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Pierre is still awake when Esteban sticks his head into the guest bedroom, his silhouette stark black against the dim, violet light cast by the opaque leds placed almost at ground level in the hallway. Pierre has never really liked them because they make him feel like floating inside an aquarium - which is, by the way, a very claustrophobia-inducing sensation - but Esteban can’t really see in the dark, so he has simply accepted the weird aquarium leds like a matter of fact – he might wish for Esteban to knock his stubborn head into a wall, on some days, but he doesn’t really mean it.
He frowns, his tongue a little slower than his brain, so when he’s finally ready to acknowledge his presence, Esteban is already walking away - floating away? - and Pierre isn’t sure he hasn’t made it up entirely, but he has heard the faintest, quivering sigh coming from his pouty lips. He cranes, confused, wondering what the fuck might have happened with Esteban to come and check on him mommy-style in the middle of the night.
He rolls over the bed ungracefully, tapping on the black screen of his phone. When it comes to life, the lock screen reads half past midnight, cloudy with a slight chance of rain in the morning, and some shit about the quality of his sleep collected by the Oura ring on his middle finger.
He sighs too, entering a long and gruesome debate with his inner self about whether he should get up or not. Chances are he’s going to come back to bed with a black eye and an endless sulk, given that Esteban has made it abundantly clear during their last heated argument that he doesn’t like Pierre interfering with his life, now that they are proceeding with their divorce. The fact that the papers still lay under a pile of rubbish in a drawer in their studio is irrelevant, though it’s been almost two years – and yet.
He could get up and see what Esteban is up to. Just because he hates all the shuffling as he’s trying to sleep, of course, not because he is worried. No sir. Not in the fucking slightest.
He gets himself seated with a groan. His new training regimen is going to pay off next season, but for now it feels like he’s been repeatedly stabbed in the back by a bunch of very, very furious brutes, who have also kicked him in the joints while he was already bleeding out on the floor.
Shit.
He trudges towards the master bedroom nonetheless. The stupid color changing nightlight on his former nightstand is switched on, and the bed looks like a fucking battlefield, all the sheets tossed to a side and his old pillows scattered all over the mattress. He tiptoes inside, as if he’s intruding, even though he has slept into this very bed many times since… well. Since they began their divorce. It pops into his mind that they should finalize it, sooner or later, but much to his chagrin the thought makes him shudder still. What truly alarms him, though, is the large, wet spot on Esteban’s pillow. He touches his fingertips to it, just to make sure it’s not fresh blood, and when his fingers come back soaked but otherwise pristine, his stomach churns.
Sometimes, Esteban’s nightmares can get a little too vivid. It used to happen more frequently when they were in their teens, and he doesn’t remember when was the last time he has heard Esteban waking up with a cry stuck in his throat, tears streaming down his face and uncontrollable tremors shaking all of his body.
He used to comfort him, back then. He used to be his only safe haven.
Pierre swallows compulsively before leaving the master bedroom behind, taking the spiral staircase down, not at all surprised to find the lights in the spacious living room switched on, although set on the dimmest orange glow possible, and the kitchen buzzing with the low hum of the hi-fi stereo speakers, Esteban’s Spotify playing a podcast.
“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice quiet, steady, not to upset him any further. He startles him nonetheless, his own heart leaping in his throat when he sees Esteban flinch in response.
“Jesus Christ, Pierre,” he gasps, his breath kinda labored, his hands unsteady even though hooked on the countertop, where a mug sits, empty, next to the vintage kettle.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He shuffles closer. They haven’t been on the best terms, recently, and it feels awkward being together in the same space, even though they still live together. They have done their best to avoid each other for weeks now, going as far as taking all of their meals outside, trying to interact as little as possible, with civil distance and jaw-clenching respect. Pierre will never tell Esteban how much it hurts him, treating each other with such cold indifference. Esteban wouldn’t understand anyway. So he pretends he’s fine with their personal Cold War that somehow has taken hold of his personal life, and he tries not to get into Esteban’s way, though Esteban’s social life seems rather dull compared to his own. Sometimes, Pierre goes as far as spending the night out – those are the days in which their Cold War turns into nuclear warfare.
