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The first time they shared the same space again at a gathering of friends, the tension was palpable. Not because there was an argument or a hostile look between them, but because there was simply nothing. Nothing beyond minimal courtesy and Esteban's obvious effort not to make Pierre uncomfortable with his presence.
Esteban Ocon was not someone who held a grudge. Not after so many years. At twenty-eight, he had left behind the rough emotions of adolescence and, although his friendship with Pierre had broken in a way that neither of them fully understood, he had learned to accept it. He could not force a relationship that the other did not want to have. So he limited himself to keeping a prudent distance, exchanging words only when necessary and looking away whenever Pierre decided to make a scathing comment. Because Pierre kept making those.
“Oh, what a surprise to see you here, Ocon,” he said one evening in a bar with the group of friends, with the same false surprise he always used when addressing him. “I thought you’d be too busy making sure everyone still hates you.”
Esteban didn’t even blink at the jibe. He simply gave him a brief smile, one of those that was more a reflection of his upbringing than an actual expression of joy.
“Hello, Pierre,” he replied softly, without giving it any importance.
Lance, sitting next to him, sighed in exasperation before rolling his eyes and saying indifferently:
“Pierre, don’t you get tired of being a jerk?”
The comment elicited a laugh from Yuki, who was standing across the table, drinking with an air of utter disapproval towards his French friend. Charles, who always enjoyed teasing Pierre when he deserved it, smirked in amusement before giving him a warning look.
“Really? This again?” he snorted, shaking his head. Beside him, Max, his boyfriend, didn’t even bother to intervene. He simply continued to concentrate on his drink, ignoring the drama as he always did when Pierre acted like a child.
Mick, for his part, patted Esteban on the back in a silent gesture of support. Fernando, sitting next to Lance, didn't even try to hide the glare he gave Pierre, his dislike for him more than evident. He had no qualms about making it clear that he didn't like the way he treated Esteban. Yuki, however, didn't hold back.
"You're an idiot, Gasly," he declared without preamble, crossing his arms. "I don't know what the hell is wrong with you, but stop acting like a five-year-old. Esteban doesn't even say anything to you."
Pierre gave him an annoyed look, but didn't reply. He knew that arguing with Yuki was useless; the Japanese man had a special talent for winning any argument through sheer stubbornness.
Esteban, for his part, just wanted to disappear at that moment. He didn't want to cause trouble or be the reason for another dispute between his friends, so when he saw the opportunity, he decided to leave before the situation escalated. He stood up with a small, shy smile, his eyes meeting Lance and Mick's in a silent request for company.
"I'm going home," he said quietly. "See you tomorrow, guys."
His friends didn't let him go alone. They walked out with him, accompanying him in an understanding silence until they were far enough away from the bar.
"Are you okay?" the German asked, his tone kind but concerned.
He nodded, though his expression was weary. “Yeah. I just… wish he would leave me alone. I don’t know what else to do.”
Lance put an arm around his shoulders, nonchalant.
“Bah, Gasly is an idiot. If he keeps bothering you, Fernando will kill him. And I’m not going to stop him.”
Mick laughed softly, but his gaze softened when he saw the sadness hidden in Esteban’s eyes. Because, even if he didn’t say it, it hurt him.
On the other hand, Pierre, still at the bar, watched them leave with something in his chest that he couldn't name.
The change in Pierre wasn't immediate. At first, he continued with his biting remarks, though with less and less enthusiasm. Until, little by little, he realized that he had stopped making them.
Maybe it was the way Yuki looked at him with disappointment every time he opened his mouth to tease Esteban. Maybe it was the way Esteban never responded with malice, only with unwavering patience. Or maybe it was the way the entire group seemed to always be on the other's side, as if Pierre was the only one who hadn't quite grown up.
He didn't know when he stopped spouting venom whenever Esteban was around, but by the time he realized it, it was too late.
And then came club night.
It was just another night out, with neon lights flashing, music thumping on the floor, and the air thick with expensive perfume and alcohol. Pierre was at the bar when he saw him.
Two strangers, clearly drunk, had gotten too close to Esteban with an unpleasant confidence. At first, it seemed like a casual conversation, but soon, the discomfort in Esteban's posture was evident. The strangers were getting too close, invading his personal space without any respect. He tried to move away, but they insisted, one of them even placing a hand on his waist. Pierre felt something boil in his blood.
