Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Long past was the time when whispers would follow him, warning to not upset the fae creature in the form of a black cat, suggestions to feed the matagot to avoid his ire. There are some days he misses it, longs for the old days when all he had to do was show up on someone’s doorstep to be invited in for a meal and a nap next to the fire. Especially when the meal was roast chicken. Those were his favorite. Those people got some extra good fortune. And yet there are days when he prefers the modern world, too. Preferred lounging by a cafe and weaving between the legs of patrons until a university girl leaned down to scratch behind his ears and pass him a piece off her chicken sandwich. Mmmm, yes, he liked her, would make sure she got a full scholarship for her next term.

Today, though, an adventure! There was a new man in town, a man with a very fast looking car. There weren’t many cars like that in this town, sleepy and tucked up snug against the mountains. Though the matagot had, of course, left this town, it had been quite some time, before cars could move at such speeds. And the man is curious, too, speaking the language of the area, but not with the same accent, and the matagot can hear him speak a different language under his breath. Yes. Yes, he thinks he will investigate. After all, it has been some time since he curled up beside a fire and the air is carrying a cold bite. And so, with curiosity and anticipation for a warm nap, he managed to jump into the car as the man closed the trunk on the groceries, and wiggled into the back seat. He could be a very sneaky thing when he wanted to be. Curling up on the back seat, unseen by the driver, he enjoyed the rumble of the engine as the car sped down the road.

He needed a vacation. Just a couple weeks without thinking of the track, without thinking of anything but relaxing. Finding the cabin tucked away next to the French alps was a stroke of luck. A tiny town where, so far, no one had recognized him. His French was passable, even if the Spanish accent muddled some of the words.

“Fernando,” he says for about the tenth time that day, just trying to take his groceries and get them back to the cabin. Just trying to be alone. “Yes, no, I’m just in town for a couple of weeks. From Spain, yes. No, I can carry everything myself, thank you.” Because there was only so long he could keep up with polite conversation, only so much of winter break he could waste before he broke back down into brief, terse responses. Finally, though, Finally! All of the supplies were in the car and he was on his way to the cabin. He just needed to pick up the keys and then he would start on dinner. A big pot of chicken soup would last for a few days. And the rental car wasn’t the best he’d ever driven, certainly not the fastest, but it got there quick enough. There was a woman waiting for him there, and he was glad he only needed to take the keys. A short exchange, and then he would be alone. For good measure, though, he opened the trunk before approaching her, just to signal that he was ready to unpack, to be inside for the rest of the day.

“Bonjour, Fernando!” She was warm, welcoming, and any other day he would appreciate that. Today, though, he was just tired. “I imagine you’re exhausted, so I won’t keep you. If you need anything, my number is–” but she paused, gaze shifting behind him. Fernando turned, spotting the black cat as it hopped out of the trunk. The thing had the nerve to take a moment to stretch before approaching, weaving between and pressing against Fernando’s legs. “Oh,” the woman relaxed at the familiar gesture, “you didn’t mention you were bringing a cat.”

“I didn’t,” he spoke gruffly, moving his legs away from the creature. No collar. A stray?

When he looked up again, though, the woman looked suspicious, bordering on rattled as the cat let out a plaintive meow and abandoned him to sit primly in front of her. “Oh.” And then, more forcefully, “Oh!” as she knelt and offered her hand out to the stray. “Haven’t seen you for quite a few years now. Are you having an adventure?” She remained still, fightfully still, hand extended, as the cat seemed to judge her. And then it gave another meow, this one sounding quite satisfied, before it approached and placed its chin onto the woman’s palm. This, apparently, was permission, and Fernando could hear the loud purring as the woman gently scratched behind the cat’s ear and under its chin. “I don’t have any food for you now, but I will next time, alright?” And it looked like the cat nodded, but it was probably the jet lag. The woman said something in rapid French to the cat, but it was too quiet for Fernando to catch. Probably just telling it that it was a darling precious baby or something. She then stood, smiling again. “Alright. My number is on the fridge if you need anything. I recommend lighting a fire and letting the cat sleep by it. Oh, and he likes chicken most of all, if you’ve got any.” And before he could ask further questions, she dropped the keys into his hand and left, leaving the cat sitting there all prim again, this time looking at Fernando.