Still, he can’t help but feel the dread rise from the pit of his stomach when he notices how Esteban is shivering, shaking, his whole figure glitching against the background, like a bugged NPC in a very bad beta version of a videogame. He finds himself cursing hard under his breath.
“No, you…you didn’t. I’m just making myself some tea. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”
Esteban has always been a shit liar. When his pitch black, soulful eyes finally meet his gaze, Pierre’s chest squeezes so tight he actually forgets how to breathe for a second.
He looks haunted, scared, like a man who’s being hunted for sport by the devil himself. The lines on his face look even deeper than the usual, particularly where tears have dug grooves into his tan skin, casting long, livid shadows under his puffy eyes. If he wasn’t sure Esteban would probably bite him to death, Pierre would just wrap him in his arms and stroke his hair until he could feel him relax against him – this used to be us, not so many years ago. What happened in the meantime, Esteban?
Too many things, he would reply, his voice thick with sarcasm and heat. It’s been a while since they have had a conversation that didn’t end in snarky comebacks and not-so-veiled accusations being thrown from one end of the table to the other. Some days, though, Pierre would take fighting over whatever pretended civility and balance they have found into ignoring each other – fuck, any day. He would choose fighting any day if it meant putting an end to this we pretend not to know each other bullshit.
“I wasn’t sleeping yet. What…what happened? You had a nightmare?” He tentatively tries, taking the kettle from Esteban’s trembling fingers before it slips from his weak grasp. A slight flush spreads over his cheeks when he realizes that, in the soft curve of Esteban’s miserable smile, there’s the tiniest hint of gratitude for the fortuitous save. It’s not something any of them would allow, if it wasn’t the middle of the night.
It’s easier to love the man you’re divorcing from, when it’s dark outside and no one can see, Pierre thinks, filling the kettle without asking first.
“Yeah. But…it’s over now, I’m fine. You can go back to bed, Pierre, really. It’s…okay. You get cranky when you don’t get enough sleep,” Esteban replies, fidgeting nervously.
He’s wearing a pair of shorts Pierre can recognize as his own. Something in his chest still bubbles like Champagne whenever Esteban gets their clothes mixed up and inadvertently wears his. He still feels giddy, somehow, as if they share a secret no one else can be privy to.
Pierre tells himself that it’s only out of muscular memory that his hands cup Esteban’s ever so gently, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into his spasming tendons. It’s only out of habit that he feels overly glad when Esteban doesn’t pull away.
“Hey, no. Let me…let me be of help, alright? Just sit down, please. I’ll take it from here. Which tea do you prefer?”
“Pierre, you don’t have to…”
His weak protest bounces against artfully deaf ears. At some point, even someone as stubborn as Esteban is forced to relent in front of such blatant zeal, and Pierre watches from the corner of his eye as he shuffles to the table, his feet dragging over the heated floor, dropping his voice to a barely audible whisper as he says “hibiscus, thank you”. If anything, such a meek attitude makes Pierre worry even more. Things are never easy with Esteban, unless there’s something terribly wrong going on. Something far worse than he could have imagined in the first place, perhaps.
(he thinks about the fact that Esteban might have finally signed those damn papers, after all. He discards the thought hastily only when he feels a surge of ripping pain shattering his heart into a million tiny pieces but, again, Esteban doesn’t need to know that)
He grabs two mugs from the rack over the sink, both Esteban’s favorite, an old, chipped thing they won at a fair when they were perhaps thirteen and a souvenir from a few quiet days spent on the Dead Sea, throwing balls of mud at each other and pretending to drown the other in the pools of slushy quicksand in the saltwater marshes near the coast, back when they were still trying to salvage whatever could be saved of their marriage.
If he thinks about it, their marriage is the very definition of fuck around and find out, only that it sounds like marry too young and see what you get from it.
Heartbreak, mostly. But oh, so many fucking good times Pierre really cannot just shove under the rug for the sake of keeping his pride intact, unlike Esteban.
The silence that stretches between them is not companionable, nor easy. Esteban picks at his nails, that he more or less gave up on chewing once he debuted in F1, and Pierre feels the stupid, stupid urge to grab at his hands and kiss his ancient bad habit away. Still, like a good little soldier, he remains glued to the spot, waiting for the kettle to start whistling. He doesn’t remember if it was his mom or Esteban’s who bought them a vintage kettle. Knowing her tastes, it must have been his mother-in-law, back when things were easier and he and Esteban didn’t harbor so much resentment towards one another.
