Archive of Our Own

He still had that toothy smile. It had yet to be directed at him, but it was unmistakable from all angles. He tries to think back to the first time he saw it. A spiky-haired seven-year-old, wide-eyed and grinning as he stared at Pierre’s brother’s old kart. Maybe that's where his own love for karting started. There was something about seeing the wonder on the other boy’s face that made Pierre see the kart in a whole new light. This thing must be something special, he thought, for someone to stare at it in such admiration.

Their fathers were deep in conversation, droning on as adults do. The initial excitement of visitors to the house had worn off, and Pierre couldn’t help but gaze out into the garden. It was warm outside, but not oppressive, and the grass had been freshly cut that morning. Perfect weather for football. His father must have noticed the longing on his face, gently pushing his shoulder.

“Why don’t you and Esteban go outside for a while?”

Esteban, who had begun to inspect the kart, looked up at the mention of his name. He inspected the kart as if it was a precious artefact at a museum, hands clasped behind his back, desperately trying not to reach out and touch, lest he damage the shiny exterior. He reluctantly stepped back from the kart, and as he followed Pierre out the doors, Pierre saw him look back at the kart out of the corner of his eye.

The two boys stumbled outside into the sunlight and toward the makeshift football field Pierre and his brothers had created, heavily spurred on by their fathers. With barely any words exchanged, they began to take turns shooting at the goal, each turn becoming more daring in a silent attempt to impress one another. Pierre was better at football, then. Now, admittedly, he had not played in a while. He knew Esteban did sometimes though. He had seen him on race weekends, in the paddock, amongst the motorhomes, in the Alpine garage, kicking a ball around. Not that he had been looking, of course, he was just on his way to somewhere else, to hang out with Charles, to mess with Yuki, to get screamed at by Helmut Marko. Esteban just happened to be there.

It was a bit ironic, he thought, that Esteban and he would end up racing in Formula One together when a big part of their falling out was due to a perceived notion that there wasn’t room for both of them in the sport. But they had been foolish. There had always been room.

It was even more ironic that they would end up racing for the same team. A more contemplative Pierre (and perhaps a more drunk Pierre) would have called it fate. Normal Pierre doesn’t call it anything.

When their fathers emerged from the house and called out that it was time for Esteban to go, and after the two boys had convinced their fathers to let them have ‘just one more go’, which of course turned into ten, Pierre had felt the disappointment rise in his chest as watched Esteban and his father drive away, kart safely stored in the back of their hired out van. Later, over dinner, he professed his sudden love for karting. His father had looked at him exasperatedly. “You couldn’t have said this before I sold your brother’s old kart?”

…

As Pierre exited the airport terminal in Rouen, it took him under a second to spot his parents. This was probably because his mother was jumping up and down and waving her hands frantically. Embarrassed (but also secretly touched) he made his way over to them, kissing them both on the cheeks as his father slyly took his bags from his hands to put in the boot of the car. As the youngest of four, Pierre had the privilege of forever remaining a baby in the eyes of his parents.

It was a particularly cold winter; the snow was thick on the ground, and his father drove slowly and carefully up to his childhood home. When he had made it into Formula One, Pierre had offered to buy his parents a brand new home, someplace where it was always sunny, but his parents had softly refused. Looking back, he was relieved that they decided against it.

When he arrived back at the house, he took the stairs two at a time up to his bedroom. His parents had left it untouched from when he had moved out, his adolescent personality spilling out onto every surface in the room. The cerulean walls were dotted with posters of footballers and racecar drivers alike. A wonky bookshelf sighed under the weight of his karting trophies, scattered with a few other memorabilia: the first champagne bottle he received on a podium, an old helmet, an autograph from Michael Schumacher, framed. His bed was neatly made by his mother, with, Pierre noticed, a racecar duvet cover. He was tracing the outline of the cars with the tip of his fingers when he heard his mother call him from downstairs. Dinner was ready.

Pierre had dined at some of the world's most luxurious, expensive restaurants. Ate food that cost more than the average rent per month in Paris in a single sitting. However, if you asked him, Pierre believed his mother made the best food in the world. His plate was cleared soon enough and without a word, his mother served him a second helping. His brothers and their partners were animatedly talking about their lives, excitedly relaying news about babies, weddings and mortgages. And it's not like Pierre wasn’t interested in those things; he would love to get married and have kids someday. In fact, at sixteen years old, he had planned it all out. He remembered that night vividly. A shared bed in a hotel room, a toothy smile whispering ‘forever’. And that’s where his problem lay: when he had pictured his life, he had always pictured Esteban in it too. And after their friendship ended, Pierre’s plans for the future dissolved. Looking back, perhaps he could admit that he was naive, after all, very few things you think of at sixteen come to be. So, he tried to imagine a new future for himself. He had met other people, built strong new friendships, and gotten closer to Charles. In the light of day, all of that seemed enough. Sometimes, when he was laughing over dinner at something stupid Charles said, or laid out on a boat next to Sean, he could see himself, in the future, with these people by his side. But at night, when he lay alone in bed, he would let his mind wander, and Esteban would slip into his thoughts, sitting next to him at the table with Charles, laughing, sneaking in a snarky comment that would cause Pierre to double over. At night, Pierre missed Esteban so much that it hurt. When he would wake in the morning, he would shamefully remember his thoughts from the night before, his cheeks tinting red, even though there was no one to witness what he had seen in his mind’s eye just hours ago. Then he would forcefully shove those thoughts back into the part of his brain that he kept permanently shut. The part that had been gathering dust for the past decade, locked tightly behind a heavy iron door marked ‘Esteban’.

After dinner, they retreated into the living room, sprawling themselves across the sofas and armchairs, stomachs and minds heavy from the food they had consumed. Pierre’s mother was tipsy, her cheeks rosy and eyes bright. She had only had a couple of glasses of wine but her tolerance for alcohol was getting lower, something that she had denied, much to Pierre’s amusement. Her constant stream of words had become background noise to Pierre as he rested his head against a cushion, half-lidded eyes lazily scanning the room. A dark oak table stood to the side of the couch. Pierre was pretty sure it was an old one, something his mother had picked up in an antique shop years ago. The wood was polished, but if one was to look closer small scuff marks would begin to appear at the edges of the table. The legs had clawed feet, something that was pretty to look at but had caused many a stubbed toe since its arrival. A huge rectangular mirror in a gaudy, gilded frame hung above the table. Pierre was positive that the mirror had never been used more than a few times, with its purpose being more to fill the space on the wall rather than reflect. Across the table stood about twenty picture frames, all mismatched from one another, that Pierre’s parents had picked up over the years. The surface of the table was majorly overcrowded, with most of the photos in the frames obscured by others.