It was, by all appearances, a plain black cat. It had no extra markings, nothing to recognize it by. It– he? Had dark eyes that, well, it was a silly feeling but Fernando could see intelligence there. Wasn’t he always being told cats were smarter than dogs? That was probably it. “You’re not coming in the house,” he told the cat, who only flicked his tail. He unloaded groceries and luggage, careful to not let the cat follow him inside. And yet, after everything was moved in, door closed, there was the cat sitting on the back of the couch, watching him move around the room. “What the– I told you, we’re not doing this.” And he picked up the cat, set him outside, and closed the door again. There, problem solved.

Unpacking could come later, but he wanted to at least get the chicken started. Unnerving that the woman had said chicken was the cat’s favorite, and that it had been in the car during the drive. Well, at least none of the groceries looked chewed on. All throughout cooking, though, he could hear a plaintive meow, the cat begging to be let in, to share in the food and warmth. Well, it wasn’t going to work. He could go find food somewhere else. He could– Fernando looked up at the kitchen window, seeing the cat sitting on the sill, looking forlorn, and in the background– snow. The cold bite of the air had turned into snow, and that damn cat was still outside. “Fine!” he shouted, throwing his hands up. He opened the window, and the cat was quick to squeeze through the smallest gap, balancing perfectly as he walked up Fernando’s arm and settled on his shoulder. “No. No! You can’t stand there, I’m in the middle of cooking!” He pulled the cat off, scoffing when the claws pulled at his shirt. “You scratch me, you’re going back outside,” he told it, holding the cat in front of his face to look at it. The cat meowed, assumedly in agreement, and reached out a paw to tap against Fernando’s nose. Well, then, it was agreed.

The matagot was set on the back of the couch. Funny how this human had taken him away from that spot only to put him back. Fernando. He liked the name, but he wasn’t sure about the man yet. The ride to the little cabin had been pleasant, but not long enough. He hadn’t gotten to take a nap, had barely been asleep when the car stopped. And the woman had recognized him! He recognized her, too. Roslyn. He’d known her as a little girl, she’d often given him the first bites of her food and gave the best belly rubs. He liked her, had given her a little extra fortune even without her having food for him now. He was nice like that. This Fernando, though, did he know that the matagot was supposed to get the first bite of food? It didn’t seem like it, but he was still cooking. There was time.

His eyes followed the human as he moved around the kitchen, seeming at ease there. And the food smelled wonderful. Chicken stew of some sort. Hearty and warm, tucked into a cabin during the first snow. Mmmmm perfect. Well, almost perfect. There needed to be a fire. He meowed loudly, waving his paw toward the unused fireplace. Fernando ignored him. He meowed louder, and Fernando looked over this time. The matagot did his best to look cross as he gestured again toward the fireplace. “I’m not taking orders from a cat,” Fernando scoffed. “I’ll start a fire after I finish dinner. Or don’t you want to eat? I don’t have any cat food so its chicken soup for you tonight.”

Oh. Well. The matagot jumped down from the couch, wove himself between the human’s feet again. Didn’t this human want good fortune? Didn’t he know that a happy matagot meant good things were on the way. Fernando didn’t kick him, but he did push him away with his foot. Well! The matagot went back in, this time batting at Fernando’s foot and making a rapid, high pitched chirping sound. Not quite a normal cat sound, but close enough to be mistaken. “Fine! Fine, if I light the fire will you let me cook in peace, you needy cat?” The matagot stilled, looked up at the human, and looked pleased. Yes. Yes a warm fire would do nicely. The man huffed, and started the fire. The matagot trotted over, curled up, and quickly fell into a sound nap. He didn’t even care if he had gotten food first when Fernando set a saucer of broth with a few chunks of chicken in front of him. That was how good it was.

Yes. Yes he would be staying around for a while. He was going to adopt this human.

