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scrollonso · 4 months

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First Kiss (Race 16)

A strollonso AU where 18 year old rookie Lance Stroll falls helplessly in love with the notoriously mean world champion. (2.6k words, jealous nando, face fucking, daddy kink?) [@v3lnys @biancathecool] {I watched the '06 Chinese gp while writing the first bit but it wasnt in english so... idek what happened}

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Sebastian ran up to Lance, who was walking next to Lawrence, having just parked his car when he caught a glimpse of the Racing Point driver.

"Lancey!" He said, arm wrapping around the Canadians shoulders "Funny seeing you here"

"Wow, BMW called you back?" Lance laughed, faking the surprised look on his face

"Okay, dick." Sebastian mumbled before laughing too, shoving Lance away as they walked into the paddock, not noticing how Fernando glared at the German boy as he walked next to Lance.

Qualifying came and went, Lance once again going straight to Sebastian after he finished.

"God, expected you to do a little better Mr. Race Winner" Seb teased, knowing nothing was ever serious between the two

"Fuck off" Lance shook his head, hoisting himself up onto the counter in the BMW garage, his friend's hands settling on his leg as they continued speaking.

Fernando watched the exchange from a distance, his eyes narrowing as Sebastian and Lance continued their playful banter. Despite his focus on the upcoming race, a twinge of jealousy gnawed at him. He knew Lance and Sebastian had been friends for a while, but seeing them together always stirred something uneasy inside him.

As Fernando approached, Lance caught sight of him and his face lit up. "Hola, Nando!" he called, waving him over. "Just catching up with Seb."

Fernando forced a smile, though his eyes didn't quite match the warmth. "I see that," he said, glancing briefly at Sebastian. "Nice to see you driving in FP1 again Sebastian."

Sebastian nodded, grinning. "Thanks, Fernando. Congrats on pole. You were flying out there."

"Thanks," Fernando replied, his tone polite but clipped. He turned his attention back to Lance. "Ready for tomorrow?"

Lance nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, P10 is not too bad. Should be able to make up some ground during the race."

Fernando's expression softened a bit at Lance's excitement. "You'll do great," he said, his voice genuinely encouraging. "Just stay focused."

As they talked, Sebastian's phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen. "I gotta go," he said, looking back at Lance. "Team meeting. Catch you later?"

Lance nodded. "Sure thing. See you, Seb."

Sebastian waved and jogged off, leaving Fernando and Lance alone. Fernando immediately felt the tension in his shoulders ease. "So," he said, trying to sound casual, "you and Seb seem pretty close."

Lance shrugged, a smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, we've known each other for a while. He's a great guy, and an okay driver sometimes."

Fernando hummed noncommittally, looking away for a moment. "Just-" He started, unsure what he wanted to say "make sure you don't get too distracted by him."

Lance raised an eyebrow, sensing the underlying tension. "Nando, are you jealous?"

Fernando's eyes snapped back to Lance's, his mouth opening to protest, but no words came out. Lance slid off the counter, stepping closer, placing a hand on Fernando's arm. "You know you're the only one I care about, right?"

Fernando sighed, his posture relaxing as he met Lance's gaze. "I know," he admitted quietly. "It's just hard sometimes, seeing you naturally go to him."

Lance smiled, his hand giving Fernando's arm a reassuring squeeze. "You have nothing to worry about," he said softly. "I promise."

Fernando nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Okay," he said, feeling a bit of the weight lift off his shoulders. "Let's get ready for tomorrow, then. We have a race to win."

It rained before the race and lingered into the first few laps. Lance was excited to drive in the now damp conditions. They were now lined up on the grid and Fernando, starting from pole, had an excellent start, leading into the first turn. The rain played to the strengths of the Michelin tyres, giving him an early advantage.

Further back, Lance managed to navigate the conditions without incident, maintaining his position and focusing on a steady race. The chaos of the opening laps saw a collision between the two Roberts, resulting in Kubica being knocked off track and Doornbos losing his front wing. Lance, keeping his composure, avoided the turmoil and continued his race with a steady hand.

"Doing good, Lance. Be careful."

"Will do, Brad. Thanks"

Later, as the track dried, Fernando was struggling with his degrading tyres. Schumacher caught up to Fisichella by lap 19 and was gaining on Fernando, who was struggling with his car’s grip and having several off-track moments.

Fernando pitted on lap 22, changing his front tires but leaving the rears, Lance not far behind.

