Work Text:
They don’t talk about Alpine.
That’s not to say they haven’t. When Max had heard the first whisper, a murmur in the paddock walls, an icy dread had dropped like a stone in his stomach, so cold it could freeze even in the Qatari heat and he had been gone faster than a perfect start off the line.
He had caught Esteban right as he was climbing into a taxi to the airport, catching a flight not to Abu Dhabi, but home to Switzerland. They hadn’t said anything then either, but Max had taken one look at Esteban and seen the depth of agony rolling in the waves of his oak-brown eyes, and he knew. The temptation to turn around and put the whole Alpine garage to the torch had been almost too high to resist, but instead Max had jumped in the taxi too and rang for his jet on the way.
A private jet meant that the crew could be politely banished to the cockpit after take-off and it was a six-hour flight to Switzerland. They had talked then, or rather for one of the few times in his life Max had shut the fuck up and just listened, listened as the words fell from Esteban in a trickle and then a flood of sheer frustration and fury evidently held back for far too long.
They had always had a tentative, near-unspoken rule to avoid talking too deeply about team politics, always so respectful of each other’s career that they didn’t want want to risk stumbling upon a mention of Checo’s contract length or literally anything to do with Pierre, but that had gone right out of the plane’s pressurised window this time. Max had kept his mouth shut and listened, his jaw clamped tightly closed but eyes widening in horror at everything that came to light. The support that trickled to a sudden stop, the refusal to upgrade his car, the snide comments or brick-wall silences, a ‘forgotten’ invite to another post-Brazil celebration; Esteban had spoken and spoken like a dam within him had crumbled and broken at last, pacing the length of the jet’s carpeted floor like an answer to his team’s betrayal could be found in the fibres beneath his feet.
Thankfully the journey to his apartment hadn’t been far from the airport, and still Esteban had talked the whole time. Max had lost the ability to remain entirely quiet a long while before then, succumbing instead to interjections of disbelief and outrage at every new revelation, insults against Briatore and Oakes flying freely from his lips. For the first time in a long while, Esteban hadn’t refuted a single one, letting the vicious words hang where previously an automatic, rehearsed defence would have come to their rescue. He had still been talking when they made it to bed, even as his voice grew hoarse. But then his shaking hands had unlocked his phone and found his camera roll, turning the screen so that Max could see a stunning helmet decorated in the French tricolore and podium memories -
”I never even got to say goodbye.”
At that, and only that, Esteban’s sweet eyes had welled up with tears and Max had pulled him close.
Esteban hasn’t spoken much since then. Max hasn’t pushed it either. His chest aches worse than it has in any crash with the knowledge there is simply nothing he can do besides be here, nothing more that will help except opening his arms whenever Esteban draws near, and making sure he still eats. They have in fact just finished breakfast, Max breaking out his very meagre cooking skills to make them omelettes along with a side of awful egg puns that Esteban tries so hard to smile at. As Max scrapes the remnants away and debates how long he can avoid doing dishes for, Esteban suddenly appears in the kitchen doorway.
”Can I show you something?” It’s the first full sentence he has said in a while, and Max’s head snaps up.
“Sure, schatje,” he says. “What is it?”
Esteban’s gaze doesn’t quite meet his for a moment and he wavers on his feet like he’s being thrown by g-force on a tight corner.
“Maybe you should come back through here? Sit on the sofa and close your eyes,” Esteban suggests. Max follows him to the sitting room without question, although he can’t resist wiggling his eyebrows.
“I like surprises that start like this,” he grins. Esteban shoots him a look over his shoulder, one that flickers faintly of his usual cheek and tease but just can’t quite make it there yet. Max winks at him all the same and squeezes his hand before dropping to the sofa and obediently shutting his eyes. “Ok, I’m ready.”
”I’ll be so quick, wait here.”
Max hums as the soft tap of Esteban’s footsteps pad away on the cozy rug floors. Faintly Max can hear shuffling, the rolling hinges of a wardrobe door, and he waits as patiently as a four-time world champion can. Beneath his fingertips the soft fabric of the sofa is coarse with cat fur and he can hear the culprit purring away in her basket under the radiator. The sound rolls over the otherwise quiet space, filling the void behind Max’s closed eyelids with a warmth that eases the residual anger and coaxes him back to the cozy comfort he has always felt here in Esteban’s home. The family pictures scattered on every wall, marvel comics spilling over on the shelves, the sweet black cat that loves to wind herself around your ankles and the music so often wafting from a nearby speaker - every inch of this space is Esteban’s in a way Max knows he barely could have dreamt of as a child. It feels so much like home, even for Max, simply because it is.
The padding of returning footsteps has Max sitting up a little straighter. He hears Esteban stop in front of him, can practically sense how he is wavering on his feet again or anxiously winding his fingers before he speaks at last. “Ok, you can open your eyes.”