Fernando and the cat, which he really should name instead of just calling him Cat, passed two more days in relative harmony. He found that, as long as the cat was warm and fed, it caused little trouble. It did insist on sleeping on the bed, though, yowled like a demon when Fernando tried to lock it out, and had dutifully laid on the pillow beside him the first night, and then closer to being curled up next to his shoulder the second. On the third night, he decided it was time to name the thing. “Alright you– cat.” The cat looked up from kneading the bed, examined him for a moment, and then went back to work. “Hey, I’m talking to you.” The cat stopped, sat primly to face him again, looking bored, and stayed still. “I can’t keep calling you cat, so, what do you think of Berto?” The cat did not react. “Cazador?” Still nothing. “Noche?” Not a single movement. Honestly it was unnerving how still he could be. “Esteban?” The cat was still for a moment, and then flicked his tail, getting up to press his face to Fernando’s cheek and purring loudly. He’d figured over the last few days that purring meant approval for whatever it was Fernando was doing. “Really? Esteban?” The purring got louder. “Fine. Fine. Esteban it is. Now go to sleep. I have to go into town tomorrow.” He figured the cat– Esteban, couldn’t just keep eating chicken and chicken broth. So, tomorrow for food.

He had been named again! Esteban. He kept rolling it around in his mind, batting it back and forth like a ball of yarn Roslyn had given him once. Esteban. He liked it. He really really liked it. Liked it so much that he was very much going to keep it, add it to the small list of names he’d been given in the past. There weren't many. Most people were wary of naming a fae thing, and few took the risk. He was fairly certain by this point, though, that Fernando had no idea what he was. Which meant that, as in the past, he now got to be Esteban. For as long as Fernando was alive, remembered the name, the matagot could be Esteban. For tonight, he would stay the matagot, stay curled up in the space between Fernando’s shoulder and chin, purring softly against his neck. Mmmm, yeah, tomorrow he could be Esteban.

The trip into town was quick. Just out to get more groceries, some cat food. Esteban didn’t really seem to need a litter box. The cat would just slip outside, seemingly unbothered by the snow despite how pathetically he had meowed to be let in the first night, and come back when he was good and ready as all cats do. And it wasn’t like he was going to take Esteban back with him after this vacation was over. Lewis might bring Roscoe to the paddock but how exactly would he bring a cat to a race? No. Better that Esteban be left in his home. Better that Fernando put back the cat toy that was in his cart. Except he didn’t. And now it was in the car. And now he was driving home. And now the cat toy was in his hand as he walked in the door, ready to call for Esteban, except–

“Who the hell are you?” Because there was a man sitting on the couch, wearing his robe. Dark haired, facing the fireplace that now contained a fire even though he’d left it unlit before leaving the house. The man turned, looking almost bored, aloof, and Fernando was struck by his eyes. By this point, he had stared into Esteban’s eyes for several hours. Because there wasn’t much to do when he was trying not to look at his phone and had no desire to read any of the four books he’d brought with him. And the cat stayed still for long enough, would stare back until he decided it was time for Fernando to feed him again. So he’d stared into that cat’s eyes, and Estean’s eyes were looking back at him now. That same deep dark brown, the same spark of intelligence that, well he didn’t care how smart cats were supposed to be, no cat was that smart.

But the stranger held his gaze, and Fernando saw the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile. “Fernando.”

“No. I’m Fernando.” Obviously. He pointed at the man with the only thing in his hand, the neon green plastic stick with a neon rainbow string attached to it. On the other end of the string was a cluster of feathers and a bell. “Who are you and how did you get in here?”

The stranger had shifted from staring at him, to staring at the cat toy. His expression turned from amused to delighted. “Did you get that for me?”

“What? No. I got it for the cat.” Who would buy a cat toy for a man they’d never seen before. That would make less sense than the rest of this situation did.

“Matagot.”

“Excuse me?” Were they just making up words now or was that a name?

The man looked less amused now, and Fernando could swear he’d seen Esteban roll his eyes in the exact same way. “I’m not a cat. I’m a matagot. And you’re going to say that you don’t know what that is because no one knows what that is.” The man’s voice was heavily accented in French, which made sense because they were in France, but it seemed off from a modern French accent. Older. Far older than the mid-twenties this man appeared. “Matagots look like cats, but we aren’t. You’ve heard of the fae, yes?” It didn’t matter if Fernando had or hadn’t, because the man kept talking. “Name a matagot, and if it accepts the name, it gets to be that name. So, Fernando, you named me Esteban. Now I get to be Esteban.”

Absolutely not. This wasn’t– this didn’t– “You’re not the cat.” Because he couldn’t be. Because that was impossible.

