he has at long last come home .
They’ve made a special kind of relationship out of being teammates, have settled into the cracks around it and filled them with mutual adoration. He’s too nervous to call it love, but while Fernando is still cupping his cheeks as he licks into his mouth, he can feel something inside himself sliding into place.
Arms reach up to wrap around the other man’s neck, pulls him closer until he is nearly satisfied with the lack of space between their bodies. He can’t imagine that he will ever fully be, can only envision himself always wanting more. Fernando kisses him like he’s worthy of something, like he’s done good. Esteban believes him.
*
Fingers are entwined. Hands resting on the plush pillows. There’s the soft glow of a bedside lamp illuminating them, golden light casting shadows across Fernando’s features, which he traces with the fingers of his free hand. He takes his time to memorize, to commit it all to memory, the shape of muscles underneath skin, the stubble underneath the tip of his thumb.
He still feels as if he’s floating, as if he weighs nothing at all.
Fernando looks at him, too. Draws patterns on the exposed skin of his thigh, writes love notes onto his ribs. Makes him feel worthy with nothing more than a passing touch. This, too, comes natural to them. To reach up to kiss, to lay down their heads on the same pillow and exist in the same space. For the first time in what feels like forever, he feels worthy of the kindness given to him by teammate’s gentle hands.
Other’s palm comes to rest on the curve of his hip. Esteban can feel it, the weight of it pressed against the bone. He feels connected, as if everything is being held together with a simple touch. “Those must have been some great towels, if they got you into my bed.” he feels bold, brave, even. Reaches up to steal a kiss from Fernando’s lips. Feels the scratch of the man’s beard on his cheeks as he does so.
“I will kick you out of this bed.” it’s mumbled against his lips. An offering that does not sound gruff when it’s laced with kisses and the soft pull of the other on his hip as he is manoeuvred closer. Legs entangled, and an arm wrapped around Fernando’s chest.
“You would feel bad if you did.”
*
They have a week off between Qatar and Saudi Arabia, rest finally settling over them as they once more adapt to a new kind of relationship between the two of them. Fernando joins him in France, sitting next to his father on the couch as if he’s always been a part of the Ocon family. He thanks his mother when she places the food on the table for dinner, and falls asleep next to him in a bed that does not quite have room for them both. With the cat comfortably curled up above his head.
Esteban once more makes him pancakes, when the jet lag has them up at an odd hour and his family is still sound asleep. The Spaniard repays him by kissing away the stray dribble of syrup, rather than swiping it away with his thumb this time.
The familiarity of it all hits him, all at once, like the dazzling force of a car manoeuvring itself down into the corner. They’re sitting outside, underneath the ivy covered arbour which his mother has set out in the garden. It protects them from the slight rain which has been falling ever since this morning. Esteban had not expected Fernando to follow him outside when he’d stated that he needed to stretch his legs, but he hadn’t expected anything else, either.
A blackbird watches them from the nearest tree, sings its song carelessly, both to them and the entire world. From the corner of his eye, he can see Iris the black cat meowing at it from behind the window.
“So.” Fernando shifts, drapes his arm across his shoulders as he pulls him a little tighter. Stretches his legs to get more comfortable. The tips of his shoes are outside the protection given to them by the ivy. Drops of rain settling on the white sneakers. “We get to do this all again. Next year.”
The season hasn’t ended yet, but the both of them have extended their contracts for 2022. Delighted, they had made a whole show out of delivering the news to the world. Cryptic messages sent across twitter. He nearly feels guilty. Nearly feels as if what they’re doing right now is exactly the same.
Pictures of them glancing at one another have made their way onto the internet. Circulate across pages and timelines. Keen eyes are sure to pick up on the messages written out in a passing gaze. They don’t tell, not with words, there’s no need for things like that.
“Yes. I would not mind if we skip the being friends stage, just continue as we are now.” he jokes, rests his head against Fernando’s shoulder. Laughs into the familiar curve of the man’s skin. His Kimoa branded shirt now smells of his mother’s laundry detergent. She had insisted on washing it.
Fernando laughs. Scares away the blackbird, which rises to the sky with frantic wings. Esteban feels like that. Sometimes.
“And what are we now, then?” he says it casually, as if he does not expect a real answer. Or maybe, as if he has already made up his own answer a while ago. As if he is simply waiting for Esteban to speak it into existence. Youth is known to make people reckless, Fernando has much more patience, it seems, when it comes to things like this. “If we are not just friends, surely we must be something else.”