Curious about the obscured pictures, Pierre dragged himself up off the couch, wandering over to the table. If any of his family noticed his movements, they didn’t say anything. He picked up the photos one by one, his other hand occupied with holding his glass of red wine. Him with his brothers on holiday, all holding up ice cream cones with vigour. His parents on their wedding day, rice being thrown all around them. His brother at his Christening, the small baby almost obscured by the white material of the gown that had been handed down from his grandfather. He and Esteban, at the side of a racetrack, arms thrown around the shoulders of one another.

Pierre did not remember when this particular photo was taken, after all, they spent so much time at the racetrack. However, Pierre guessed they were about ten in the photo, and from the sunlight that was pouring down upon the two young boys, Pierre reckoned it was summertime. They were both wearing their racing suits. Esteban’s was slightly too big for him, the material bunching up around his shoulders. He had gotten the suit secondhand, from an older boy who had just grown out of it. Esteban's mother had always been good with a needle and thread, and soon Esteban’s name replaced the other boy’s on the suit's belt. He remembered when Esteban had shown him the suit for the first time. He had paraded down the stairs of Pierre’s house, hands on hips, just like the models did on television. Pierre had, of course, indulged him, accompanying his strut with oohs and ahhs. When Esteban reached the bottom of the stairs he had struck a pose, head held high, and Pierre had dutifully raised his hands, an imaginary camera held tightly between them, making shutter noises with his mouth through giggles. Esteban twirled on the spot. “What do you think?” Pierre smiled. “It looks way better on you.” The smile that had broken out on Esteban’s face was more rewarding than any trophy Pierre had ever won.

…

It was bitterly cold. On days like these Pierre missed Alpha Tauri. It had never gotten this cold in Milan. As he trudged into Alpine headquarters on his first day back after winter break, he saw Esteban’s car pull into the car park. He hesitated for a second, wondering if he should wait for him, before coming to his senses and continuing his way up to the meeting room.

Although Esteban had only arrived a few moments after Pierre, he arrived in the meeting room a full 15 minutes after Pierre, who was now nursing a cup of hot coffee. Pierre supposed he had a lot of greetings to do, after all, he had been at this company for a long time. Absent-mindedly, Pierre wondered if he too would get to that level of familiarity. He had never been able to at Red Bull and Alpha Tauri, always too worried about his seat, or lack thereof, to do so.

Esteban flopped into the seat beside him.

“It’s cold out there.” He had said it through a nervous smile, as if he was expecting Pierre to snap back at him. A postman offering a hand for a dog to sniff before petting: was he safe or unsafe?

“Yeah.”

Pierre felt like an idiot. He envisioned a hole beneath him, swallowing him up and bringing him down to the Earth’s core. At least, he thought, it would be hotter there.

He glanced across at Esteban, who was now staring at him, with his signature toothy grin. His nose was tipped red from the cold. It reminded Pierre of cold winters at their local racing track.

They used to go out there in the snow, when no one else dared to, allowing them to have the entire track to themselves. They would race each other around the track until their fingers became so frozen they could no longer grip the steering wheel before reluctantly going back to the truck, where a thermos full of hot chocolate would be waiting for them. Hands wrapped around paper cups, they would sit in the back of the truck, talking about karting, football, comics, anything and everything. Esteban would lower his red nose to his cup, and his eyes would shutter closed, basking in the warmth emanating from his drink, and Pierre’s stomach would do a flip. Once the hot chocolate was little more than a drop at the bottom of their cups, they would return to the track, reinvigorated and ready to race.

Later on, they would return to Pierre’s house. Esteban’s mother had begun working overtime to support Esteban’s karting, so Pierre’s mother had agreed to take care of both boys until she could get off work and pick Esteban up to bring him home. To the boys, who had been growing closer and closer since that day Esteban’s father had bought Pierre’s brother’s old kart, this was the perfect arrangement. They wanted to spend every waking hour together, but this was the next best thing.

…

Pierre was late. He had sworn he had set his alarm for 7 am last night, but when the insistent beeping finally began, his phone display read 08:00. Panic immediately rose in his chest as he scrambled out of bed and practically ran to the shower. When he emerged from his apartment ten minutes later, his hair was still wet. Pierre prayed it wasn’t cold enough that it would freeze as he climbed into his car. When he arrived at the Alpine factory, after breaking a couple of speed limits on the way, Pierre was relieved to see he had somehow arrived on time for the first meeting of the day. Out of habit, he quickly glanced around the car park for Esteban’s car. It wasn’t there. Frowning, Pierre entered the building, quickly saying hello to the receptionist before making his way up to the boardroom. Pushing the door open, he found everyone already in there, looking slightly annoyed. Embarrassed, he made his way towards an empty seat. Once seated, he glanced around the large oval table. Esteban wasn’t there. Otmar cleared his throat.

“Esteban has informed me that he is running late but should be here shortly.”

Pierre felt a flare of frustration. He had rushed to get here on time for the meeting, just for Esteban to delay the meeting. He could have done his entire hair routine in this time.

Ten minutes passed, then twenty. The frustration built up more and more in Pierre. Half an hour after the scheduled start, Esteban entered the boardroom, ambling slowly, hair perfectly styled with entirely too much gel.

It had been Pierre who introduced him to hair gel in the first place. He remembered strolling into Esteban’s room, bright green jar in hand, ready to encourage Esteban into the next stage of manhood: the hair gel stage. Esteban had been sitting crossed-legged on his bed, comic book open in front of him. He had a tendency to talk aloud when he read, something Pierre knew he was teased about in school.

He remembered one particular day at the racetrack, Esteban had come straight from school and instead of greeting Pierre with a hug like he normally would, he just strolled past him, busying himself with getting into his race suit, facing away from Pierre. Pierre had frowned, deep lines forming between his eyebrows and quickly abandoned his task of polishing his helmet in favour of making his way over to Esteban. He ignored Anthoine rolling his eyes from where he was sitting beside him. Anthoine always teased Pierre about his friendship with Esteban. And Pierre supposed it was kind of unusual for two young boys to be as close to one another as he and Esteban were, but he had desperately tried to convince Anthoine that it was nothing out of the ordinary. Which usually earned him yet another roll of the eyes.

When he reached Esteban he had put a hand on his back, stopping the other boy in his tracks. He had been trying to zip up his race suit, but, as all things go when you’re frustrated, he had been too aggressive and gotten the zip jammed. Pierre turned Esteban around to face him, pulling up his zip the rest of the way with a gentle hand.

“What’s wrong?”

Esteban had been brutally honest, as he always had been with Pierre, with no hesitation to put all his trust in his friend.

“The other boys at school. They were making fun of me…”

Pierre had cut him off, wrapping his arms around the torso of Esteban to pull him into a deep hug. Esteban immediately snuggled into him, resting his head where Pierre’s shoulder connected to his neck.

“Stupid boys. They don’t get you.” The “not like I do” was left unsaid.

When Pierre had spotted Esteban reading on his bed, his words barely a whisper, Pierre had stopped for a moment in the doorway, gel momentarily forgotten in his hand. The spell had been broken, however, by Esteban looking up and finally seeing Pierre. Pierre had pushed down his disappointment of the serene moment being disturbed and held up the jar for Esteban to see. Esteban had carefully inspected the pot, as he always did with everything, and traced his fingers over the words “FRESH SCENT”.