“Correct. I’m not a cat. I’m a matagot. And as long as you remember the name, I am also Esteban.” No, the man claiming to be a cat– a fae creature– Esteban, looked bored, bordering on frustrated. “Fine. I’ll prove it. I’m going to walk into the bathroom. Esteban is going to walk out, circle your left foot three times, and then go back into the bathroom. Then I’ll come back out, yes?” Fernando made no response, but Esteban did exactly that. He also dropped the robe on the way to the bathroom, settling the question of if he was naked under there. Yes. He was.

It took thirty seconds for Esteban the cat to come trotting out of the bathroom, looking very put out by all of this. He did exactly as the man had said, circled his left leg three times and then trotted back to the bathroom. Thirty seconds later, Esteban the man, the very tall man with very soft looking black hair and fuck Fernando do not think about the fact that he is still naked under that robe, came back out. “Satisfied?”

No. No he was not. Still gripping the plastic toy, he went for the bathroom. No cat was immediately present or noticeable, but he had to be there somewhere. This was an elaborate hoax. Because why break and enter if you could convince someone that you were just the cat they’d let in from a storm? Perfect way to rob someone. Or, if he’d been noticed, what a video to put up! Formula 1 World Champion Fernando Alonso believes person and cat are the same! What a headline that would be. No. The cat was here somewhere. He pulled open the shower curtain. Nothing. There were no windows. Only one door. No where the stupid cat could have gone. So, he turned back to the man. “What did you do with him?”

“Fine!” The man shouted, throwing up his hands. “Fine! I tried not to do this cause humans get all weird about it, but fine!” And without further warning, there was a light. Not really a light because it was more like a sharp pin prick of void where the man had been standing, and then the void cleared and there was…a cat. And the cat sat perfectly still for a heartbeat, two, three, and then moved forward, sitting at his feet. And then another void, and this time the void expanded, cleared, and then there was the man, standing chest to chest with Fernando, looking down because fuck why was he so tall?

And he couldn’t really deny it now, right? He saw a man turn into a cat, and a cat turn into a man and it was his fault, right? Cause first he’d let the cat into the house and then he’d given it a name. He shoved the cat toy against the man’s– Esteban’s chest. “I got this for you.”

And, yes, the robe was on the floor a few feet away, and Esteban was naked.

Chapter Text

Legends say it is impossible to truly tame a fae creature. They are too wild, enjoy their own freedom too much. Not that Fernando considered Esteban tamed just because he’d managed to wrestle him into a pair of sweatpants that were comically too short for the gangly legs of the fae. And of course Esteban had been no help at all. If anything, he’d been a hindrance, going all limp and boneless seemingly just for the fun of it. Just to watch Fernando struggle. Stupid cat. And it didn’t help that, while trying to pull the sweatpants up, Fernando’s hand had grazed over Esteban’s cock, startling the fae to the void, and then back to a cat. All the work wasted and Fernando would have kicked him out of the house tight then if he hadn’t looked comically startled even as a cat. Upon returning to human, he looked disgruntled, but was marginally more helpful.

“Are you going to help me with the sweater, or just sit there?” By now, Esteban’s bare chest was less distracting, but he wasn’t entirely numb to it. Plus, even with the fire roaring there was still a chill creeping into the cabin as more snow fell outside. He might now know the cold tolerance of a matagot, but Catseban had always curled up in front of the fire so he had to like being warm, right? So, a sweater. And no, Fernando was not going to acknowledge that he had picked out his softed, most snuggly sweater to keep Esteban warm. He was ignoring that.

He was not ignoring the way Esteban’s eyes watched him. The way they were rapidly lighting up with mischief. “What I don’t understand is why we have to be wearing clothes at all. The sheets on the bed are perfectly warm.”

“You were a cat–”

“Matagot.”

“--a matagot this morning. We were in the same bed.”

Esteban gave a feline grin. “So, you agree then.” When Fernando made no immediate response, trying to figure out what he was meant to be agreeing with, Esteban clarified. “You agree we should just go get back into bed.”