“Sweetener?” He asks, if only to break the unbearable silence between them, Esteban’s podcast still going on in the background, a quiet litany that’s driving him mad.
“Honey, please. A teaspoon.”
He knows it, of course. He knows all of Esteban’s habits, he learns when he picks new ones. Honey is fairly new. He used to like low calories sweeteners, up until a couple of years ago, stevia and all that shit, but once he found out how controversial aspartame is he stuck to honey, locally sourced, of course, and some weird white, frothy stuff he buys from Sardinia because it’s only produced down there. But whatever kind of interaction is better than this oppressive silence, so he’s ready to pretend he has unlearned every single thing he knows about Esteban if only to shield himself from how fucking cold the silence between them has become of recent.
It wasn’t exactly gradual, like this kind of thing goes most of the time. It was more like an avalanche. A rapid succession of events – you blink and everything’s changed.
He couldn’t detect a single moment in which he could have envisioned this outcome. Perhaps it’s many, perhaps it's none. Perhaps they’ve just strayed further and further away, without bringing themselves to cut the tie that binds them so tight because, deep down, they’re both scared of the dent it’ll leave behind once they had freed themselves with a single blow of their shears.
His hand too trembles slightly when he pours the boiling water over the teabags, but Esteban’s gaze is trained on nothing in particular, his eyes glassy, unfocused, terribly tired.
As the tea infuses, he unlocks Esteban’s phone, pausing the sixth episode of a true crime podcast – he still cannot process how he finds endless talks about serial killers and cold cases relaxing but, hey, to each their own.
“Pierre…”
His voice is hoarse, rough. He must have rubbed his face, because it’s blotched red, almost sore around the eyes. Pierre keeps telling himself he’s here solely because he hates it when people shuffle around at night while he’s trying to sleep, but there’s no way to justify the fact that he reaches for Esteban’s face, cupping it gently and soothingly stroking at the roughed up skin, the ghost of a reassuring smile dancing across his lips.
“It’s fine, really. Look, I got my own tea. I’m sorry, I paused the podcast because-”
“Yes, I know,” Esteban whispers, sighing, without letting him finish. “True crime podcasts make you antsy. I jammed play on an episode I have already listened to. I needed a little…company.”
“You could have knocked. As I said, I wasn’t even sleeping.”
He tries to sound as accommodating as possible – I want you to knock. I want you to stick your head in the guest room and call me if you need me. I want you to tell me whatever’s going on. I want-
Esteban shrugs anyway.
“It’s just my mind playing tricks on me. But thanks. For…the tea and the company.”
Pierre shakes his head. We still live together, you know? he would like to say, if the circumstances were just a little different. However, Esteban isn’t particularly in the mood for arguing, so he won’t be the asshole who rubs it in. He just takes the two mugs to the table and sits across from Esteban, who absentmindedly stirs the tea for a while before pinching the bridge of his nose and grimacing, a fuck muttered quietly under his breath.
At this point, Pierre is ready to go for broke, he’s got nothing to lose, they’re both tired and it’s the middle of the night. It’s all or nothing. Worst that can happen is Esteban flinching away – been there, done that. He slides his hand across the table, snatching Esteban’s and squeezing tight. Surprisingly, nothing utterly terrible happens, but his heart definitely picks up when Esteban sucks in a breath, going rigid first and then impossibly limp, impossibly languid. He squeezes back, albeit weakly. A wet veil of unshed tears clouds his dark gaze. He’s trying to keep it all in, to ball all of his fears and anxieties into a little thing he can easily throw away, but Pierre has always been rather good at seeing through his acts, especially when Esteban isn’t really putting a real effort at hiding himself under the mask of formal courtesy he shows to the world every single day.
“You can talk to me, if it helps. I mean…got nowhere better to be, so…”
The small, broken, wet half giggle Esteban lets out is enough to make the butterflies still fluttering around Pierre’s stomach go fucking wild. There’s something extremely beautiful in the way Esteban’s features soften whenever he’s letting his guard down, allowing Pierre to truly see him. It doesn’t happen often nowadays, so Pierre counts his blessings, the feeling of Esteban’s warm, slightly calloused hand making him feel slightly less hopeless, slightly less lost.
