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He’s lying starfished on his hotel bed post-dinner, a light but steady, ceaseless pattering outside his window, suitcase abandoned and unpacked for the time being. It’s unusual for Pierre to lie down and wait for something to happen, not in his nature to do so, but his spirit feels a little bit like rainwater streaming down the sidewalk drain.
There’s a knock on the unlocked door. He calls out to let them know they’re welcome.
His teammate enters with what looks to be two snowballs on a plate, which he sets down on the table near the foot of his bed. Pierre doesn’t feel hungry right now, and he’s pretty sure both their performance coaches would kill them for eating anything extra this late. But Yuki can be pretty persistent with food—a unique love language on its own—and he’s not sure he has the energy to fight him if he tries to force feed him Japanese desserts.
“How are you feeling?” Yuki asks as he sits on the edge of the bed beside him. He has his hands in his lap. He’s biting his lips. Pierre would rather watch him in silence than answer the question.
“Tired,” as if there was anything else he could be.
His teammate nods slowly like he expected that. They sit there for a few moments just watching each other, comfortable with light trepidation. It’s only when Yuki has been staring fixatedly at his torso for a little too long that Pierre says softly, “come here.”
The small boy wastes no time situating himself on top of Pierre, legs on either side of him and face smushed right where his heart beats loudest. He wraps an arm around Yuki’s waist and starts stroking his hair. They’ve only done this once or twice in the last two years, but Pierre still remembers the old smallness of Yuki’s body. He felt honored then, like he was being trusted to protect an angry ball of light that only glows warmly in his hands. It’s only now that he truly understands how big he’s gotten, his body sharper and more defined, yet still just as fitting to be wrapped around him. This time however, Yuki’s embrace almost feels like he’s trying to shield Pierre from the harsh weather outside or perhaps make sure he stays exactly where he is. Nonetheless, the smaller boy brings out an uncharacteristic softness in him, and it compels him to rub little circles in the small of his back, to caress his flawless cheek, rosy in the dim light of his room.
Pierre has always viewed his life in dichotomy. There was life before and after entering Formula 1, a life before and after losing Anthoine, and now a life before and after leaving RedBull. But he’s never thought of having a life after Yuki, just like he’s never thought of life before and after Charles, or before and after Esteban. He wonders if Yuki is already thinking of life after Pierre.
“Is the sky still crying for you, Yuki?” His words come out in soft wisps.
The smaller boy moves to bury his face in the crook of his neck and shoulder. “Maybe.”
With just one word, Pierre feels that same wave of emotion that washed over him only after he drove with him along the streets of Tokyo. It’s odd that such sentiments can crash over you not unlike a rooftop stream of delayed precipitation. However, he’d known at some point that it was inevitable, this incomparable lightness that comes with being around his teammate. He’d already expected—hell, even Charles had expected it—that the clouds in his heart would part for the sunshine that is Yuki Tsunoda.
But there’s a chasm that lies in his chest now, much too wide with a depth he never foresaw.
Pierre’s hand brushes Yuki’s hair off his forehead. “Look at me,” he says. Yuki follows, chin on his chest and eyes glistening to focus on him. “You are Yuki Tsunoda from the land of the rising sun,” he tries, almost jokingly, but he’s too choked up to make it land. “The sun continues to shine wherever you go, even if the rain follows.” He swipes the pad of his thumb right on the creases underneath the smaller boy’s lash line. Pierre pretends it’s not a little wet. “You will be just fine without me.” Pierre knows within him that he only means it with regards to being on the team.
It doesn’t seem to translate well, because Yuki squeezes him a little tighter as he listens to Pierre’s heartbeat and says, “I don’t want to be without you.”
Yuki’s voice is tiny but sure, and it rings just as loud as the thunder in a storm. Pierre has always loved his unbridled honesty, but even more so now, when the rain has left him cleansed and bare. Warmth seeps into his skin, wraps around his aching bones. He wants to say something equally as earth shattering in return, maybe something about the wind always leading him to Yuki.
He doesn’t. Instead, he pecks the top of his forehead and grabs one of his hands to hold. Pierre positions them side by side on the bed, his right arm securing Yuki’s body towards his own and his left hand entwined with the other’s against his chest. He gently nudges the tip of his nose against the younger one’s, and in return, Yuki bumps the pout of his lips against his chin, tenderly, almost lovingly.
“Rest easy, mon amour,” Pierre whispers. “I will always be here.”
Throughout the night, Pierre switches between admiring Yuki’s face in soft slumber and the raindrops that made their home on his hotel window. He eyes a particular two, one bigger than the other and having traveled further down towards the windowpane. It’s reminiscent of his childhood spent watching little drops of water race against the backseat window of his family’s car on the way home from karting. It takes another half minute for the smaller one to crash into the bigger droplet. But instead of traveling further down, the water stays still, as if in equilibrium with its surroundings.
As Pierre closes his eyes for the rest of the night, he vaguely recognizes the peaceful calm of the weather and wonders if this means the clouds have decided it no longer has any reason to weep.