Renault's decision proved costly as his tires quickly lost performance. His earlier pit stop left him vulnerable, and within a few laps, his 20-second lead evaporated.

Meanwhile, Lance was running a consistent race, taking advantage of the changing conditions and maintaining his focus. His steady approach paid off, keeping him in the hunt for points.

"Alonso P1, Coulthard and Liuzzi are ahead. You are faster." Brad spoke, Lance smiling at the mention of Fernando (and the fact that he would most likely be able to pass two two cars ahead of him.)

On lap 35, Fernando pitted to switch to dry tyres, but a problematic wheel nut extended his stop to over 19 seconds, dropping him to fourth and over 50 seconds behind the leaders.

In the closing stages, Fernando rediscovered his pace, setting fastest lap after fastest lap, closing in on Schumacher. Fisichella let him past without a fight, but despite his rapid pace, he ran out of time to catch Schumacher, finishing just three seconds behind in second place. Fisichella still in third.

Lance's steady drive earned him a valuable point, finishing 8th. His engineer quick to praise the boy over the radio once he crossed the finish line

After the race, Sebastian was waiting in the Racing Point garage to congratulate Lance. As he walked in, tired but pleased with his performance, Sebastian approached him with a wide smile.

"Great job, Lancey! You did amazing out there," he said, pulling Lance into a tight hug, arms snaking around the Canadians waist.

Lance grinned, rolling his eyes at the stupid nickname the German boy had began calling him. "Thanks, Sebby. It was a tough race, I'm still all wet, but I'm happy with the point."

From a distance, Fernando watched the two with a tight jaw. The podium celebrations were going to begin soon, but his eyes were fixed on the Racing Point garage. Seeing Sebastian and Lance together, laughing and celebrating the boys race, stirred that familiar jealousy. He knew he had nothing to worry about, but the sight of them so close continued to cause a pang of insecurity. Seeing Lance so close to an attractive man his own age made him wonder why Lance had chosen him out of everyone he was surrounded by.

After the podium ceremony, Fernando found Lance in the garage. Lance saw the look on Fernando’s face and sighed. "Nando, it’s just Seb. We’re friends."

Fernando hummed, ignoring what Lance said as he grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the Canadians drivers room, a situation that was all too familiar for them.

Before Lance could even ask the man what he was doing the door was locked and his back was pressed against it. It was almost scary, the look in Fernandos eyes. Was he seriously this upset over Lance having friends?

"Nando, what's wrong?" He asked, hands pressed against the Spaniards chest as he waited for him to respond, the only response being his lips finding their way to Lance's neck.

His eyes closed at the feeling, breath shakey as Fernando kissed and nipped at the skin from his jaw to his ear, sucking on it long enough to leave light marks for everyone to see.

"F..Fuck, Nando" Lance breathed, fingers getting tangled in the Spaniards overgrown brown hair, head falling back against the door as he felt himself getting hard, bucking his hips forward to brush against Fernando's core.

"Stop it." He practically growled, hand gripping the taller boys hips to keep him still, not planning on giving him what he wanted.

Fernando was already changed out of his race suit, now in normal clothes unlike Lance who was embarrassingly hard in his half unzipped race suit, toes curling in his pink boots.

"Please" Lance whined, hand finding its way to Fernando's buldge, pawing at the tent in his jeans as the Spaniard pulled away from his neck

"Please, what?" Fernando asked, cocking his head to the side as if he didn't know what his boy wanted. Of course he knew, but he wanted the boy to beg. Wanted Lance to beg for his cock.

"Need you, Nando" He pouted, obediently falling to his knees when Fernando shoved him, big brown seal pup eyes staring up at the man above as he waited for anything, he'd take anything.

"Do the work, then."

They'd done a lot since July but every time they'd been intimate Fernando was the one doing the work, touching Lance, showing him what to do, instructing his every move. Lance had never done anything for himself and Fernando didn't feel like being generous

"Nando, I-" Lance started, eyes level with the bulge in Fernandos jeans "I don't know-"

"Figure it out," Fernando said bluntly, reaching out and cupping Lance's cheek, brushing his hair out of his face as he cooed "You're a smart boy, Lancito. Can my smart boy do as he's told?"

He simply nodded, not wanting to disappoint the Spaniard in front of him. It was risky, obviously, being on his knees by the door with Fernando standing over him. The garage was crowded when they'd gone into his drivers room so someone had to have seen. He had to be quick.

Lance didn't hesitate to lift his hands, unzipping then pulling down the Spaniards jeans and boxers just enough so his cock was exposed. They couldn't take off too much, his dad was at the race, he had to have some kind of excuse if he knocked.