“No, I…really. It was a bad dream. Very bad. Very…vivid. I don’t want to upset you. It’s okay if you just…”
He ends up smacking his lips, leaving his words hanging, tangled around the warm steam rising from their untouched mugs. Pierre chews at his inner cheek until he can taste the coppery tang of blood on the tip of his tongue.
“Car crash?” He finally asks, mustering all of his strength in order to keep his cool. He has been struggling with discussing such matters since Anthoine died in Spa, but it would be of no use to beat around the bush considering that, on some days, they do it so often the bush has practically turned into a pile of twisted splinters by the time they reach the point. So, again, it’s an all or nothing situation. He can deal with a little bit of discomfort if Esteban is involved. He can deal with a lot of shit if it means making Esteban feel slightly better. Some things just stick, in the end.
Finally, Esteban takes a small sip of his tea, even though it’s still scorching hot, and then he nods, squishing Pierre’s hand until all the bones in his fingers ache.
“Yeah. A very bad one. There was a lot of…blood.”
“Who…”
He already knows the answer. It’s almost physiological to dream about your husband dying in a car crash, at some point, if you share the same line of work and the line of work in question is driving a eight hundred kilograms tuna can shot at 300 km/h down tricky tracks, in challenging conditions. Sometimes, he has had nightmares involving Esteban meeting the same fate as Anthoine, some other times just going out in a blaze like Romain Grosjean, but with a very different outcome. He shudders at the thought. Esteban offers him a pained, apologetic look.
“It was you. I…don’t remember much of it. I just know that when I woke up I thought I was…dying too.”
On most days, Pierre is convinced he could unlearn yearning. If he tells himself that he doesn’t need Esteban - that he doesn’t care about him - enough times, he’s sure that even a heart as treacherous as his could just stop wanting.
Well, fuck that too.
He almost knocks the chair down as he gets up, closing the small distance between them only to wrap Esteban into his arms, pretending not to mind his shocked - yet not displeased - gasp. Do you really think I care about you so little, you fucking idiot?
He inhales his scent, so familiar and welcoming even though he doesn’t really remember when was the last time he has indulged the privilege of being allowed to hug Esteban like this, feeling his tense body relax against him, his weight settling pleasantly over his shoulders, like an old comfortable blanket found at the bottom of a forgotten drawer.
The way Esteban balls his fists into his old t-shirt and tugs hard makes him want to jump out of his skin. It feels so visceral, so damn real it hurts like a punch to the guts, knocking him out just as effectively.
“I’ll tell you what we do now, alright? We get on the couch, put on that stupid show you like on Netflix, and…we try to sleep a little. How does it sound?”
He purposely avoids the word cuddle, though it’s very well embedded in the not so hard to grasp subtext. Buried in the crook of his neck, which is suspiciously getting wet right where Esteban’s ridiculously long eyelashes tickle against his sensitive skin, Esteban nods, exhaling heavily.
“Okay,” he says, for once limp and unresisting.
To Pierre, it almost feels like taming a feral cat of sorts. Almost like having his old Esteban again. Since it won't last, he's determined to make the best out of it, even if tomorrow they'll be at each other's throats once more – if life gives you shitty lemons, you paint that shit gold.
***
On most days, Pierre is convinced he could unlearn yearning.
Now, with Esteban’s face pressed into his chest and his slow, warm breath caressing the skin right over his heart, Pierre realizes he’s not fooling anyone, let alone his own self.
He still loves Esteban.
He will keep loving Esteban even when Esteban will, eventually, stop loving him in return.
They have never been particularly good at saying the three magic words out loud, but they still convey their affection - their love - through their actions, as much as they grunt and huff while reluctantly performing acts of service towards one another.
Making breakfast for two every morning, even if they’ve argued the night before. Cooking each other’s favorite lunch, but muttering curses throughout the whole process just because. Sleeping in separate beds, but usually being home before dawn, so the other doesn’t suspect the extramarital activities to which they’d both be entitled, but none of them actually indulges. Pierre knows Esteban doesn’t have anyone else. His shirts are always spotless, smelling only of his cologne. Plus, it’s not like he’s having such an intense social life, to begin with.
