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There are few things Esteban Ocon prides himself on more than order.
His schedule? Color-coded.
His notes? Indexed and laminated.
His goals? Graduate top of the class, secure the European Leadership Internship, and avoid Pierre Gasly at all costs.
Which is why when the Dean personally emails him with the “honor” of co-chairing the Winter Ball Committee, Esteban breathes a sigh of relief—until he opens the attachment and sees Pierre’s name listed as co-chair.
Pierre Fucking Gasly.
The human glitter bomb. The professor’s favorite headache. The boy who flirts with TAs, posts gym thirst traps during finals, and still, somehow, has a perfect GPA. Esteban has spent the last three years pretending Pierre doesn’t exist, except for the many times he’s silently cursed him during student senate debates and midterm ranking announcements.
So when he storms into the student council office on a rainy Tuesday morning and sees Pierre lounging — yes, lounging, like a goddamn art nouveau painting brought to life — on the committee sofa, Esteban nearly walks right back out.
Pierre looks up from his phone, grins, and says, “Esti. Darling. Miss me?”
“I’d rather be hit by a snow plow.”
“Mm. Spicy. You always talk like that, or just when you’re blushing?”
Esteban inhales slowly, counts to five, and reminds himself that murder is frowned upon in university policy.
Pierre stretches, tucks his phone away, and strolls up beside him, annoyingly taller and insufferably radiant in his unbuttoned flannel and rings that glitter like he’s trying to seduce.
“So,” Pierre says, smirking. “The Winter Ball. White and silver? Or icy apocalypse?”
“I was thinking professional. Elegant. Minimalist,” Esteban replies tightly, flipping open his planner. “Venue booked, budget capped, vendors on standby. If we start this now, we might still survive it.”
Pierre leans in, mock-conspiratorial. “See, this is why they paired us. You’re the clipboard. I’m the sparkle.”
“I’m the function. You’re the chaos.”
Pierre winks. “Opposites attract, non?”
Esteban narrows his eyes. “We are not—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Pierre interrupts with a sing-song voice, already spinning Esteban’s color-coded planner around. “Let me guess—your theme is frosted crystal formality with zero fun?”
“It’s called efficiency.”
“It’s called dry ice funeral.”
Esteban lets out a strangled sound. Pierre just grins, flipping open his sketchbook and casually doodling a snowflake made of tiny hearts and swords.
They're doomed.
…..
Meanwhile:
Everyone in the student council bets they’ll either murder each other by December or fall madly in love by the closing waltz.
Maybe both.
….
Esteban had a system.
A spreadsheet of vendors. A rotating to-do list. Three separate drafts of the seating chart for the Winter Ball — one color-coded by social circles, another by major, and one strictly by height for photography purposes.
What he did not have a system for was Pierre Gasly.
Who, despite having contributed exactly zero to the planning phase, had somehow adopted the role of official shadow.
Currently, said shadow was sprawled across two chairs in the ballroom committee office, boots kicked up, eating Esteban’s emergency almonds.
“Do you think navy suits are too dramatic?”
“I could do silver, but only if it’s silk.”
“Would you be mad if I added rhinestones to the table runners?”
Esteban massaged his temples. “Are you ever quiet?”
Pierre grinned. “Not when I’m with you.”
And the worst part was? He meant it. Pierre wasn’t trying to annoy him — he just liked being around him. And Esteban hated how warm that made his ears feel.
He had been trying — truly — to ignore it. The constant presence. The way Pierre lingered during vendor calls. The way he trailed Esteban from meeting to meeting like a beautiful, paint-smeared barnacle.
But the breaking point came on Thursday, at 4:42 PM, after Esteban muttered under his breath:
“God, I still need to figure out who to bring as my date.”
Pierre didn’t miss a beat.
“Take me.”
Esteban paused mid-type, fingers frozen over his keyboard.
“…What?”
Pierre shrugged, too casual. “I said take me. Problem solved.”
Esteban stared at him like he had grown glittery antlers.
“You’re not serious.”
“I’m gorgeous and I love dancing. What’s not serious about it?”
“You’re joking.”
“I'm not. I would look phenomenal next to you in photos. And think how efficient it’d be! You’re already stuck with me all night anyway.”
Esteban opened his mouth — to say no, obviously — but the word got caught on something terrible:
The fact that he liked the idea.
Too much.
The thought of Pierre—flirtatious, sparkly, sunlight in human form—on his arm, in a perfectly tailored suit, flashing that smug smile every time someone looked at them?
His heart skipped, traitorously.
“Why me?” Esteban asked before he could stop himself.
Pierre blinked. Then, softly: “Because I already spend more time with you than anyone else. And I want to go with someone who’s going to remember it.”
Esteban didn’t answer right away. He stared at the monitor, then at Pierre, then back again.
“…We match,” he said finally, almost grudgingly. “Aesthetically.”
Pierre smiled, slow and wicked and pleased.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Esteban rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”
Pierre stood, stretched like a cat, and winked. “And yet… you’re not saying no.”