Now, it wasn’t as if Fernando was some blushing virgin, unfamiliar with the advances of beautiful women or beautiful men. But this was different territory. He was used to matching a potential partner move for move, but as Esteban advanced, he found himself yielding ground. And, as Esteban’s approach slowly pushed him back, down, Fernando realized it had been a mistake to conduct this affair on the couch. He was now solidly trapped, lithe fae above him as the couch held him up. And, yes, now the bare chest was incredibly distracting.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” Esteban purred, and, though he could see it was no strain for the fae, Fernando could tell he was holding himself up. Holding himself off. Flirtatious, but willing to stop the moment Fernando said the word. And perhaps that was the shift if he had a mind to look back on it later, that willingness to stop. Cat, matagot, fae, whatever name was applied, here he was. Here was a man whose eyes shuttered shut as Fernando slipped a hand into his hair. It was soft, softer than it had any rights to be, and Esteban leaned into his touch and seemed to purr as Fernando gently scratched through his hair. He wondered….ah, yes, there it was. Immediately, Esteban went boneless again, falling against Fernando’s chest as he scratched gently behind the fae’s ear. Anyone else, it might have knocked the wind from him, but Esteban was surprisingly light. “Not fair,” he complained, even as he nuzzled his cheek against Fernando’s shoulder, purring as he continued scratching through his hair. After a few moments, it was clear the fae had fallen asleep. And, really, that sounded like a good plan, and Fernando was asleep soon after.

Esteban woke up groggy, sluggish. He’d forgotten that was what it felt like to wake up human. Speaking of human, there was one underneath him. Mmmm, Fernando. He may have gotten attached too quickly, but it was too late now. Fernando’s arm was tossed over his waist, and Esteban felt the very cat like impulse to flee confinement before he settled at the Spainard’s even breathing. He could fall asleep here again. And then his stomach rumbled.

He could wake Fernando, get him to make something with those groceries he’d brought in earlier. No. No, the matagot could cook, he just didn’t like to. But Fernando had fed him the last three days, had named him, and had adjusted fairly quickly to cat becoming a man. And he’d been skilled enough to find that particular spot that made Esteban become jelly. Very skilled. Very skilled indeed. So, Esteban would cook. Carefully, he slipped from under Fernando’s arm, even paused to pull on the hunter green sweater Fernando had been trying to force him to wear. It was spectacularly comfortable, soft and only just thick enough to be cozy without being bulky. He decides immediately that he will be keeping this sweater, even if the sleeves don't quite make it to his wrists.

He easily falls into a rhythm, knowledge of cooking pulled from former lives, making a sort of roast chicken that he believes he first made while Napoleon was still alive. Mmm, Napoleon. He was going to try not to dwell there. Esteban was washing a few of the dishes (after some fair trial and error since he hasn't been human in quite some time) when he perked at the sound of shifting from the couch. He tried not to move, to school his reactions into something more human. Something that can't hear a pin drop from three loud rooms away, that can't tell the snow outside will stop in exactly thirteen minutes for exactly twenty six minutes before whipping into flurries again. Something normal. Too much fae, too much of the truth of him, it always unnerves humans. And he likes Fernando. Its only been three days, but Esteban has always prided himself on good judgement. (Napoleon doesn't count. He knew that was a bad idea from the start).

So, he doesn't exactly jump when Fernando approaches from behind, but he does act surprised at least. "You cooked?" The human seems even more surprised.

Esteban turned from the dishes, giving him a disapproving look. "You understand I'm very old right? Do you think I just don't know how to feed myself?"

And Fernando didn't flush, didn't look away, just raised a brow and said, "I thought the matagot were known for being fed." Which, yes, of course the matagot would prefer to be fed, but they hadn't exactly had time to go over all the old stories. Esteban hadn't told Fernando about the feeding, the care, the good fortune. And perhaps he let the surprise, true and sudden, last too long, because Fernando smiled. It wasn't mean spirited, but it did have a bit of a triumphant tilt to it. "Didn't expect to surprise you." And he pushed a rectangle across the counter. His phone. Which was unlocked to a webpage with information about matagot. Fernando had researched while Esteban had been cooking!

Delight bloomed in his chest, unfolding petals of a flower that Esteban had no name for. He had researched, and he had asked if Esteban had cooked, not about the good fortune that was clearly displayed on the page. Maybe Fernando didn't–

"You're like walking good luck?"