“What does ‘fresh’ even smell like?”

“Like being a man,” Pierre had answered, taking the jar back off his friend with one hand and pulling Esteban off his bed with the other. He positioned him in front of the mirror and twisted the lid off of the jar. As soon as it was opened, the scent hit them both like a tidal wave.

“Ugh, why does ‘fresh’ smell so strong? I feel like I’ve just been pushed into a pool of perfume,” Esteban had groaned, coughing to further emphasise his point. Pierre thought Esteban may be right, however, he could not admit defeat like this.

“Shh, Esteban, the girls will like it.” Esteban crossed his arms and pouted.

“Then I don’t want the girls.”

“Don’t be silly Este. Now bend your knees a bit so I can reach.” Esteban did so as Pierre scooped a giant blob of gel out of the jar with his fingers. Esteban eyed it warily.

“That is way too much!”

Pierre ignored him, instead promptly dropping the blob of gel onto the top of Esteban’s head. It wobbled.

“Are you sure this is right, Pierre?”

“Of course I am sure. I’ve seen my brothers do it a million times.”

Pierre began to massage the gel into Esteban’s hair. Now that he had seen it on his hair, Pierre realised that Esteban had been right; this was way too much gel. He took his hands away from Esteban. Esteban, who had been standing deathly still, eyes squeezed shut, finally reopened his eyes, taking a peek at himself in the mirror.

“Oh my God Pierre! What have you done?”

Pierre looked at the mess he had made of Esteban’s hair. It was completely soaked, sitting in strange little clumps across Esteban's head where Pierre had tried (and failed) to style fashionable tufts. It seemed that parts of the gel had already hardened, giving the hair an otherworldly sheen, whilst other parts had gotten runnier, slowly dripping down Esteban’s forehead. Despite himself, Pierre giggled.

“It’s not funny!” Esteban exclaimed, but Pierre could see that a smile was threatening to break out across his face. A drop of gel ran down his nose, stopping just at the tip. Esteban lowered his eyes to the drop, and in doing so crossed his eyes, causing Pierre’s giggles to turn into full-out laughs. Esteban feigned being cross for another few seconds, before finally joining in with Pierre.

It had taken nearly an hour to wash all the gel out of Esteban’s hair, his mother tutting at the two boys as she leaned over Esteban’s head in the sink. The smell never fully went from Esteban’s room.

Esteban sat down on the chair beside him in the boardroom, and to Pierre’s horror, he saw that Esteban had also brought two cups of coffee with him. If he thought that he was going to get away with being late just by buying Otmar a coffee he was completely delusional. That could never possibly w-

Esteban slid one of the coffee cups to Pierre. Pierre stared at it in dumbfounded shock. Esteban tilted his head.

“A wet cappuccino with skim milk, right?”

Pierre swallowed. And nodded.

…

Pierre hopped out of the car. Testing had gone pretty well so far. He was currently sitting at a solid fifth in the timesheets, with Esteban just before him in fourth. Realistically Pierre knew that it wouldn’t last: the top teams loved to downplay the performance of their cars in pre-season testing, but Pierre felt content nonetheless. Although he would never admit it to the media, he was secretly pleased to see the Alpha Tauris down in thirteenth and fourteenth place respectively. He did love Yuki, he really did, and Nyck has always been a nice guy anytime they encountered one another, but he couldn’t help feeling resentful of the ‘sister’ team to Red Bull, even after all these years.

When the news that he had got demoted to the junior team went public, the next race weekend felt humiliating. He couldn’t help but picture all comments being made behind his back. He had kept his head down and walked through the paddock as fast as possible, desperately trying not to get stopped and brought into a conversation he had no interest in taking part in. Everyone he encountered had spent the weekend walking on eggshells around him, all sympathetic smiles and pats on the back. He had absolutely hated it. When he was leaving the paddock late on Saturday night, in the hopes that no one would be about to bother him, he heard a voice call his name softly from the direction of the Mercedes garage. It was Esteban, his distinctive figure standing out under the street lamps that lined the walkway. He was in his Mercedes gear, seemingly only leaving now. Pierre wondered what work was required of the Mercedes reserve driver that led him to be here for so long.

He walked over to Esteban, an uneasy feeling in his stomach. He wasn’t going to attack him, was he? There were cameras all over the paddock, or at least, Pierre thought there were cameras all over the paddock. Esteban laughed softly: he must have seen the expression on Pierre’s face.

“Calm down, I just want to talk.”

“Talk?” Pierre repeated. “We don’t talk.”

Esteban sighed, a moment of frustration coming to the forefront.

“Look, Pierre, I'm trying to be nice so could you just shut up for a second?”

It was a testament to how defeated Pierre felt by how he immediately closed his mouth against a retort. Esteban looked at the tarmac beneath them, scratching the back of his head, before looking up at Pierre again. When he spoke it again, it was fast, like he was desperately trying to get the words out.

“I just want to say that it’s horrible that you’re in this shitty situation. And they shouldn’t have treated you this way.” Esteban paused, debating his next words. “And, frankly, I think they’ve made a terrible mistake that they’re going to regret in the future.”

Pierre stood there for a moment, unsure of how to respond. This had been the friendliest conversation they had in years.

“Thanks, Esteban.” Pierre was sure he saw a flicker of disappointment on Esteban’s face, but as soon as it had come, it was gone again. Esteban turned away from him, beginning to walk away towards the direction of the paddock gate. Pierre’s heart dropped, consumed by a need to say something, anything, to get Esteban to turn back around.

“I wish you were still on the grid.”

Esteban turned back around, a smile on his face.

“Oh don’t worry,” he smirked, “I will be back.”

Tucking his helmet under his arm, Pierre made his way out of the Alpine garage, already imagining flopping down on the couch in his driver’s room. He brushed past the flurry of blue and pink with fairly little hampering. The upstairs of Alpine hospitality was a maze of corridors that he had still not gotten used to, despite the vast amount of signs that had been put up around the place in an effort to guide Pierre. He knew there was one particular corridor that only had two rooms leading off of it: his and Esteban’s drivers’ rooms. When he had first been shown around the place by Otmar, he had made a point of showing Pierre that his and Esteban’s rooms were exactly the same size, with all the same amenities. It made Pierre want to roll his eyes. Sure, he and Esteban didn’t get on very well, but he was hardly going to throw a strop over the size of rooms. When he had told Charles just that, he had been met with an incredulous look.

“You are the most dramatic person I know. You would have definitely thrown a strop.”

“Whatever,” Pierre had answered, “I just think we shouldn't be treated like children like this.”

“Says the guy who insists on carrying on this childish argument.”

But Charles didn’t get it. Nobody else got it. Apart from Esteban.