There’s mischief in his eyes. The arm around him tightens its grip. He might be nervous, Esteban can feel him holding his breath. Can hear the moment he swallows around nothing, nothing but the weight of expectation. It makes him giggle in response, the mere thought of Fernando being nervous for anything ridiculous in its own right.
“You have not taken me out on a real date, yet. I need to be, how do you call it? Wined and dined? Before I call us boyfriends - ” the word tastes heavily, wrapped up in nothing but a giggle, a glance to the other’s features shows nothing but joy. “ - so let’s say that we are dating, no?”
“You don’t even like wine. You idiot.” finger pokes between his ribs. Makes him laugh out loud, makes him chase away another bird lurking in the garden. Iris scratches the glass of the window with her paws.
“That is true, but I do like you.”
*
“So, what’s going on between you two this time?” James sips his coffee with a spark of delight in his eyes, mischief is no stranger to the people working for this team, and their press officer might be the most mischievous of all. Esteban has nothing to tell. Obligations had wrapped them up as soon as they had left his parent’s house, always moving from one place to another.
Esteban calls Fernando a nomad, between kisses in the privacy of their hotel room. When the other already has his eyes on his emails and his texts, when Spaniard is already preparing for his next race. Fernando hardly knows rest, hardly knows the art of sitting still for long enough to catch his breath. He is restless, but Esteban is familiar with this. Holds out his hands for the other to take, tugs him down onto the bed to steal a few more kisses before the world comes knocking again.
He will master the art of tying stolen moments together, until they weave a web of forever.
At the very least, a web of however long Fernando will give him .
James does not need to know this, not even when he raises his eyebrow in question. Hungry for a scrap of truth. He begs him, silently, to give him something, anything to work with when the wolves of press come howling. “You two are even touchier than before. And I can swear I saw Fernando giving you a look back there. No one gives their teammate a look like that when just passing them in the garage.”
He can’t help but laugh, twists his head to cover up the fact that his mouth is shaping itself into a smile. Tries to hide the echo of laughter in his helmet when he puts it on. “We get along well.” sidesteps the question on purpose, sees his engineers give the two of them a glance as he slips into the car. “Besides, James. We both worked with Daniel last season, no? I am sure that he gave many looks.”
*
They are free from post-season obligations on the 15th of December. A fifth place in the constructors' championship in the pocket, and a few days of absolutely nothing for the both of them to recoup. They are back in Spain. Settling in nicely at Fernando’s home, where Chloe the cat now has decided that Esteban’s lap is a perfect place to have her naps in the afternoon.
Sharp claws dig into the skin of his thigh when Fernando pets the creature behind her ears. Esteban swears he does it on purpose.
“I was always a dog person.” Fernando does not even look at him, just scratches the cat some more. He is repaid with a pleased purr, while Esteban bears the scars of her claws moving up and down on his leg. Kneading contently into the flesh while he whines. “But I couldn’t get one, not when I was away so often to drive.”
There is more that Fernando wants to say, Esteban can hear it, the unspoken confession resting heavily in the silence. He waits, shows patience, even when he wishes to move. Stops his leg from shaking with anticipation, out of fear to disturb the cat.
“I’ve always wanted things which I couldn’t have, because of the driving.”
Confession leaves him bleeding. Fernando doesn’t look at him, keeps his gaze focused on the cat. Scratches her behind her ear. Esteban wishes those hands were on him instead. “I understand.” he doesn’t. Not really. He’s only ever wanted all the things that he got because he was driving.
Perhaps that, too, was just a thing that would become clear to him with experience.
Silence settles over them. Chloe, who has finally had enough of all the affection after being left alone for weeks on end, rises with a soft chirp. Stretches with a glance shot into her owner’s direction before she jumps from Esteban’s lap. Suddenly his legs feel cold.
“Come on you, race winner.” Fernando’s palm comes down to rest on the spot where the cat was before. Digs fingertips into the flesh, draws circles with his thumb. Holds him, if nothing else, for a passing heartbeat. “We have reservations in an hour.” he doesn’t want to get up, wishes to stay here, on the couch in Fernando’s home.
“We do?” the question is genuine as he leans up to steal a kiss. Esteban has grown familiar with that these days, when they are alone and away from prying eyes, the ease with which he’s allowed to take. They sleep next to one another, the toothbrush he has left many months ago sits in a glass in the bathroom, there is a towel which is now considered his which hangs to dry.
His shoes fit perfectly near the front door, and he no longer has to ask to take a selfie with Fernando when they are working out together. The newest addition to the collection is stored next to the other. An arm around his shoulder, and a kiss placed against his cheek, while he smiles at the camera.