And the flower died. Turned to ash that Esteban could taste on his tongue. There it was. It was always there, hovering like a shadow that he could never shake. Because, while he enjoyed the times he was named, enjoyed being whoever he was with the name, the good fortune was always what they were after, wasn't it? He was tense, and turned back to the dishes. "It says it right there, doesn't it? Feed the matagot the first bite of your meal, it will bestow good fortune."

He didn't know what Fernando did for a living, had only wanted to investigate him, had been intrigued simply by the way the man lived his life. Wanted to stay with him. And now he was named, and there was that piece that always felt obligated to remain with those that named him, even if he knew it was never him that they wanted. Even if–

"Esteban–" he said it like it was the third time, and the fae wondered just how bitterly disappointed he must look when he turns to see Fernando holding a piece of the roasted chicken that had been cooling on the stove. There was a flicker of curiosity in Fernando's eyes as Esteban dutifully opened his mouth. Before, Fernando had been feeding the strange black cat the first bite of his meals out of kindness. Now Esteban would receive the first bite for good luck.

Except that Fernando looked at him, held the chicken, and placed it in his own mouth instead of Esteban's. The fae blinked, even more confused now that before. He'd never– no one had ever– everyone had wanted the luck. Fernando, though, looked absolutely smug as he announced, "I don't need your luck."

The flower bloomed again, and Esteban could feel the rumble of a purr in his chest.

It is the look of disappointment on Esteban's face that does it, the way it transforms to an innocent, hopeful longing. How many times has he been used for that mythical good fortune? And it wasn't even like Fernando didn't need the luck. The Alpine shit box would keep breaking, he would curse his bad luck again, and he would still take the first bite of a meal.

And he does. For the next two weeks, every meal they have together, Fernando takes the first bite, each time seeing anxiety creep into Esteban's eyes. Like this is it, this is the meal he's decided to change his mind, and yet with each breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the anxiety is fading.

They did manage to make it to one of the stores in town, Esteban hilariously dressed in too short sweats and the hunter green sweater Daniel had given Fernando for the last paddock gift exchange, to get the fae a few clothes he could actually wear. Thought Fernando has noticed the matagot would prefer to stay on that sweater and a pair of pajama shorts. And there are days when he remains a cat, that he seems more tired, like being human is a strain he hasn't quite gotten used to.

In fact, he's been a cat for a few hours now, sleeping soundly curled on Fernando's pillow as the Spaniard busied himself with cleaning up around the cabin. It is starting to sink in, that his vacation will be over soon and he'll have to return for testing before too long. Would Esteban– he'd said that he could be Esteban for as long as Fernando remembered the name, but that didn't mean Fernando had to be around. Would Esteban even want to leave this town? He was looking at plane tickets when Esteban, human and wearing that sweater again, shuffled from the bedroom, rubbing at his eyes. "What do you do for a living?" He yawned, and Fernando was only realizing now that they'd never talked about it. Esteban wouldn't even know that, in some circles, Fernando was famous.

“I drive cars.” Over simplification. An understatement of what he could do behind the wheel.

Still, Esteban seemed to perk up at the idea, immediately more awake. "Like a cab? Or like racing?" Fernando remembered that Esteban had stowed away in his car that first day, and had seemed delighted to be in a car when they'd gone to the shops. Esteban had shared more of his own thoughts on being named, that he was sure he was different now than he'd been when he was Napoleon's Andrea, when he'd been Arnaud years before that. If anyone else had named him, would he seem so excited at the possibility of racing?

Either way, Fernando was happy to explain, taking a seat on the couch and gesturing for Esteban to join him. He wasn't surprised when Esteban laid on the couch with his head on Fernando's lap. It wasn't the first time. It also wasn't the first time Fernando had, without stopping to consider, carded his fingers into Esteban's soft, dark hair. He felt the fae relax immediately, knew he would fall asleep within minutes, faster if Fernando returned to that one spot behind his ear. Instead, Fernando turned on the tv that had barely been touched for the last two weeks. Youtube was quick to provide a highlight reel of his championship seasons, and Esteban watched with rapt attention, a contented purr building as clip after clip of Fernando on the podium played. He didn't need to watch the highlights, he had lived them, and so he was watching Esteban as the matagot turned his gaze up to him. "Mon oiseu, you can fly."