The wall between their drivers’ rooms was thin. So thin that Pierre could hear every sound of the FIFA match Esteban was currently losing. He smirked to himself as he heard Esteban let out another frustrated sigh as the game came to an end. Then, Esteban’s voice carried clearly through the wall.

“You know, Pierre, if you think you could do any better, you are very much invited to come in here and do so.”

Pierre jumped at Esteban’s sudden acknowledgement. Had he been making noise? Oh, God. Did Esteban think Pierre was listening to everything going on in his driver’s room like a creep? He cleared his throat, feeling caught out.

“Very well. Get ready to get your ass beaten.”

When he walked into Esteban’s room, he was looking at him expectantly, already holding out a second PlayStation controller. Pierre took it and sat down beside Esteban, carefully leaving a gap of at least thirty centimetres between them. He selected to play as the French team.

“Hey, you can’t pick the French team, that’s mine.”

“Too bad. I got there first.”

“But that's not fair. You’re barely even French anymore.”

Pierre looked across at Esteban.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you live in Italy for one.” Esteban began counting on his fingers before Pierre interrupted him.

“You live in Switzerland!”

“At least they speak French in Switzerland.”

Pierre sighed looking back at the screen.

“Okay. How about you be the Swiss team and I’ll be the Italian team.”

Esteban pursed his lips.

“Fine.”

The conversation was strangely reminiscent of their past. Pierre could picture it clearly. Both of them sitting cross-legged on the floor, way too close to the television set despite Pierre’s mother’s insistence that they move back. Pierre had just gotten a brand-new PlayStation, and both boys were obsessed. They both particularly had a fondness for the FIFA games and were fiercely competitive when playing together. But this day was different. They were in their second year of competing in the French Karting Championship in the Minime class, and Esteban was in the lead. Pierre’s endeavours in the championship were not as good but was still hoping to make the top three. He was letting his frustrations out in FIFA. They had argued over who would get to play as the French team, but Esteban had given in unusually early, quietly letting Pierre have the team whilst he picked Spain. Furthermore, Pierre had a feeling that Esteban was going easy on him in this match. Usually, they were pretty evenly matched in the game, never being more than one or two goals apart, but Pierre was currently up four goals, and he was getting suspicious. To test his theory, he purposely made a bad play, but to his surprise, Esteban did not take the advantage, instead turning his character away from the ball and running in the opposite direction. The game finished in silence.

“Well done, Pierre. You really got me with that one.” Esteban took the controller off Pierre and placed it neatly beside his own next to the PlayStation. He figured it was about time to traipse into the kitchen and convince Pierre’s mother to give them a snack. But to his surprise, Pierre made no movements. He looked back at Pierre’s face, noticing that he had scrunched up his nose in the way he always did when something was bothering him.

“Pierrot? What’s wrong?”

Pierre spoke quietly and determinately.

“Why did you let me win?”

Esteban tried to feign ignorance. He was bad at lying, especially to Pierre.

“Wha- I didn’t let you win. I guess I was just bad today.”

Pierre’s eyebrows furrowed, levelling his eyes at Esteban.

“I don’t need your pity.”

Esteban was taken aback.

“I’m not pitying you-”

“Stop it, Esteban. I can tell when you’re lying. Just because I’m behind you in the championship doesn’t mean that I need you to coddle me.” He stood up, his anger getting the best of him. “I’ll see you at the next race.”

And with that, he stomped off to his room, laying down on his bed to sulk.

An hour passed before he heard a light knocking on his door. The door was gently pushed open before a spiky head peered in.

“Can I come in Pierre?”

Pierre ignored him. Esteban came further into the room, closing the door behind him. He crawled onto the bed beside Pierre, wrapping his arms around his friend in a tight embrace. Pierre tensed for a few seconds before relaxing, giving in. They lay there for a minute, silent but at peace in each other's company before Esteban spoke up.

“I don’t know if I can continue karting.”

Pierre sat up at that, displacing Esteban who momentarily complained about the loss of heat.

“What? You love karting.”

“I know, I want to continue. But my parents say it’s too expensive.”

Pierre couldn’t imagine racing without Esteban there. He needed him to be there.

“There must be some way for you to continue,” he said, desperation tugging at the edge of his voice.

Esteban shook his head sadly.

“I don’t think there is, Pierrot.”

Pierre, defeated, laid back down beside Esteban, this time instigating the hug they shared. Pierre wasn’t sure how long they lay like that, only that at some point they fell asleep and when they woke again, the sun was beginning to set and Esteban had to go home to his parents.

Esteban scored another goal: they were now even. Pierre leaned forward from where he was sitting on Esteban’s sofa, tongue peeking out of the side of his mouth in concentration. He got possession of the ball, weaving his player around Esteban’s, before passing it to an open forward. There was a straight line from his player to the goal. He shoots, and scores. Delighted, he sits back and raises his fists in jubilation, turning to look over at Esteban. Esteban was looking at him, a strange expression Pierre couldn’t place on his face. “Esteban?” As if he had been shocked, Esteban broke out of his trance, quickly running his tongue over his lips and swallowing. If Pierre didn’t know any better, he would say that a light blush appeared on Esteban’s cheeks.

…

They were doing some team bonding exercise. Pierre hated them with a passion, although he was less outspoken about it than Albon. He could kind of tolerate it when Yuki was his teammate, the other man having the incredible ability to make every task enjoyable.

He and Esteban were playing a game their PR officer, Alex, had succinctly called “How Well Do You Know Your New Teammate (You Won’t Believe What Happened!)” To make matters worse, they had gotten every question about each other correct, both of them too competitive to save themselves from the embarrassment of having to admit that they still knew so much about each other, even after all these years.

“What’s Pierre’s favourite food?”

They both scribbled something down on their whiteboards, turning them around to show the camera when prompted.

“And we have a match. Pierre’s favourite food is anything homemade!”

Pierre cleaned his whiteboard, sighing internally.

“What is Esteban’s favourite superhero?”

Okay, everyone must know that. He had a Spiderman-themed helmet last year for God’s sake. He remembered how Esteban would diligently collect Spiderman comics when they were younger, dragging Pierre to the local bookshop to search through their small collection of comics. Shortly after he and his family had moved into the caravan, Esteban insisted on taking one of these trips. Upon getting to the bookshop, his eyes widened in excitement.

“They have it! They actually have it! They never get these kinds of comics in early!”

The “it” in question was a specific comic Esteban had been droning on about for the past few months. It was the culmination of some big storyline that had been built up throughout the whole series. Esteban had feverishly relayed the story to Pierre many times, but, Pierre had to admit, he simply wasn’t that interested. However, that wasn’t enough to get Pierre to stop Esteban. He loved the way Esteban’s face would light up when talking about it. How he would trip over his words and forget whatever he was doing. Pierre could listen to a thousand different Spiderman storylines if it meant he could see Esteban like that. Esteban turned the comic over in his hands, squinting at the price that was printed in the bottom right corner of the comic. Slowly, he put the comic back on the shelf.