Tonight, however, is not for subtlety. Tonight, Pierre can take care of Esteban without expecting him to dodge all of his attempts with his snobbish, contemptuous grimace, or to blatantly lash out at him for reasons unknown to man; tonight, he can set up Netflix on their almost unused and definitely too big flat screen, let a bad cooking show Esteban likes run on mute, and cradle Esteban into his arms while on the couch, stroking his thumb over Esteban's furrowed eyebrows, watching mesmerized as they relax slightly and Esteban lets out a shaky, relieved sigh.
“Fuck, thank you. I have-”
“A bad headache, I know. You said it before going to bed.”
Esteban tilts his head, staring at him from under his long, absurdly black lashes, blinking slowly.
“How…how do you know?”
Pierre exhales a soft, small laugh.
“Because I actually listen when you speak. I pay attention.”
On any other day, Esteban would consider this a very offensive, very immature jab, and would bitch about it to no end, especially since their latest argument has spawned from Esteban very rudely reminding Pierre that he wants to be listened to, once in a while. But Pierre always listens to him. He always pays attention, even to the smallest details. He would very much like for Esteban to acknowledge that – if only.
Still, Esteban doesn’t really answer, he merely lets out a quiet mhmh from the back of his throat, burying his face even further into Pierre’s chest.
He can still feel the tension in his tight, nervous muscles, slightly jumping under his fingertips like stranded fish as he tries to rub all of that antsiness out of him, trying not to react too enthusiastically to the small whimpers escaping his lips as one by one all the knots loosen up, notch after notch getting rubbed away by hard knuckle work followed by lazy, lazy strokes, Pierre’s mouth dragging along some stupid, soothing nonsense whispered into the tousled mop of Esteban’s hair.
It’s not like their relationship has ever been this peaceful, for one. Esteban isn’t exactly the easiest person to get along with, and sometimes Pierre likes to instigate, even though he rarely loves the fight. Yet, in the chaos that their life has been lately, this rarest moment of respite is most welcome, even though it’ll only bring temporary comfort.
Temporary comfort is better than nothing, and it’s comfort nonetheless.
“Hey, Pierre?”
Pierre runs his thumb along the outline of Esteban’s ear, mouthing a quiet “what?” as he places a kiss on the top of his ruffled head. He remembers kids making fun of Esteban’s big ears when they were growing up, back in their karting days. He remembers being ten, all lanky limbs and pent-up energy, towering over a boy twice his size, knuckles bloody, defending Esteban’s honor like an old-timey knight waiting for his damsel in distress to give him her embroidered handkerchief. He remembers a very rabid, very unimpressed Esteban marching towards him, pushing him on the coarse gravel of the parking lot and yelling at him that he could have handled it on his own. He remembers getting a penalty for unsportsmanlike behavior on his next race, but it was all worth it, in hindsight. He remembers having proved his point – I don’t care if you don’t want me to, Esteban. I will always have your back.
He hasn’t taken that solemn vow back. Not even now that it’s kinda obvious that they’re pushing towards the end of their marriage – fuck, probably Esteban must have already signed his papers by now.
He tries not to dwell on that, even though the lump in his throat makes him choke on his own words.
“What is it? You need something for your headache?”
Esteban shakes his head.
“It’s going away on its own. It was probably stress-induced or something. I’m just…I think I’m ready to go to bed, if that’s okay with you.”
Okay is a rather strong word to describe how Pierre feels. He is not okay. He hasn’t been okay in a while, and he won’t be okay once they’ll be back to their separate bedrooms, alone in two beds that are definitely too big for one single person, but apparently too narrow for two. But yeah, sure, of course, it’s time to go to sleep and forget about all of this madness entirely.
“Why do you ask? Yes, sure, let’s go to bed. The couch isn’t even that comfortable, right?” He tries to joke, but when Esteban replies with a calm, flat “well, I am on top of you, I’m as comfortable as I can be” he cannot suppress the flush turning his cheeks hot and pink.
It’s hard not to mourn the loss of contact as soon as Esteban is on his feet, stretching and complaining about his sore back, his whole spine popping like Champagne corks as he slowly wrings it out like a wet rag.