And the scale tipped. It had begun with Esteban offering to stop, and the little moments had been piling up since then. The pleasure Esteban seemed to get from each first bite Fernando didn't give him, the easy companionship coupled with the mischief Esteban seemed to drape around himself, the soft French he would lapse into when tired, surprised, or in awe. And there was awe in his eyes now.

They moved in tandem, Esteban reaching up and Fernando leaning down. Their lips met, and his first thought was that Esteban's lips were impossibly soft, followed by this being an uncomfortable position to kiss in. Esteban seemed to read, or at least agree with, that second though, and managed to shift, straddling Fernando on the too narrow couch while maintaining the kiss. Fernando sighed against silken lips as Esteban took his turn pushing his fingers into Fernando's, nails scratching ever so gently. He thought of mirrors in that action, of scratching just right over that spot behind Esteban's ear, but he remembers how fully the fae had relaxed before. He didn't want Esteban relaxed. He wants him making these happy sighs, murmuring indistinguishable French as Fernando places his fingers along Esteban's spine to pull him closer.

"Do you want to see me fly, gatito?" he asked, a momentary break for him more necessary than for Esteban. While Fernando caught his breath, Esteban had been peppering kisses along his jaw, down his neck. At the question, though, Esteban pulled back, his expression bordering on drunk, lips pink and swollen, eyes unfocused. Fernando raised a hand, caressing his knuckles over his cheek, resulting in Esteban's eyes fluttering closed as he leaned into the touch, a deep purr emanating from his chest. "Come with me, Esteban. Stay with me."

And Esteban kissed him again before replying, "Only if I always get the second bite of food."

Esteban was French. He would always prefer being in France. However, for Fernando, he had boarded a plane and ended up in Enstone. There was plenty to do do, plenty to keep Fernando away from the house he rented during the pre-season. Which meant Esteban got bored and followed Fernando to work. More like jumped into the car, parked himself on his partner's lap, and aggressively purred until Fernando gave up and took him to work. The team was confused at first, but soon Esteban was being passed from one set of arms to the next, being pet, scratched under his chin, and being given nibble of lunches. Honestly, he was having a great time, purring modestly over all the attention.

Until, as an engineer was kissing between Esteban's ears, he looked up and saw a strange expression frozen on the driver's face. Testing a theory, Esteban purred louder. The engineer was delighted, but the driver's expression darkened. Oh. Jealousy. He could continue purring, indulge in the mischief. And yet, instead, he wiggled from the arms that were not Fernando's and therefore were not the arms Esteban wanted to hold him. Of course, Esteban wanted to hold him back, but he could be patient. For now, he scampered over to the driver, jumping up to his lap and placing his forepaws on Fernando's cest, purring obnoxiously loud, rubbing his face against Fernando's neck, occasionally licking gently. Time to go home.

And this was how much of the pre-season went. Fernando would work, Esteban would either stay home or join him. The days Esteban would stay home, he learned things, investigated what he hadn't cared to know as a fae thing disconnected from the human world. So much had changed since he'd been named! Buthe was always waiting for Fernando to come home. And when he would go into the factory with him, the door of the house was barely closed before he was human again, no need to put on clothes and eager to Fernando in a similar state of undress. It had never been so easy! Not with human or fae. Never so easy to listen to Fernando talk, to have him listen, to feel completely at each in his arms. Esteban knew that, where ever Fernando went, so too would he.

Which is how he ends up with the Bahrain sun scorching his black fur, being pushed around in a baby carriage by a man named Daniel. They'd met in Spain during testing, or, at least, Daniel had met the black cat Fernando had adopted while on vacation in France. No one had met Esteban the person. He needed a pass to enter the paddock area during the races, had no way of getting one, was too nervous to ask Fernando. What if he didn't want Esteban there? It wouldn't be the first time he'd been someone's dirty little secret. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been hidden away by a human. So, instead of thinking of the day when Fernando stopped kissing him, stopped pulling him close, stopped giving him the second bite and started actually using his lick, instead he would enjoy himself with the other drivers while Fernando was busy.

Daniel was fun, and Esteban the cat had already appeared in several social media posts for Mclaren. Charles and Pierre both stank of dog, and he would prefer to avoid the both of them. Lewis was warm-- very warm, and, if Daniel hadn't absconded with him, Esteban would prefer to curl up on his lap. The fact that Lewis whispered to him in an ancient language, one forgotten by humans, was less than surprising, and only caused the matagot to purr in understanding.

