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There were a few things Pierre Gasly had never expected in his life:
- That he would retire from racing at what many would consider a young age (35 was still fairly fit, but Pierre had been satisfied enough with his one World Drivers' Championship) and then decide to work as a race technician at Red Bull,
- That he would marry a certain Yuki Tsunoda at the age of 39 (and their wedding day remained the day Pierre felt like the happiest man alive—he could still remember how Yuki smiled while waiting for him at the altar, dressed in traditional kimono), and lastly—
“Tadaima.”
There was no answer from inside the apartment as Pierre opened the door and announced his return. He found that French culture felt bland compared to Japanese customs. It was his own decision to follow Yuki’s traditions, and Yuki had simply agreed—the man always went along with whatever Pierre wanted.
Usually, Yuki would call out “Okaeri” from the living room, where he’d be watching TV, or sometimes an excited “Pierre, come here!” since Yuki always had something to show him ever since retiring from racing three years ago. Whether it was a new cooking creation, a Lego build he’d made with the neighborhood kids, or a clip from Lando’s latest video game featuring a sponsored outfit with Yuki’s brand on it.
Today was different. What greeted Pierre was silence and darkness—not a single light was on in the apartment.
“Yukino...?” Pierre called out hesitantly. He noticed Yuki’s shoes neatly lined up in the rack. “Is he already asleep? That’s strange—what?!”
Pierre’s eyes widened as a horrifying scene unfolded before him: Yuki was lying face-down on the floor in a pool of blood, a kitchen knife handle sticking out of his back. Pierre immediately ran over to his husband—too panicked to notice the message written in what appeared to be blood: “The tuna did it lol.”
“Yuki! Hey, Yuki!” Honestly, Pierre felt like his legs were going to give out as he knelt beside Yuki’s body, his hands flailing in panic as he shook Yuki’s shoulders before placing his hand in front of Yuki’s nose. His heart pounded so loudly that he thought he could hear it in his ears. “You’re still breathing, right?! Please respond, Mon Chéri, I need to know you’re alive! I can’t live without you! Wait, I-I need to call the police! N-no, wait, an ambulance! W-where’s my phone—?!”
“...Pfft.”
Wait.
Pierre froze. “...Huh...?”
Yuki slowly lifted his head from the floor, a mischievous grin spreading across his entire face.
“Got you!”
Pierre’s heart felt like it had stopped completely—but then he exhaled, feeling relieved.
.
.
Several weeks had passed since that terrifying incident.
Since that day, Yuki had made a habit of "pranking" Pierre by pretending to be dead every Monday—the only day of the week when Pierre could get home early from work and Yuki didn’t have to stay late at his restaurant. Pierre wasn’t sure whether Yuki had chosen Monday on purpose, especially considering his husband had more flexible hours as a restaurant owner. Still, Pierre chose not to question it, afraid Yuki would turn this prank into a daily ritual.
Pierre paused in front of their apartment door—remembering that today was Monday again.
Three weeks ago, Yuki had worn a Napoleon Bonaparte-style redingote with a sword seemingly impaling his abdomen (Pierre strongly suspected the costume was borrowed from Ollie, since he’d seen Ollie post a story wearing that very redingote just two days prior). Two weeks ago, Yuki had been lying in a pool of blood wearing his 2022 AlphaTauri race suit, nearly identical to Pierre’s. Just last week, he’d worn a yukata costume (“When did you get this kimono?” Pierre had asked, only to be met with a sharp flick to the forehead and a loud protest: “It’s a yukata, Pierre!”—and to this day, Pierre still couldn’t tell the difference).
Pierre took a long breath and leaned his forehead against the door, trying to brace himself before yet another grotesque sight inevitably greeted him from the other side.
Ah, to hell with all that. His husband was on the other side of this door.
“Tadaima.”
Just as Pierre expected.
Yuki was slumped limply against the living room wall, right beside a message written in what looked like red ink (Pierre wasn’t entirely sure what Yuki had used) that read: “Pierre Gasly is an idiot.” His eyes were closed, and fake blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. The costume nearly made Pierre choke back laughter—it was a Japanese Imperial soldier’s uniform, completely stained with red dye. Pierre knew Yuki owned one; his husband was obsessed with his country’s history.
“What’s the cause of death this time?” Pierre snorted as he knelt beside Yuki. “Gunshot to the head? Like when you wore the AlphaTauri suit?”
“Nope.” Yuki cracked one eye open. “It’s written on the wall. Can’t you read?”
“All it says is ‘Pierre Gasly is an idiot.’”
“Exactly.” Yuki nodded, stifling laughter as he sat up from the floor. “Your stupidity is the cause of my ‘death’ this time.”
Pierre frowned and pinched Yuki’s arm hard. Yuki hissed loudly in pain.