He looked back up at Fernando, needing some form of confirmation that he was doing alright. The Spaniard knew what he needed so he nodded, hand still on Lance's cheek as he opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out slightly.

At first he just licked the tip, surprised Fernando was already leaking precum just from the sight of Lance on his knees.

He was taking too long in Fernandos opinion, he had to hold himself back from forcing himself all the way inside and taking advantage of Lance's mouth. But he could only hold back for so long.

Lance wrapped his lips around just the tip, cautiously taking in more, not wanting to scrape his teeth against the sensitive skin. As he got closer to the base he began to gag, Fernando's cock too large to fit all the way inside.

The Canadian looked up again, apologizing with his eyes for not being able to take it all.

"C'mon, Lancito, can you not take it all? Am I too big for your pretty little mouth?"

Lance hummed in response, cock twitching at the sight of Fernandos face contorting from the sensation.

"Do you need my help, Mi sol?" He asked, letting go of Lance's face, silently telling him it was okay to pull away and he did.

He looked up at Fernando and nodded, pleading for the older mans help.

"Use your words." He said harshly, something about his tone making Lance squirm under his gaze

"Please, need you to help me, papi." Lance whined, face lighting up when Fernando moved his hand to the back of the boys head, gripping his hair slightly.

Fernando started slow, being patient and gentle with the boy as he tried to fit his full length inside his mouth. He felt as his tip hit the back of Lance's throat, the Canadian gagging again.

He realized that if he continued at this pace nothing would get done. Lance would simply continue to gag around him if he didn't force himself further.

He gradually picked up the pace, watching as Lance's eyes squeezed shut as he repeatedly thrusted into the back of his throat.

The boy started drooling, spit dribbling down his chin as Fernando only got faster. Lance's eyes filled with tears quickly, already looking so dishevelled and the Spaniard had barely started.

Lance tried his best to keep his teeth covered, not caring how much he gagged or how many tears he shed if he was making Fernando feel good. His vision was blurry, unable to see the expression on the mans face but the stream of noises leaving his lips confirmed he was getting at least some form of pleasure out of this.

The shorter man only got rougher, grip tightening as his cock twitched in Lance's mouth, practically shoving Lance into the door behind him over and over as he pulled his head back and forth onto his dick.

It was weird, to Lance, how much he was enjoying being used by Fernando like this. No matter how much he gagged or drooled or cried he still found himself getting closer and closer to his release every time Fernando's tip slammed into the back of his throat.

Lance closes his eyes again and attempts to relax his throat. Even as he tries to open himself up more of the Spaniard he's well aware he's not able to comfortably take Fernando's full length in his mouth, it still seems like progress.

Fernando continues at the same exhausting pace, not even thinking about stopping until he feels himself getting closer, knowing that if he continues like this he wont be able to for long.

Lance could tell, the way the Spaniards cock twitched in his mouth and his moans slowly turned to groans he knew his boyfriend was getting closer. His only goal was to make Fernando cum.

"Fuck, Lancito." The older man muttered, pulling away from Lance, watching as his cock stayed connected to the boy through strings of saliva. "Such a good boy for me, letting me use your pretty throat, did so good."

Lance whimpered at the praise, close to his own release even without being touched. He couldn't form words but he was praying the look on his face said enough. Need your cum.

Fernando let go of the boys hair, smoothing it down gently, only now feeling bad for how rough he'd been. When his eyes met Lance's again he knew what he needed, know how much of a cum slut he could be.

"Go on, take what you need."

That was all he needed, he reached out and began stroking Fernandos length, pleased with how little it took to make the Spaniard cum. He painted the Canadians face with thin white streaks, slowly dripping down his pale skin. He was almost embarrassed at the fact that Fernando cumming on his face is what pushed him over the edge.

"Bet Sebastian could never make you feel this good, hm, Lancito?" He asked, pulling his boxers and jeans back up before kneeling, adoring the pathetic sight of Lancs sticking his tongue out to collect what he could, swallowing as much cum he could reach.

"No, papi," The boy shook his head, a mix of cum and tears on his cheeks as he met Fernando's gaze. "Only you can make me feel this good, Nando"

His voice was hoarse, jaw sore as he waited for more orders from Fernando

"Good, now let's get you cleaned up then warn your trainer about the mess she'll find in your suit." Fernando hummed, helping Lance get up before wiping off his face with tissues the Canadian happened to have in the corner of the small room.