“Aren’t you going to get it?”

Esteban shrugged, eyes on the carpeted floor beneath them.

“I don’t have enough money.”

Pierre looked between Esteban and the comic.

“But-”

“Pierre, can we please just leave it,” Esteban said in a small voice that tugged on Pierre’s heartstrings. He slung an arm over Esteban’s shoulder.

“Of course. Let’s go somewhere else.”

A few days later, Pierre and Esteban were sitting trackside, waiting for the race to start. It had been delayed due to heavy rain, but the boys had been assured that it was to still go ahead. They were growing bored when Pierre reached into his backpack. He pulled out a Spiderman comic, the same Spiderman comic they had been looking at earlier in the week, opening it up on a random page and trying to look immersed in the storyline. He could feel Esteban’s eyes on him. Pierre turned the page pointedly. Finally, Esteban spoke up.

“When did you get that?”

“Hmm?” Pierre looked over the top of the comic at Esteban. “Oh, a few days ago.”

Esteban squinted at him.

“Since when do you like Spiderman?”

Pierre put the comic down.

“Well, since you constantly talk about him, I thought I would give it a try.”

Esteban looked no less suspicious. Pierre picked up the comic again, eyes scanning the page but not really reading. He waited.

“Can I see?”

Pierre smiled. Mission accomplished.

“Of course.”

He scooted over to sit next to Esteban, flicking back to the first page and placing the comic carefully across their laps. They spent the next hour with their heads together, leaning over the comic. Every so often, Pierre would pose a question to Esteban about the comic who would happily reply with a detailed explanation, which Pierre only half listened to.

When they were finally called to start the race, Pierre couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Sitting in his kart, he craved the proximity that he previously had with Esteban, craved the warmth that would emanate from Esteban’s body.

Later on, as they were leaving the track, Pierre handed the comic to Esteban.

“You can borrow it. I’ve read it all already and I couldn’t get my head around it. You’ll have to explain it to me once you’ve finished.”

Esteban smiled, eyes sparkling. When Pierre would think about this moment a few years down the line, he could pinpoint it as the moment when he realised that what he felt for Esteban was more than friendship. Feeling that warmth pool into his chest as he watched Esteban slip the comic into his backpack like it was the most delicate of treasures, he realised that the way he felt about Esteban was different from the way he felt about his other friends. He didn’t want to be next to Anthoine constantly as he did with Esteban, he didn’t want to whisper with Charles the way he did with Esteban, he didn’t want to kiss anyone like he wanted to kiss Esteban.

He had watched Esteban walk away from him, that evening, a spring in his step, before turning around to see Anthoine a few metres away, having clearly witnessed the conversation. He had a knowing glint in his eye, a small, teasing smirk on his face. Pierre shot him a glare.

“Shut up.”

Anthoine just laughed.

“And that’s yet another match! Esteban’s favourite superhero is Spiderman! Some of you watching may remember last year that Esteban had a Spiderman-themed helmet for one of the races. Esteban, could you talk us through that process?”

Pierre zoned out as Esteban began talking.

…

It was the first driver’s parade of the season. As per usual, Pierre was with Charles. Charles was going for the title again this year, and Pierre had a feeling that he might just get it. The Ferrari had been performing way better than it had last year, and the Ferrari strategists seemed to sharpen up their act after the debacle of last year. However, there were more title contenders this year than there had been in years, and Pierre knew the fight would be tough and stressful for Charles. This was the calm before the storm, Pierre thought, as he watched Charles lean over the railing to wave at fans, a huge smile plastered on his face.

Esteban was at the other end of the truck, chatting to Lance. Pierre watched as Lance laughed at something Esteban said, a satisfied grin on Esteban’s face. Pierre bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to look away. Charles, however, noticed the reaction of his friend, glancing back at Esteban and Lance before returning his gaze to Pierre.

“Is he irritating you?”

Pierre shook his head.

“He’s actually been really civil. We’ve been playing a lot of FIFA together lately. He takes his PS5 everywhere.”

Charles raised his eyebrows.

“I’m impressed. Maybe you two have finally grown up.”

Lance laughed again, his voice carrying down to where Charles and Pierre were standing. Stupid Lance with his stupid laugh. Without even noticing, Pierre had tightened his jaw. Charles was looking at him, a puzzled expression on his face.

“So if you two are getting along, why are you staring at him like you want to murder him?”

“I am not doing that,” Pierre said defensively.

“Right,” Charles said in a way that suggested that he did not believe Pierre’s defence.

Charles was another one of those people that could easily see through Pierre’s lies. He remembered meeting him. At that age, he had an angelic, doe-eyed look about him. Then again, he still had that angelic, doe-eyed look about him to those who were uninitiated. He remembered shaking the boy's hand, eyeing down his new rival, before Charles had turned away dramatically, striding towards his kart. It would have been very impressive if Charles hadn’t then tripped on a pothole and landed face-first into the tarmac.

Their friendship had quickly blossomed after that. Soon Pierre, Esteban, Charles and Anthoine became a unit. Their karting weekends now consisted of the four of them hanging out. Charles was very much like Pierre in many ways: he was competitive, he had brothers, he was upper middle class. It was no surprise that the two of them became so close over such a short period of time.

However, around the time Pierre started to hang out with Charles, he noticed that something had begun to change in Esteban. He was suddenly more bristly, more competitive, particularly with Charles. Pierre figured that Esteban was just threatened by Charles’ clear talent on track. But Esteban seemed to dislike Charles off track too. One day, Pierre had invited Esteban over to his house to hang out. They had just finished another season of karting, and Pierre was planning on moving into the single-seaters next, on track to be on the grid for the French Formula Four 2011 season. He had neglected to mention that Charles was staying with him at the time, but Pierre thought it wouldn’t be an issue. After all, Esteban and Charles did sometimes hang out, albeit never alone: they always had Pierre or Anthoine keeping the peace. When Esteban arrived at his house, Pierre had opened the door to an Esteban whom he hadn’t seen that happy in months, carrying two large bags of junk food. Pierre had hugged him, savouring the way Esteban pressed against him, before leading him up the stairs to his room. However, upon opening his door, revealing Charles sitting on his bed, the smile dropped from Esteban’s face, instead replaced with a look of anger. He dropped the bags on the floor of Pierre’s room and turned on his heel. Pierre and Charles looked at each other worriedly before Pierre followed Esteban out of his room. Esteban was storming down the stairs, clearly on his way out. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Pierre called out his name, hoping to stop him. It worked and Esteban spun around to face him. He had sprouted up in the past few months and now towered over Pierre in a way Pierre had never thought of as menacing until now. Pierre shrunk back, and to his dismay saw that Esteban’s eyes were wet with tears.

“What do you want Pierre?” The hurt was clear in Esteban’s voice.

“Why are you leaving?” Pierre was aware that he was on the verge of pleading but he didn’t care.

“You didn’t tell me that he was going to be here.” Esteban spat out.

Pierre was taken aback.