“I thought you were comfortable on top of me…”
Esteban offers him a faint, weary smile. Sorry Pierre, magic’s gone for me, yadda yadda. Pierre thinks it’s only a matter of habit. He’ll have to get used to it at some point, right? That’s what people do, and people go through the same shit every day.
“I’m sorry I kept you awake, Pierre. Really. But it helped…a lot. So, thank you, I guess.”
Pierre switches the TV off, then all the lights with the smart remote. He shrugs, following Esteban upstairs, the steps decidedly colder than the heated floor.
“You don’t have to thank me. It’s just…basic human decency.”
“Oh, come on. You know it’s bullshit. You chose to do that, and I am grateful you did.”
“Okay.”
He doesn’t realize that they have both stopped in front of the master bedroom until Esteban swallows loudly, clearing his throat. Naturally, Pierre takes his cue, wishing Esteban goodnight in an uncharacteristic, subdued tone, not so ready to go back to the vast emptiness of his bed, but… well. Sometimes, you just gotta do what you gotta do. Even if you hate it. Even if it makes you feel lost and small and tremendously sad.
Still.
Pierre wonders if there might have been something funny in the tea, or perhaps in the water. Then, he’s pretty convinced he has hit his head very hard and now he’s walking through a comatose dream, or something equally dreadful. It might even be the case, because there’s no way Esteban would grab at his wrist as he’s trudging back to his room otherwise.
There must be an explanation, he’s sure. Sadly, Pierre doesn’t know where to start to look for one.
“I was wondering…” Esteban starts, trailing off soon after, biting hard at his lower lip.
Pierre feels like he’s twelve again, dumbstruck in front of Esteban’s mixed signals, hanging sentences and long silences, some of which, he’s sure, he hasn’t really ever interpreted correctly. He looks at his wrist, held in a tight chokehold, and then back at Esteban’s dark, pleading eyes, wondering if it’s all a fucking dream or not – going through a divorce like theirs can be kinda confusing, at times.
“Would you like me to stay?” He asks then, when the hold around his wrist becomes unbearably tight.
There’s no harm in trying.
Nevertheless, for a moment, he is terrified that Esteban will just frown, give him a side glance and then proceed to tell him that he must be out of his mind, that as always he is not listening, and he will just shut the door on his face, leaving him standing there like thi big, fat idiot he is.
For a single, frightening second, Pierre thinks it would be for the best. It would just offer him the moment of clarity he needs to finally convince himself that it’s over, that Esteban’s pride has won the fight, that there’s nothing more he could do to keep their ramshackle house from collapsing onto them, leaving nothing but debris in the wake of the wreckage.
(go on, sign those papers, Pierre. You know it’s the right thing to do)
Esteban squeezes hard before releasing him, the white impression of his fingers marked deep under Pierre’s skin.
“Yes. Please?”
Pierre’s heart throbs so fast he is almost sure Esteban can hear it.
“Okay,” he breathes out, his voice so shaky and unsteady he isn’t even sure Esteban has heard him.
***
“You’re not sleeping.”
Pierre huffs gently, his nails scratching at Esteban’s scalp, their feet entangled under the heavy sheets.
“Neither are you,” he deadpans groggily, breathing in and out slowly, not wanting to fall asleep yet. Esteban scoots closer, draping himself on top of him, yawning lazily as he finds a comfortable spot where to rest his head.
“I can hear you thinking. You keep me awake.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“What are you thinking about?”
Pierre considers his options. His head is swarming with thoughts right now, some half-formed, some too evanescent to really reach the surface of his consciousness, some inextricably tangled, some others clear and tangible enough that Pierre could touch them.
“I’m thinking about how nice it feels to be back in my own bed,” he chooses to say, cupping the back of Esteban’s head, cradling it.
“Some days, I miss you terribly.”
He feels Esteban’s melancholy smile bloom and die. It fucking breaks his heart.
“Some days, I miss you too.”
(on most days. On most days I miss you too)
“We should sleep.”
For once, Pierre agrees. They’ve said too much tonight, scorched their souls raw, poured so much salt on their wounds it would kill them to stitch them back. He forces himself to close his eyes, counting down the beats of his heart, now synchronized with Esteban’s.
“Goodnight,” he whispers.
He doesn’t wait for a reply.