No one else was paying attention: Lance and Fernando were on the dance floor, Mick was at the bar, Yuki and Charles were distracted talking to Max.
Pierre didn't think. He acted. He crossed the dance floor with a determined step and stood between Esteban and the strangers.
“Get your fucking hand away,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
The men looked at him with disdain, but he wasn’t in the mood for games. His expression was enough for them to understand that he wasn’t someone worth fighting with. They walked away muttering, but Pierre wasn’t paying attention to them anymore. When he turned his head, he found something he didn’t expect: Esteban was looking at him in terror and, worst of all, he tried to get away from him.
“Let me go… I want… Mick…” he whispered, his voice shaking.
Pierre felt something break inside him. But he didn’t let go. He pulled him against his chest and held him firm.
“Shhh… easy. I’m here. You’re safe.”
At first, Esteban struggled, but after a few seconds, his body simply gave out. Pierre felt the wetness of tears on his shirt and held him even tighter, murmuring reassuring words.
Minutes passed like that, until the others found them. Lance and Mick rushed to surround Esteban, and though he hesitated for a moment, he ended up taking refuge among them.
Pierre stood there, his arms empty, feeling for the first time in years a real pain in his chest.
And what followed next changed everything. The night at the club left a mark that neither of them knew how to erase.
From that moment on, something changed. Not just in the way Pierre looked at Esteban, but in the way Esteban responded to his presence. Before, he used to ignore him, stay on the sidelines, respond with distant politeness and avoid any confrontation. But after that night, after the way Pierre had held him and restrained him as he trembled, after the intensity in his voice when he told him he was safe… something inside Esteban closed up even more.
In the days that followed, the group noticed the difference.
Esteban no longer responded to Pierre. He no longer gave him even one of those empty smiles. If Pierre spoke, he simply acted as if he didn't exist. If they were in the same room, Esteban moved as if an invisible force field separated their spaces. And if they happened to be alone, Esteban made sure it didn't last longer than strictly necessary.
Pierre noticed it. And it hurt him more than he was willing to admit.
“What the hell did you do?” was the first thing Yuki asked him, direct as always, one afternoon when they were alone.
Pierre sighed, running a hand over his face. He was tired. Tired of feeling this emptiness, this persistent malaise every time he saw Esteban and knew he had no way to get close to him.
“Nothing. I protected him from a couple of idiots who approached him at the club.”
Yuki stared at him, eyes narrowing in disbelief.
“And then what? Because Esteban isn’t acting like this just because of that.”
Pierre clenched his jaw. Because of course, he did know what had happened next. He knew he shouldn't have held him like that, that he shouldn't have held him against his chest when Esteban clearly wanted to leave, that he shouldn't have whispered "you're safe" when, in fact, he himself had been the source of his discomfort for so long. But at the time he hadn't thought about that. He had only felt the panic in Esteban's body, the fragility of his shoulders under his hands, and everything else had faded away.
He didn't know what to say to Yuki. Because admitting that he had made a mistake was admitting that, perhaps, all this time, he had been wrong in the way he treated Esteban. And that... that was hard to swallow.
Meanwhile, Esteban tried to regain his emotional balance. But it was hard.
“You don’t have to prove that you’re okay,” Mick told him a couple of nights later, when they were alone in his apartment after dinner with the group. Esteban had been smiling all night, acting like nothing had changed. But Mick knew him too well. He knew it was a fake.
Esteban let out a sigh, leaning back on the couch, staring at the ceiling wearily.
“I don’t know what to do, Mick. I really do. I just want him to leave me alone. And at the same time…” he trailed off, biting his lip.
Mick tilted his head, waiting.
“At the same time… what?”
Esteban closed his eyes for a second before answering in a low voice:
“At the same time, I don't understand why it hurts so much.”
And there was the truth. Raw. Painful. Undeniable.
Mick didn't try to give him an answer. Because it wasn't his to give.
Something changed in Pierre. It wasn’t an immediate revelation or a moment of dramatic epiphany, but it was a nagging feeling in his chest, a weight that didn’t let him fully breathe when he thought about the way Esteban had backed away from him with fear in his eyes.
He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t tolerate the only person who had ever meant so much to him looking at him warily, as if he were someone to be protected from and not someone to lean on.
And for the first time in years, Pierre did something he’d never allowed himself to do before: he stepped back and watched.