“What the hell?!” Pierre scowled. “You even spelled my name wrong. Legally, I’m Gasly-Tsunoda now!”
Yuki stuck out his tongue but leaned in to steal a quick kiss on Pierre’s cheek. “Okay, noted, hubby.”
“Go clean yourself up. That stuff’s going to stain.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Yuki rolled his eyes, nonchalantly taking off his costume. “The stain remover I bought is amazing, you know? The red stuff comes right out. Even real blood is easy to clean with it.”
“If I didn’t know you were just faking your deaths, I’d seriously think you were a serial killer. Especially after hearing that ‘real blood’ statement. What if it was someone else that found you? Like Isack? The poor boy would be fainted any second he saw you.”
“Shut up. You talk too much.” Then Yuki tossed his clothes at Pierre. “...And come here already. I’m cold.”
“Wipe that red stuff off your mouth first,” Pierre sighed, tossing aside the costume as he got up to embrace the smaller man. “It still looks like you’re bleeding.”
“It’s lipstick! Isn’t it obvious?!”
.
.
As the drama-filled Mondays went by, Pierre began to wonder what it was that Yuki truly wanted.
At the moment, Pierre was helping Yuki clean the fake blood splatter from his Alpine race suit—one that was clearly too big on Yuki’s smaller frame. Not far from them lay a toy gun. According to Yuki, this time he had died due to “internal conflict within Alpine that led to one of their drivers getting shot.” It was bizarre, but Pierre didn’t press for more details.
“Next week, I’m going to take some time off, starting Monday,” Pierre said as they were having dinner— a large sushi platter that Yuki had brought from his restaurant.
Yuki, who had been staring at the television (a bad habit—eating while watching—which Pierre often criticized, but Yuki seemed unfazed by it), immediately turned to Pierre. “Oh?” He looked surprised. “What’s the occasion?”
Pierre didn’t really know the reason behind this sudden plan.
Earlier that afternoon, he seemed possessed—finishing all his work for the next week and suddenly requesting leave. He only said, “I need to help Yuki at his restaurant; there’s something new he wants to try and he asked me to accompany him,” which was clearly a lie. There were no questions from his superiors; they just sent their regards to Yuki and promised to try visiting the former driver’s restaurant someday.
“No reason, just wanted to,” Pierre replied. He put down his chopsticks on the plate. “When was the last time we walked along the beach in Monte Carlo?”
Yuki murmured while chewing his chopsticks. At barely 40, Yuki still looked adorable in Pierre’s eyes. “Don’t remember,” Yuki answered after a moment. “Want to go there during your time off?”
Pierre took Yuki’s hand—helping him loosen the chopsticks he was holding before switching to gently hold the hand that had looked pale ever since Yuki stopped racing.
“It’s been a while since we went on a date, hasn’t it?” Pierre smiled as Yuki’s big brown eyes looked at him with curiosity. “Though it was traumatic, I liked being beside you when you were driving.”
Yuki squealed and playfully hit Pierre. “Liar! You didn’t like it when I drove because you said you’d die at my hands.”
“That’s why I said ‘traumatic’!” Pierre defended himself, shielding his body with a sofa cushion while laughing. “Aren’t you afraid of those moments when the car’s brakes seemed to scream whenever you pressed them hard?!”
“I’m used to Formula cars! It’s the regular cars that can’t handle my power!” Yuki’s defense sounded like nonsense, but Pierre didn’t want to argue further because Yuki’s playful hit was surprisingly painful. An amazing strength from such a small body. “So, do you miss me or what?!”
Pierre held Yuki’s movements by locking both of his hands. When Yuki stayed silent with a cheeky grin, Pierre couldn’t help but press their foreheads together—despite the fact that Yuki’s bangs felt a bit sticky against his forehead.
“Miss you, Yukino.” Pierre murmured. “Sorry I’ve been too busy lately, Mon Chéri.”
Yuki was silent for quite a while, but Pierre didn’t mind. His brown eyes looked into Pierre’s blue ones. Pierre sometimes had trouble predicting Yuki; he was like a lucky draw box full of surprises.
Soon, Yuki smiled widely. At this close distance, Pierre could see both of Yuki’s cheeks flushed.
“Tu es enfin rentré.”
Pierre burst out laughing.
“Your accent is still terrible, Tsunoda!”
“Shut up! Besides, legally I’m already Gasly-Tsunoda!”
(Still, when Pierre kissed Yuki deeply that night, he could already imagine how chaotic their short vacation would be. But Yuki was synonymous with chaos, and Pierre married him consciously; this was his future and all his dreams.)
.
.
“After your time off, you’ll go back to pull the prank on me, right?”
“Right. While on vacation, I’ll collect as many ideas as possible for weekly deaths!”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Sorry, Mr. Gasly-Tsunoda, you married this insufferable person.”[]