Race after race went by. The car continued to be a problem, and yet each DNF meant he could return to Esteban that much quicker. He was still angry about the car, but at least he could look forward to Esteban's contented sighs as the fae rested against his chest, the two of them alone in the motorhome. Except that today, even though Fernando was tracing lazy circles on his bare skin, Esteban made no sigh of contentment. "Are you going to tell me what is wrong, gatito?" He knew how partial his fae lover was to the nickname, felt the smallest hum of pleasure pulse through him. He'd like to think that meant Esteban wasn't about to leave him, but he knew Esteban was a wild thing. If his quiet discomfort meant he would soon be leaving, could Fernando stop him?

Instead of announcing his departure, though, Esteban quietly confessed, "I want to see you race."

And, for a moment, he thought he'd misunderstood, heard wrong. But no, here was this ethereal fae being in his bed, the both of them covered only in a blanket and one another, pouting about not having a better view. "Kitten, I do believe the pit crew has sent me several pictures of you watching the race with rapt attention."

Esteban tried, in most moments, to move at a human pace. Now, though, in the space of half a breath, Esteban had pulled away to the edge of the bed. He seemed so far away, his back to Fernando, completely still. Six months now, and Fernando felt he could read his mind fairly well. Esteban would be thinking of Napoleon, of the emperor who had last named him, who had taken him to bed only for the good fortune the matagot could bestow, discarding him when he thought himself above it. Somewhere in these months, Fernando had promised himself he would never give Esteban a reason to doubt him, and he had failed. Doubt was carved between his shoulder bladers, dripping down his spine to pool in the rumpled sheets of their bed. Fernanda had wanted to wait for the perfect moment, because this wasn’t just asking Esteban to come to a race. It would be the two of them walking hand in hand into the garage, around the paddock, in front of the press. He had no intention of hiding Esteban, not once, as they say, the cat was out of the bag.

Leaning over, he dipped his hand into the drawer of the bedside table. There was no perfect moment. There was only this moment. There was only Esteban sitting on the edge of the bed, wondering when everything was going to come tumbling down around him. Fernando, object in hand, shuffled behind Esteban, caressing gentle fingertips over his spine, feeling the tension spill out. “I’m sorry, Esteban.” The tension returned as the fae waited for ill news. Instead, Fernando dropped a lanyard around his neck, the plastic of the VIP pass slapping gently against his bare chest. “I should’ve given this to you at the start of the season. I was being silly. Forgive me.”

He saw Esteban’s fingers skim reverently over the letters of his name. Fernando had given him a second one, too. Ocon. The cabin where they’d met, where Esteban had so diligently barged into his vacation, had been located on the far corner of that village. Ocon just happened to be an old French surname given to those who lived on the corner of a street or village. It had been too perfect to pass up. His fingertips lingered over the photograph. Fernando had taken it before they’d even left the cabin, always with this in mind. Now all the tension fully fled, the fae leaning back to tip his head back onto Fernando’s shoulder. “Esteban Ocon. I like it.” He was purring again, and Fernando could see the doubt clear from his eyes.

Esteban Ocon made his paddock debut under the bright Barcelona sunshine. Thursday hadn’t even ended before news was out that Fernando Alonso had been seen kissing a mystery man. It was less of a mystery when the same man was spotted watching the Spaniard during FP1. Gossips flew into overdrive when they were spotted having lunch together between practices. And then several other drivers joined them, obscuring them from the grasping reach of the paparazzi lenses.

“Wait, so did he name the cat after you, then?” was the first question Daniel asked him, seemingly needing no time to adjust, simply happy. “Aww, was it to keep you with him until you could get here?”

“Actually, he named me after the cat,” Esteban shrugged, reveling in the laughter from the other drivers. Before, he’d only ever been the matagot. Kept locked away like a jewel in a box. He’d been hoarded. His fear of living that same life had nearly strangled him. But here he sat, and each time someone called him Esteban, smiled at him like a friend, he felt more real. Less like the matagot, more like Esteban. He looked to Fernando, currently engaged in an easy rapport with Lando. All this time searching, he’d finally found a place to belong.