He watched the way Esteban kept a little quieter in meetings, how his fingers sometimes trembled around his glass, how, when he thought no one was looking, he sighed with exhaustion and rubbed his face as if he were fed up with the world. Pierre noticed the way Mick and Fernando watched him with an attentiveness that bordered on overprotectiveness, always alert to any discomfort, ready to intervene if anything disturbed him.
Yuki, for his part, turned into a protective little rage, glaring at Pierre whenever he got too close to Esteban, making it clear without words that if he hurt him, he would make sure he never tasted a single dish cooked by his hands again.
And that was a real threat coming from Yuki.
At first, Esteban didn't know what to make of the change in Pierre. When he noticed that Pierre had stopped making scathing comments, that instead of sniping at him he offered soft, discreet smiles, that he seemed to always be close but not imposing himself, his initial reaction was to hesitate. Because Pierre wasn't like that with him. Not for a long time. The last time he had felt the warmth of his presence had been when they were still teenagers, before everything had broken down between them.
But Pierre was persistent.
He didn't force him, he didn't pressure him. He was just there. And that made Esteban, little by little, start to let his guard down. At first it was small things: accepting with a shy smile when Pierre handed him a glass of water instead of ignoring him, letting him sit next to him on the couch at meetings without looking for a way to go somewhere else. Then, more subtle details: allowing Pierre to touch his back in a casual gesture as he passed, not moving away when the Frenchman leaned in to speak to him quietly in the middle of the bustle of a bar.
And Pierre, well… Pierre was not one to do things by halves. If he had decided to protect Esteban, he would do it the only way he knew how: with all his being.
If they were in a bar and he saw someone staring at him too much, he would step into their line of vision. If they were walking and someone bumped into Esteban, Pierre would make sure to steady him before giving the clumsy guy in question a withering look. If Esteban was distracted by his phone on the street, Pierre would extend an arm in front of him before he could cross without looking, as if it were a reflex. And, without realizing it, his gestures became more physical: a hand on his waist as he guided him through a crowd, an arm on the back of his chair when they were sitting together, a light touch on his wrist when he wanted to get his attention.
Esteban never said anything about these gestures. At first, he seemed taken aback, then he simply accepted them with the same shy sweetness with which he accepted the affection of those he cared about.
For the rest of the group, the change in Pierre did not go unnoticed.
“I swear, if you hurt him, Gasly, you’re going to wish you’d never been born,” Fernando growled at him one day, his gaze dark and dangerous.
Pierre just held his gaze firmly.
“I’m not going to hurt him,” he replied with a seriousness that left no room for doubt.
Still, neither Fernando nor Mick gave him their full trust. Not yet.
On the other hand, Yuki watched him with an intensity that was almost comical.
“One wrong step and you’ll never taste my gyozas again in your life,” he warned him, with his arms crossed and an expression of total menace.
Pierre had to suppress a smile at the thought of a furious Yuki depriving him of his food.
But the real test came one afternoon, when Esteban had a bad day. It wasn’t anything big, just an accumulation of small frustrations that ended up exhausting him. They were at Charles and Max’s apartment, and in the middle of a conversation, Esteban simply let out a tired sigh and ran a hand over his face in a gesture Pierre knew all too well.
Without thinking too much, Pierre moved.
“Come here,” he murmured softly, extending an arm.
To his surprise—and that of everyone else present—Esteban moved. Not immediately, but after a second of hesitation, he let Pierre pull him close, wrapping a firm arm around his shoulders. He stood still for a moment, as if testing the sensation, before exhaling a deep breath and leaning fully against Pierre, relaxing against his body.
The silence that fell on the room was absolute. Max, who rarely paid attention, raised an eyebrow in surprise. Charles stared at the scene without concealment, Mick pursed his lips as if to intervene, and Fernando straight up clenched his jaw, assessing Pierre’s every move. But the most shocking thing was Yuki’s reaction: his eyes narrowed in an analytical gesture, and after a few seconds, he nodded slowly, as if he had just made a decision.
“Hmph,” he muttered, before turning back to his plate. “Well. I guess if he doesn’t like it, he’ll kick him himself.”
It was a tacit acceptance, though still with reservations.
Pierre didn't say anything. He just stood there, with Esteban curled up against him, enjoying the feeling of having him so close after so many years away.
Maybe, he thought, this time they could really fix things. Maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance for them.