“I didn’t think I had to. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a big deal to me.”

“Why? It’s just Charles.”

“We haven’t been able to hang out in months. Just you and me, like we did before. I thought-,” Esteban paused, closing his eyes, “I thought that it was just us tonight.”

“Oh, come on, Esteban. It can’t be just us all the time. It’s time to grow up. I'm sick of you following me around like a sad puppy all the time. It's embarrassing.” Pierre wanted to take it back as soon as he said it, but it was too late.

Esteban sucked in a sharp breath, taken aback by the harshness of Pierre’s statement, before turning and leaving, slamming the door behind him.

Pierre remained standing at the bottom of the stairs, a sinking feeling in his stomach when he heard a cough. Charles was leaning over the bannister of the landing, looking down on Pierre.

“Mate, I think you need to apologise.”

A week passed, and then another. This had been the longest time Pierre and Esteban had not seen each other since they met. Pierre was antsy, finding it hard to concentrate on his upcoming debut in Formula Four.

“Please just go to him! For my sake.” This was about the hundredth time Charles had moaned about Pierre’s agitated mood.

“I don’t see why I should apologise. I did nothing wrong. He was the one who threw a temper tantrum when he found out you were here.”

Charles sighed exasperatedly.

“Oh my God. And I thought I was stupid.” Pierre huffed at Charles, but he continued. “Don’t you see what the problem is here?”

“Yeah, the problem is that he is a whiny little-”

“The problem is that he was jealous,” Charles interrupted.

“Jealous?” Pierre shook his head. “Why would he be jealous?”

Charles mimed hitting his head on the wall.

“Do I really have to spell it out? He. Likes. You. Like, more than a friend.”

Pierre spluttered.

“What? No, he doesn’t, don’t be ridiculous. Esteban doesn’t like me. He couldn’t like me.”

“Aw, that’s cute, you’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not.” Pierre put his hands up to cover his treacherous cheeks as Charles started to sing.

“Pierre and Esteban, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll go talk to him. As long as you promise to stop that horrible screeching.”

Within the hour, Pierre was pacing back and forth in front of Esteban’s caravan, debating what to say. In the movies, they always went with some huge declaration of love, but Pierre was pretty sure Esteban would hate that. Maybe he should just run up and kiss him, although given the state of their current relationship, Pierre thought there was a good chance that Esteban would punch him. Pierre was debating whether or not he should go home and make some 'Love, Actually' placards when the door to Esteban’s caravan swung open.

“You know we can all see you from in there, right?” Pierre flushed in embarrassment, barely able to squeak out a “can we go for a walk?”

Esteban rolled his eyes but indulged him, setting off in a direction away from the caravan. Pierre hurried to keep up with his long-legged strides. They spent the first few minutes of the walk in silence, before Esteban came to a sudden stop, halting Pierre by placing a hand on his arms. Pierre looked around where they had stopped. It was a cold day, typical for that time of year. The wind was blowing from the direction of the deep grey sea, bringing with it a distinct smell of salt. The wind whipped around them, making their eyes water. They were in the city, this was something Pierre knew for a fact, but Esteban had taken them into a park Pierre didn’t even know was around this area, the sound of wind in the trees and long grass drowning out the sounds of the city. Esteban seemed stoic, eyes transfixed on some point far off in the distance. Pierre made the first move.

“I wanted to apologise, for the other week.”

Esteban didn’t reply.

“It was really shitty of me to say what I said to you. I didn’t mean it. I was lashing out because I didn’t understand why you were so upset. But now I do.”

At that, Esteban finally raised his eyes to Pierre’s. To Pierre’s horror, Esteban had a fearful look in his eyes. He took a deep breath before continuing to talk.

“The truth is that I do want to spend more time with you, where it’s just us. Este, I understand now. I understand that you were jealous of me and Charles.”

Esteban stepped back from him, shaking his head. Pierre pressed on.

“Esteban, it’s okay, you don’t have to deny it anymore.”

“No, no, no,” Esteban was shaking his head frantically, “Pierre, please don’t do this to me.”

“Do what to you?” Pierre asked, a mix of confusion and desperation in his voice.

When Esteban replied, his voice was small. Pierre had to strain to hear him over the sound of the wind still swirling around us.

“Reject me.”

Pierre took a step back.

“Reject you? Why would I reject you?”

“Because, you’re-” Esteban gestured at Pierre wildly, “and you-” he pointed to the cross that hung permanently around Pierre’s neck.

“Esteban, I don’t care what other people say. Otherworldly or not. All I know is that whenever I’m with you, I feel at my most happiest, and whenever I’m not with you, all I want to be is with you. I don’t feel the way I feel about you with anyone else, especially not Charles.” Pierre made a face, to which Esteban wetly laughed. “I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you this.”

Esteban sniffed.

“It’s okay. I think it’s worth it.”

A smile slowly began to form on Esteban’s face, Pierre forming an identical one opposite him.

“I just have one question for you,” Pierre said, stepping closer to Esteban.

“Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes, please.”

Lance laughed again. And yes, Pierre had to admit that Esteban was funny, but not this funny. From the amount that Lance was laughing, you would think that the reincarnation of Robin Williams had suddenly joined the grid. And of course, Esteban was relishing in the reaction, smile easy, leaning back against the railing lazily, hip cocked out. God, Pierre just wanted to go down there and grab Esteban by the hips and-.

Shaking himself, Pierre gestured to Lance and Esteban, regaining Charles’ attention.

“I mean, he’s really laying it on thick. It’s embarrassing, frankly.”

Charles tilted his head to the side, evaluating Pierre. Pierre grew uncomfortable under his gaze. Suddenly, Charles’ face broke out in a smile.

“What?”

“Nothing.” The mischievous look on Charles, face contradicted his statement.

…

The season was well underway, and both Pierre and Esteban had been performing well, with each of them switching places on the championship standings from race to race. The relative evenness of ability between Pierre and Esteban kept the Alpine garage calm and their relationship amicable. Max, Charles and George were fighting for the title and the race was tight, the three men constantly trading places. After the race in Imola, right after he had stepped out of the shower, he received a text from Esteban. Or rather he received a text from ‘Teammate’, as Pierre had saved him in his phone at the start of the season before he had any hope of rekindling their friendship. Pierre stared at the words written on his phone screen, trying to figure out if there was some secret message he was not getting.

“Want to come to dinner with me and Max?”

Max, as in, Max Verstappen? Since when were he and Esteban friends? In fact, Pierre was pretty sure that the last time he checked, they hated each other.

Everyone knew about the infamous fight between Esteban and Max. A hot-headed Max approaching Esteban after the race, pushing him hard in the chest. Esteban’s hands up in mock surrender, a daring smirk across his face. Pierre had even heard that Esteban had goaded Max further, teasingly calling for cameras, although he wasn’t exactly sure if that was true; rumours tended to spread like wildfire in the paddock. Pierre would never admit it, especially not back then, but he had never been so attracted to Esteban than at that moment. It was embarrassingly juvenile of him. He had talked so much about the incident that Charles had become suspicious of him, not sure if his fascination with the event was out of hatred for Max and Esteban, or love for Max and Esteban.

