#Also the song I'm blue daba di daba die goes here

[bsaka7]

pierre/esteban, blue

They both wear blue. Sometimes the same, the colors of the French flag draped access their backs. Sometimes different, their shoulders held tall under the colors of their teams.

Pierre looks at Esteban and holds back a curse.

Esteban doesn't look at him at all.

Charles catches Pierre, once, a rainy Saturday in the paddock, damp and antsy for the tires to hit the track.

"He looks good," Charles says, following Pierre's gaze. The gel has almost washed out of Estebans hair and it falls soft across his forehead. Charles' voice is kind, the lilt of it familiar. Pierre is grateful they stayed close and terrified of the things Charles may know and is too polite - too kind - to ever say to his face.

Pierre shifts so his body points away from them both. "It's nothing," he says, because it's been so long, because the pain faded to ache and the ache should have faded into indifference by now, it should have.

Charles hums noncommittally. Pierre wants him to say something like - you'll beat him this week or he doesn't know what he's missing. He glares furiously at a puddle, at the way the raindrops fall and splash and ripple. When he looks back, Esteban is laughing with an engineer from Alpine, his blue-black umbrella teetering above them. Charles is checking something on his phone.

Pierre looks down at the Alphatauri logo on his racesuit and wants to burn it all to the ground. But it's raining. A flame should just fizzle out.