Max does.
“Fuck me.”
And Esteban bursts into peals of laughter for the first time in what feels like forever. His whole body shakes with laughter as a hand flies to his mouth, bewilderingly trying to stifle the surprised mirth beneath, but he cannot stop giggling and Max feels his heart swell even as he cannot tear his eyes away.
The half-white-half-black racesuit wraps perfectly around Esteban’s body. The Haas logo is the only one on it, otherwise devoid of sponsors though a detailed 31 sits just on Esteban’s right thigh and his name lies crisply across his left hip. An angled red line breaks the blocks of colour and Max wonders if he can personally thank whoever designed it just so to perfectly frame Esteban’s delicious waist.
“What do you think?” Esteban’s voice breaks Max from his reverie. Slow as molasses he drags his gaze up Esteban’s body until he reaches his face where Esteban is still smiling, though it wavers with uncertainty and a heady hesitation resides in those warm brown eyes. Max is on his feet before his brain can catch up. The racesuit is cool to the touch, pristine and faultless in the way those new pre-season ones always are, as Max finds his hand brushing over the space that sponsor names will fill until he reaches Esteban’s chest where he can feel his heartbeat beneath his touch, pattering swift as a hummingbird.
“I think you look better in black and white,” Max says softly. “I think it looks good on you. Really, really good.”
The upturned corners of Esteban’s mouth twitch, solidifying into a genuine smile, as one of his hands comes to join Max’s against his chest. Max returns the smile with one of his own. “When did you get it?” He asks.
“Ayao gave it to me on Sunday, to check if it fits properly. Of course it’s not really finished yet and the design will be different, but…” Esteban shrugs in that tiny, painfully self-deprecating way he has. “I guess he felt bad for me.”
“He likes you. Have you been listening to any of his interviews?! He - the whole team - they’re so excited to have you, anyone can tell that.”
Esteban opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Whatever he was about to say dies a swift death in his throat.
Does he really want to talk? Max can’t really imagine there is anything else to say, he imagines all the words Esteban had were exhausted on their long journey back from Qatar. Instead he steps a little closer, wets his lips as he thinks and thinks, and finally just speaks.
”You know you’re free, right?” Max whispers, the words flying out where they have been nesting on his tongue for ages. “You’re done with Alpine, it’s over. They can’t hurt you anymore.”
“Free.” Esteban repeats his word in a whisper, as if trying to translate it to all the languages he knows while a thousand emotions flit behind his eyes and in the minute twitches of his mouth. “I… didn’t want… just not like this…”
”I know.” Max slides a hand to cup Esteban’s cheek and bring their heads together. He presses his forehead to Esteban’s as if it could ground him and looks him dead in the eye. “Everyone knows,” he says firmly.
Esteban blinks, his expression widening into a flicker of hope that Max decides he will stoke into an inferno. He knows that besides that single post Esteban has avoided social media entirely, expecting nothing but the vitriol and ridicule he sees far too often; Max however has been reading comments like it’s his second job, screenshotting all the best and most supportive to sit Esteban down with later on. “We all know,” he says, willing the force of his words to break through the stupor that this betrayal has dragged Esteban into, so agonisingly unlike his usual steely determination. When he leans in to kiss him, Esteban kisses back as if Max is the lifeline he so desperately needs, his breath a little too shaky as the demand for oxygen eventually drags them apart.
But Max doesn’t let him pull away, keeps his hand where it is to hold Esteban’s focus on him and his words alone. “Mijn liefje, listen to me. This testing session is yours, yours to show them what you can do in a car that isn’t built to fuck you over and you’re going to blow them all away. Haas will love you - they already do, and next year…” Max can’t help but grin, his gaze sliding down once more, “Next year you’ll be in the points every weekend and driving me fucking crazy in this racesuit because really you look so good.”
“I thought I already made you crazy, chéri.” A smile, tiny and tremulous but undeniably real, grows on Esteban’s lips and his eyebrows twitch upwards as Max’s hands, entirely of their own accord, slide down to his waist. Max swallows, tracing his thumb over Esteban’s name where it is splayed across his hipbone.
“Every day.” Esteban’s lips find his once again, desperation giving way to relief in their gentle kiss, and finally Max can feel his heartbeat begin to settle.
“Je t’aime, Max,” Esteban whispers it so softly against his lips and Max says it right back, knowing his accent butchers the French language but considering it well worth it just to see Esteban giggle all over again.
In a day or so they will need to fly out again, to the final weekend. There is no way it will be easy, between the drivers’ dinner and relentless media and everything in-between; but whether on track or off it, from plane rides to secret rendezvous in hotel rooms, no matter what it will be together.
Max knows they’ll be ok.