Pierre met Esteban in the lobby of the hotel they were staying in. Max was in a fancier hotel somewhere else in the city, Red Bull always ready to spoil their golden boy. Esteban was dressed in a smart jacket and jeans, leaving Pierre feeling slightly underdressed in his tee shirt. As he approached Esteban, the nerves building up inside him, Pierre was struck by how date-ish this whole ordeal felt. He couldn’t wait to get to the restaurant and meet Max.

“Hi,” he said, pushing away the awkwardness he felt.

“Hey,” Esteban responded.

Pierre went to shake his hand in greeting just as Esteban held out a hand to fistbump. Their hands collided clumsily in the air between them.

“Oh, God,” Esteban said, “Can we just pretend that didn’t happen?”

“Probably for the best,” Pierre agreed, beginning to lead them out onto the street where a taxi was waiting to bring them to the restaurant.

“So, have you been to this place before?” Pierre asked once they were seated and buckled.

Esteban shook his head.

“Nope, Max just said they do really good pasta and that’s good enough for me.”

“So you and Max are friends now?” Pierre asked, raising a questioning eyebrow at Esteban.

Esteban laughed.

“People change, I guess.”

Pierre looked over at Esteban.

“Yeah, I guess they do.”

Pierre found that it was surprisingly easy to talk to Esteban, so caught up in conversation that the two of them barely noticed when the taxi came to a stop at the restaurant. Getting out of the car, Pierre’s first impression of the place was that it was fancy. Way fancier than he had originally thought. He saw that Esteban looked vaguely startled too so he guessed he wasn’t alone in this thought. Giving their name to the Maître D’, they were up a few flights of stairs before being led through a candlelit restaurant decorated in white and red from floor to ceiling. Finally, they were brought to their table. A table that was set for two. Pierre nudged Esteban.

“Why is it set for two?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” Esteban replied, pulling out his phone.

They sat down, unsure of what to do. A series of texts pinged through on Esteban’s phone, followed by a weary “of course” from Esteban himself.

“What happened?”

“Max said he couldn’t come. Said he called ahead to tell the restaurant but conveniently forgot to tell until now.”

Pierre looked at their surroundings.

“So what do we do now?”

Esteban shrugged.

“Have dinner I guess.”

The table was set beautifully. A white tablecloth was draped over the square table. They had each been given a deep red napkin, which sat in the middle of a delicate porcelain plate. Between them were three candlesticks, which had clearly been burning for a while, the wax dripping down the sides of the candle and hardening to form a new shape. They were sat next to a huge window which overlooked the city lights. On the edge closest to the window, a small glass vase with scalloping details stood on the table. Within the vase was a single red rose, the same colour as the napkins. Pierre glanced around them to the other diners in the restaurants. It was all couples. In fact, Pierre wasn’t sure if they even served parties bigger than two.

Oh my God, Pierre thought to himself, they were on a date. One word was repeating in his mind as he sat there, taking it all in: Charles. He was going to kill that man.

Neither of them acknowledged it, brute forcing their way through the meal without any mention of the fact that they were clearly in what was meant to be the most romantic restaurant in Bologna. Pierre almost withered away when their dessert came: a slice of a rich chocolate cake with two forks. Esteban, however, ignored it, simply grabbing his fork and digging in. Pierre really had to admire his strength.

They left the restaurant after an espresso Pierre really wished was laced with vodka, beginning to walk down the street to a place where they could catch a taxi easier. Esteban broke the silence.

“Perhaps I’m wrong but I think we were on a date.”

“I am so sorry,” Pierre tried to explain, “I’m pretty sure this is all Charles’ doing, he gets weird ideas in his head.”

“See, I was going to say that this is all down to Max,” Esteban replied, “I mean, he’s the one that set this up in the first place.”

Pierre considered the options.

“You don’t think-”

“-they worked together.” Esteban finished his sentence. They stared blankly at each other for a moment before bursting out in laughter.

“Of course, this would bring the two of them together. They are equally demented,” Esteban said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“In the middle of their title fight too.”

They paused for a moment on the footpath, regaining their composure.

“Hey,” Esteban said softly, “Do you want to maybe go for a drink?”

Pierre’s stomach flipped.

“Yeah, I would love to.”

…

Esteban gets on the podium in Budapest. Pierre watches the ceremony along with the team, all cheering as loudly as possible for Esteban when his trophy gets brought out. Pierre watches Esteban raise the trophy above his head shouting something incoherent from where he is standing, and smiles at the pure joy on Esteban’s face. It strikes him how different this is from what was before.

In Formula Renault, both of them frequently saw the podium but there was no celebration for whoever stayed on the ground. Pierre remembered watching Esteban, on top of the podium, after a particularly bad race for himself. He had felt a snarl cross his face, anger boiling up inside him. Afterwards, Esteban came to find him, covered in champagne and still holding the golden trophy in his hand. He remembered how Esteban had leaned in for a kiss, only for Pierre to turn his head, letting Esteban’s lips fall on his jawline instead. Esteban had drawn back, confused and hurt, attempting to offer Pierre some of his champagne. Pierre had pushed it away, too forcefully, and the bottle smashed to the ground.

Later on, they fought again, shouting matches of “why can’t you just be happy for me?” and “you always do this, you can’t contain your jealousy” and, finally “I don’t think this is working anymore.” Pierre had never felt so heartbroken. He went on to win the championship that season. He remembered standing on the podium, Esteban in third beside him. They couldn’t even look at each other. Winning that championship had cost Pierre everything.

He had said for years that he was angry at Esteban, angry for all that he had done and said to him during their last year together, but really, he was also angry at himself, angry for letting jealousy overcome him, angry for letting his competitiveness override his compassion, angry for refusing to work through all of the shit, with Esteban by his side.

It felt miles away from where they were now. They took a team picture after the podium, a sign proudly proclaiming Esteban’s third place and Pierre’s fifth. After a team champagne shower, which left everyone soaked, Esteban and Pierre made their way back to their drivers’ rooms. Pierre followed Esteban into his room.

“I just wanted to say congratulations. Away from everyone else.”

The smile Esteban gave him was wide and genuine.

“Thanks, Pierre. But I’d prefer if you were up there with me.”

They stood there, in silence. There was a drop of champagne just above Esteban’s lip. Pierre wondered what it would taste like. His heart was beating so loud he was sure Esteban could hear it too.

“I better go hop in the shower. I probably stink of champagne.” Esteban grabbed a towel out of a bag. Pierre reckoned champagne was not a bad thing to smell of. Pierre also held back a comment about joining him in the shower. Perhaps he needed to take a shower himself. A cold shower. He left Esteban’s room with a stomach full of butterflies.