Esteban didn't say no.
….
There are three universal truths in life:
- Finals are hell.
- The campus coffee machine will break during said finals.
- Pierre Gasly in love is an unstoppable, glitter-fueled storm no one is ever ready for.
Charles stares blankly at his sketchpad, one eye twitching. His pencil tip has snapped.
Oscar is holding his math notes like a shield, as though the sheer volume of equations can protect him from emotional damage.
Daniel… Daniel looks like he’s aged five years in twenty minutes.
Meanwhile, across the campus café table, Pierre is positively glowing.
“He called me idiot, can you believe it?”
“And I swear, he almost smiled when I tripped over the tinsel. That’s practically a love confession from him!”
“And his French, my god. The way he says my name—‘Pyehr’—like it's a poem written by logic itself. My thighs gave out.”
Daniel slams his chopsticks down.
"Pierre. Please. For the love of all things holy—shut up."
Pierre places a dramatic hand on his chest. “You don’t believe in love?”
“I don’t believe in hearing about it fifteen times an hour!” Daniel groans.
Pierre just twirls his hair. “You’re just jealous because Max wouldn’t know romance if it knocked over his beakers.”
Charles groans into his croissant. “If I hear the phrase ‘Estie’s arms around me under the snow lights’ one more time—”
“He said that?” Oscar interrupts, wide-eyed.
“NO.” Charles and Daniel snap in unison.
Pierre beams, completely unbothered. “You’re just bitter because you don’t have anyone sweeping you off your feet.”
“Because unlike you,” Daniel huffs, “some of us enjoy peace. And silence. And not hearing the phrase ‘his voice is like silk-draped spreadsheets’ over lunch.”
Pierre’s eyes twinkle. “It is, though.”
Daniel has had enough.
Without warning, he grabs a dumpling from Oscar’s tray and shoves it into Pierre’s mouth mid-sentence.
“Blessed silence,” Daniel mutters, taking a sip of tea like a war veteran who just got one second of calm.
Pierre, dumpling in cheek, makes muffled dramatic noises of betrayal. He chews. Then swallows. Then smiles with ominous glee.
“You know,” he says, mouth still half-full, “if Estie feeds me at the ball, I’m going to ascend. Like, actually float off the ground.”
Oscar gets up and leaves.
Daniel buries his head in his arms.
Charles picks up his phone and starts texting Esteban:
pls. control ur boyfriend. i’m losing hair.
Esteban replies, Pierre is not my boyfriend
…..
Esteban had survived the glitter fiasco. The budget meltdown. Even Pierre trying to sneak in a fog machine and call it “atmospheric enhancement.”
He could survive this too.
He just had to teach Pierre Gasly how to waltz.
“I don’t get it,” Pierre says with a pout, spinning on one socked foot and nearly knocking over a folding chair. “I’ve danced before.”
Esteban raises one eyebrow. “Club dancing doesn’t count.”
Pierre gasps like he’s been personally insulted. “Excuse me, my hips have range.”
“Yes, well,” Esteban mutters, stepping forward to fix Pierre’s posture, “currently your shoulders are doing all the work and your feet have declared mutiny.”
Pierre flops onto a stack of gym mats. “Then you show me.”
Esteban exhales slowly through his nose. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to touch Pierre. He definitely doesn’t want to put one hand on his waist and feel—
No. Stop. Logic. Order. Oxygen.
But he also refuses to be the guy who looks like he’s wrangling a rogue flamingo during the most formal dance of the year.
So he holds out his hand. “Stand up.”
Pierre smirks like he’s won a bet and slips his hand into Esteban’s. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m annoyed.”
“You’re blushing annoyedly.”
Esteban does not respond. He simply moves Pierre’s hand to his shoulder and places his own gently—casually—at Pierre’s waist.
Pierre shivers.
Esteban pretends not to notice.
“Okay,” he says stiffly. “Waltz is 3/4 time. Step—two—three. Step—two—three.”
They start to move.
Sort of.
Pierre steps on Esteban’s foot twice and laughs both times. “You’re so stiff. Like a handsome statue.”
“I’m trying to prevent both of us from ending up in traction,” Esteban grits out, gripping tighter.
They turn again. This time, it’s smoother. Esteban’s palm brushes the small of Pierre’s back, and Pierre exhales, just slightly, like the contact startled him.
“Your hand,” Pierre whispers.
“I’m stabilizing you.”
“No, I like it. You’re—warm.”
Esteban clears his throat and looks away. “Focus. Step—two—three.”
“You’re enjoying this,” Pierre teases, their feet syncing. “Admit it.”
“I’m tolerating it,” Esteban lies.
Pierre grins, leans in just enough to whisper, “Then why are you smiling?”
Esteban steps backward into a chair.
They both go down in a tangle of limbs, laughter, and something that sounds suspiciously like a squeak from Esteban.