“You were the one who wanted to be wined and dined. Not I.” hand on his thigh pats him playfully before the Spaniard stands up. A soft pull as fingers entwine and he, too, is standing rather than sitting. Fernando wraps his arms around his waist, lifting him up again with ease. It’s one of the few sensations which he could never tire of.
*
Esteban is pretty sure that Fernando rented out the entire restaurant. They are not nameless here, forever chased by cameras when they move about on the streets. Everyone seems to know Fernando, and he, in return, seems to know them too. Has a fleeting conversation in Spanish with the woman behind the bar when they enter the restaurant, he seems to know her name.
“Come here often?” he jokes when they are lead to a table just around the corner, there is no one else in the restaurant, but the atmosphere is comfortable. A candle flickers in the centre of the table. “She seemed to know you well.”
“This is the only place that lets me rent it out for the evening. Sometimes I like to have a meal without a thousand people asking me for an autograph.” Fernando says it so casually as he pulls out Esteban’s chair. It’s the gallantry of it which makes his cheeks turn a light shade of pink. He prays that it’s lost to Fernando’s eyes in the dimly lit room. “That is not a crime, is it?”
They have their usual banter over dinner, nudge each other for fun, drag out comments with full smiles. The candle flickers between them when Fernando reaches out to hold his hand in the middle of a playful argument. Their feet are resting against one another underneath the table.
It’s perfect.
*
He can feel Fernando’s weight settling down next to him, a comfortable dip in the mattress in the near dark room. Esteban can see the shape of the other man through the faint light of the full moon outside, which slips through the slit between the curtains. Sees the familiar curve of his shoulder, an arm moving on instinct to wrap itself around his frame.
Home settles down next to him, and he has never before been so grateful for the ability to enjoy it to the fullest. “So, about next year.” fingertips trace patterns on naked chest. Draw silly hearts on Fernando’s sternum. Hopes to leave a piece of himself there. Allows for their hearts to synch up when they lay there in the silence of the room, chest to chest, entangled with ease. Two hands folded into prayer. “About us continuing as something , rather than friends.”
Words are a whisper. Fears to shatter the moment if he speaks out loud. Keeps his tone soft, tucks secrets away between the other man’s ribs. Alongside the love notes. Alongside devotion. He hopes it warms Fernando from the inside out. “How do you feel about the term boyfriends?”
Lungs hold his breath, waits for the blow of rejection even now. Fernando has clearly shown that he is willing to walk this road with him, wherever it might lead. He does not need to fear a scoff, and yet, heart flutters with fright. Just another blackbird scared by a sudden sound.
“I prefer the word partner.” a soft brush of lips settles his nerves. Gives him courage when Fernando kisses his forehead. Wraps him up in his arms a bit tighter. Shifts him ever so gently until he’s even closer. The mere atoms between them still too much of a distance. “That is what we are, partners. On track. Off track.”
He feels like his heart is going to burst. Nuzzles even closer until his head is tucked underneath the other’s chin. Sighs happily against the other’s chest. Holds on a little tighter, a little longer.
Esteban has always wanted. Has always been waiting for a next opportunity to show that he’s worthy, has woven the strings of faith into a career. He’s used to losing, just as he has gotten familiar with the taste of victory. But this? This tastes even sweeter, still. “Partners.” he tries it on for taste, lets the word roam through his mouth. He’s smiling.
“Yes, yes, I like that. Partners.”
*
“Welcome back guys, good to see the both of you here in Barcelona for a weekend of testing.” the reporter gives them a flashing smile, points the microphone to the both of them as they stand there. It’s a new year, and it’s going to treat them well. Esteban leans a bit closer to Fernando, lets the comfort of shoulder pressed to shoulder radiate through him.
“Tell me, Fernando, what are you looking forward to most this new season? The thrilling battles, perhaps? Or maybe a little rivalry between teammates?” the woman before them moves from one foot onto the other, clearly eager to strip comments from between their teeth. Twist them to fit her own agenda. The man behind the camera seems uneasy. The both of them are used to it by now.
Fernando smiles, puffs out his chest as he clears his throat. The pink and blue of this year looks good on him. “I need to make a small clarification.” shoulder bumps against his, grounds him in the same way it tells him to keep his mouth shut. Experience is talking, and for once, youth lets him. Smile pushes against his cheeks, makes them ache. “We are partners, above all. Not rivals.”
Esteban wants so much, and all he wants, Fernando is giving it to him.