…

Pierre was in Esteban’s hotel room. Unfortunately for Pierre, he had been watching Esteban try and pick between two near-identical suit jackets for the past hour. He liked another post on Instagram before opening TikTok, flicking through his ‘For You’ page before stopping on a particular TikTok that caught his attention. From @estebanocon.

“Do you make all these edits yourself or does someone else do it for you and then upload it?”

Esteban hummed noncommittally.

“Actually, don’t answer that question. I’m not sure which answer would be worse.”

Finally deciding on a suit jacket, Esteban made his way into the bathroom. Through the open door, Pierre could see him standing in front of the mirror with a bright green jar in his hand. Pierre smiled to himself.

“You know, Esteban, I think you look better with a whole lot less gel in your hair.”

Esteban gave him a deadpan look.

“I am not taking hair gel advice from you, thank you very much.”

“Hey, I’ve improved a lot since we were twelve.”

Pierre got up off the armchair he was slouched in, following Esteban into the bathroom. With one swift move, he took the jar off Esteban.

“Give it here Pierre. I don’t have time to mess around.”

“Where are you going tonight that you’re getting so dressed up for anyway?”

To his surprise, Esteban looked sheepish. He mumbled something.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I’m going on a date.”

Pierre’s stomach plummeted. He stretched a fake smile across his face.

“Well, let’s make sure he sees you at your best. Let me do your hair.”

“It’s a she.”

Pierre stopped. Esteban had never told him he was bisexual. Pierre felt a sudden loss within him. How much of this important stuff didn’t he know about Esteban? Perhaps registering the uncertainty in Pierre, Esteban went on to explain.

“I didn’t even know I liked girls until after we-” he made a gesture. Pierre knew what he meant. “You were my first crush, my first everything. I never wanted anyone but you.”

Pierre’s heart was hammering in his chest. They hadn’t talked about their relationship since they broke up.

“You don’t have to explain it to me, Esteban.”

“I know. But I wanted to.”

Pierre swallowed the lump in his throat, straightening up and raising his voice into a faux happy tone.

“Alright, let’s do this.” He surveyed his workstation. “I’m gonna need to get higher to actually reach your hair since you’re freakishly tall.”

He hopped onto the bathroom counter, balancing precariously between the edge of the sink and the edge of the counter. Opening his legs wide, he grabbed Esteban by the hips, guiding him to standing between his legs. Perfect, he could get a good reach on Esteban’s hair like this. Esteban was looking up at him with wide eyes. He once again had that strange look on his face, the one Pierre couldn’t quite place. He slowly screwed off the top of the jar, the familiar smell once again hitting him when the product was fully uncovered.

“Fresh,” he whispered, causing a small giggle from Esteban.

He scooped out a small amount of gel from the jar, about the size of a large pea, and began working it through his fingers, trying to get an even spread. Slowly, he reached for Esteban’s hair, before sinking his hands into Esteban's impossibly soft hair. He looked down at Esteban’s face. He was still looking up at Pierre. From this close, Pierre could see a small dusting of freckles across Esteban’s cheekbones, the result of someone from northern France spending too much time in the south. He was barely breathing, terrified of causing some sort of disturbance to the space they had created. Esteban’s eyes were unmoving from his, open and trusting.

Without meaning to, Pierre tightened his grip on Esteban’s hair, causing a slight pull. Esteban’s eyes fluttered shut and a small moan escaped from his lips. Pierre’s heart skipped a beat. The blood was rushing in his ears. He couldn’t hear anything other than his and Esteban’s breathing. Esteban opened his eyes again, slowly, and Pierre had to stop himself from letting out a gasp. Esteban's pupils were now completely blown, the black almost covering the brown of his iris. His eyes were half-lidded, focusing only on Pierre. He swallowed once again, watching as Esteban’s eyes followed the movement of his Adam’s apple, before flicking up towards his lips. Automatically, Pierre wet them, watching as Esteban mimicked the movement. Pierre thought he might explode.

For a moment he thought he did, as Esteban’s phone suddenly went off, scaring Pierre out of his skin. Esteban quickly backed off, almost pressing himself against the wall opposite where Pierre was sitting.

“That’s-uh-that’s my alarm. I have to go.”

Pierre nodded, dumbfounded as Esteban rushed out of the hotel room, shutting the door behind him. Pierre stayed motionless on the bathroom counter, trying to process the last few minutes. He and Esteban had almost-. No, maybe he was reading the situation wrong. Maybe it was just a harmless interaction between friends. He needed help and he needed help fast.

The first thing Pierre noticed when Charles opened his hotel room door was that he was pretty sure that Charles was completely naked under the hotel-branded dressing gown he was wearing. The second was that a shirtless Max was in Charles’ bed. Or at least, he hoped he was shirtless, and nothing more. Anyway, he had bigger problems than whatever he had stumbled into.

“What’s wrong this time?” Charles whined as Pierre paced back and forth across his hotel room.

“The last time I saw you this antsy was when-”

Pierre stopped pacing, turning to face Charles and his excited expression.

“Oh my God! Did you two finally get it together?”

Charles turned to Max, repeatedly tapping his foot through the blanket.

“Max, I think they finally got it together.”

Max mumbled something that sounded like “thank God” although it could have also been “bank fraud” or “prank squad”.

“No, we have not got it together. In fact, he’s on a date right now.”

“With who?”

“It doesn’t matter with who. It matters that it's someone who is not me.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Well, that’s why I came to you.”

Max mumbled something that sounded like “bad idea.” Charles hit him with a pillow.

“You’ve got to go chase him!” Charles exclaimed.

“What?”

Charles looked at him exasperatedly.

“You know, like in the films. You go on a chase to the airport to make sure he doesn’t get on that plane.”

“He’s not getting on a plane.”

“Well, I know that. I’m using it as a metaphor.”

“Max is right. This was a bad idea.”

“No, Pierre, you’ve got to trust me.” Charles put his hands on Pierre’s shoulders, shaking him slightly with each word. “Go. Chase. Him.”

Pierre sighed, defeated. He left Charles’ room, making a mental note to sort out all that Charles and Max stuff later on when he wasn’t on the verge of heartbreak once again. He walked down the hallway towards the lift, pressing the call button dejectedly. The doors slid open in front of him. Before him, stood Esteban. Esteban stepped out of the lift.

“Oh thank God I found you.”

“I thought you were supposed to be on a date?”

Esteban shrugged.

“I called her and told her I couldn’t come. She was very nice about it actually.”

“You’ll have to make sure to set up a second date with her then.”

Esteban laughed.

“Pierre, I don’t want another date with her. I don’t want another date with anybody except for you.”

Pierre felt like he must be dreaming.

“Is this really happening?”

Esteban laughed again.

“I hope so because I don’t think I can work up the courage to do this again.”

Pierre smiled, finally accepting it. He stepped towards Esteban.

“I just have one more question for you.”

Esteban smiled, a toothy smile that Pierre had missed more than he ever even knew.

“Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes, please.”