Pierre lands half in Esteban’s lap, hair tousled, breath warm against his neck.
He blinks up, clearly surprised. “Estie?”
Esteban stares at him. And for a moment—just one heartbeat—he almost forgets the choreography.
Then he mutters, “This is your fault.”
….
The Winter Ball is shimmering.
Snowflake-shaped fairy lights hang from the high ceilings. The chandeliers glow gold. Soft jazz trickles through the air like champagne. Everyone looks dipped in elegance.
Esteban, as always, is early. Checking details. Tapping his checklist. Calibrating his pulse.
What he doesn’t expect is Pierre entering like a comet.
Dressed in deep navy velvet, hair perfectly styled, smirking like he owns every breath in the room. His eyes scan the crowd—until they find Esteban. And they sparkle.
“You’re staring,” Pierre whispers when he gets close, cheeks pink from the cold. “Like you’ve never seen me in a suit before.”
“I haven’t,” Esteban mutters, adjusting his cufflinks. “Didn’t expect it to… fit.”
Pierre grins. “What? My ego?”
“Your entire personality.”
They’re interrupted by the start of the waltz. The band plays the first few notes and couples move onto the floor. Pierre holds out a gloved hand, mockingly formal.
“Shall we?”
Esteban takes it. Of course he does.
And somehow, all the rehearsals fall into place. They glide. They twirl. Their steps are in sync—almost intimate.
Pierre leans in close as they spin again.
“You’re enjoying this,” he whispers. “Admit it.”
Esteban scowls. “I am not.”
Pierre’s expression shifts.
There’s a pause.
Then, light but biting, Pierre says, “If this is that unbearable, I’m sure I can find someone else who wants to dance with me.”
Esteban freezes.
The music keeps playing. The room keeps turning. But something inside him just—snaps.
He pulls Pierre in by the waist, tight and sudden.
“Don’t,” Esteban says, voice sharp and low. “Don’t say that.”
Pierre blinks. “Say what?”
“That you’d rather be with someone else.”
Pierre scoffs, “Well, maybe I don’t like dancing with someone who acts like he hates it.”
Esteban’s hand tightens on Pierre’s hip.
“Then why are you still here?” he demands, eyes burning.
Pierre opens his mouth—but before a single word comes out, Esteban leans in and kisses him.
Right there, on the dance floor, surrounded by snowflake lights and stunned stares and violins swelling in the background.
It’s not delicate. It’s not planned. It’s Esteban losing control, and Pierre melting into it like he’s waited a lifetime.
When they finally pull apart, breathless, Pierre stares at him.
“You kissed me.”
“No one else,” Esteban says, fierce and breathless. “No one else but me.”
Pierre tilts his head, dazed and giddy. “Finally.”
….
There is peace on campus.
Birds are chirping. The quad is quiet. The group chat hasn’t blown up in 30 minutes. For once, Max Verstappen is reading his quantum mechanics textbook without someone hovering over him reciting their crush’s eye color in painful detail.
Carlos sips his coffee. “Do you… hear that?”
Oscar tilts his head, squinting into the distance. “It’s… quiet.”
Max nods, flipping a page. “He’s not here.”
“He’s who?” Daniel says, walking over and plopping into Max’s lap like he always does.
“Pierre,” the trio say in unison, like it’s a dark curse.
Daniel blinks. “Oh. Yeah. Esteban took him.”
Carlos slumps into Charles, who’s leaning against him on the library steps. “God bless Esteban Ocon.”
“He was our last hope,” Oscar murmurs, arms wrapped around Lando as they share a donut. “We were so close to madness.”
Charles chuckles. “You’re all so dramatic.”
Max raises a brow. “You weren’t the one who had to listen to Pierre describe Esteban’s collarbones for twelve minutes. With metaphors.”
“Floral metaphors,” Oscar adds.
Carlos groans. “At one point he said Esteban’s voice was like ‘winter wind curling over a marble violin.’ What does that even mean?”
“Esteban, apparently,” Lando says.
Daniel snorts. “I kinda miss it.”
Max glares. “Say that again and I’m feeding your phone to the shredder.”
But the truth is—they don’t miss it. Because now, at long last:
Pierre is busy. Blissfully, gloriously, obsessively busy with Esteban.
Right now, they’re probably dancing again. Or arguing about table placements. Or making out behind the stage curtains while Esteban pretends he’s still annoyed.
And the rest of them?
They're stretched out on the grass. Fingers tangled. Free time in abundance. Silence like a warm blanket. Their boyfriends are not being emotionally held hostage by the French hurricane anymore.
Carlos sighs happily. “We survived.”
Oscar nods. “We endured.”
Max smiles faintly, pulling Daniel closer. “We’re free.”
Charles lifts his coffee cup. “To Esteban Ocon. May his ears bleed, but his heart bloom.”
They all clink their cups together.
And somewhere in the distance, Pierre is yelling, “ESTIEEEE!”
Max takes a long sip. “Not our problem anymore.”