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suddencolds · 8 months

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The Worst Timing | [3/?]

part 3 (6k words)!! you can read [part 1] here! (it gets worse before it gets better). this chapter is more character-centric (sorry again 🙇‍♀️). i wanted to post this before work eats me alive this week T.T

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!

Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anything—much less the flu—ruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)

—

It’s fine, until it isn’t.

—

Yves gets home, showers first (only after Vincent insists that he shower first), heads out into the living room, and shuts off the lights. The lights in the bedroom are still on, bleeding in from the doorframe.

His head hurts. Every part of him feels cold. He burrows deep into the covers on the pullout bed, rearranges himself until he finds a sufficiently comfortable position, and shuts his eyes.

Tomorrow, he’ll be away for most of the afternoon—with the wedding rehearsal, and then the rehearsal dinner with the rest of his family—and Vincent will grab dinner and drinks with some of Genevieve’s friends in the meantime. Yves will probably be home late. They won’t see each other for the entire day—at least, until he gets back from dinner some time in the late evening.

Everything for the wedding is ready. His suit jacket is ironed, his shoes polished; his speech has been written for weeks and rehearsed first alone, and then in front of Leon and Victoire, who’d told him how to make it funnier (Leon) and more concise (Victoire). Two days from today, Aimee and Genevieve will be married.

All he has to do, now, is just see it through.

—

Yves wakes up coughing.

He feels distinctly wrong. His head is throbbing. His limbs feel strangely leaden, like they’re weighing him down, like it’d be a considerable inconvenience to move them—he isn’t sure if he’d be able to sit up properly.

He presses a hand to his forehead, in an attempt to gauge whether he’s running a fever. It’s no use—his hand is warm and clammy. He can’t tell.

Fuck. This is not good.

One wrong breath leaves him coughing, harshly enough that the coughs seem to reverberate through his frame. His throat burns. He reaches blindly through the dark in an attempt to find one of the waters he’d bought yesterday night, at the convenience store. Had he left a bottle on the nightstand? Or had he gotten rid of the one he’d drunk from last night? His breath hitches, so sharply that he has practically no hope of holding back.

“Hhehh’YISHh-CHHiew! hhHEHH’iIDTSSHh-iiEW!”

The sneezes tear through him with little warning, leaving him flushed and shivering. It’s not warm enough in the living room. He doesn’t know if it’s the air conditioning in the room, or the relative thinness of the blanket he’s under, or if perhaps the window is open just a crack, or if perhaps he just hasn’t been moving enough to get warm. He’s not sure he could pinpoint the cause if he tried.

The only thing that seems evident to him, now, is that he feels immediately, uncomfortably cold. He could get out of bed and look for something to wear—he hadn’t packed any thick jackets, because Provence in March isn’t especially cold, but even one of the dress jackets would be better than nothing, so long as it’s one of the ones which can withstand getting a little wrinkled.

But when he sits up—or, rather, when he attempts to sit up—he feels the world tilt, uncomfortably. He braces himself on the frame of the couch, propping himself up with one arm up on the armrest.

He definitely has a fever, even if there’s no way for him to verify that right now. Otherwise, it would be strange for him to feel so cold. Even now, only half-vertical, he finds himself shivering so hard he can barely move the blanket back up to sit comfortably around his shoulders.

One wrong breath sends a painful twinge down his throat, and he finds himself coughing, gripping the armrest tightly to keep himself upright. He should get out of bed. He should find water, put on a jacket, make an attempt to get back to sleep.

For now, all he can do is muffle the coughs as best he can into a cupped hand. His chest aches with every cough. Every breath he takes in feels like it only manages to irritate his lungs further.

Through the haze of his exhaustion, he thinks he hears footsteps. The knowledge that he’s keeping Vincent up is the last thing he needs, right now.

Through the crack under the doorframe, he can see the line of light from the hallway, which is lit even at night. Maybe if he’s going to be up anyways, he should spend the night out in the hallway—at the very least, he’ll be a little quieter out there.

Someone presses a bottle of water into his hands.

“Drink,” Vincent says. “It’s uncapped.”

Yves brings the water to his lips and takes a short, tentative sip, and then another. His throat is sorer than it had been yesterday—the water burns against the back of his throat as he swallows.

Vincent steps past him, past the edge of the couch, to do—something. Yves doesn’t know what. He hears a click, and the lamp on the cabinet by the sofa flickers on, floods the living room with dim yellow light. Vincent regards him carefully, his expression unreadable.

“Sorry,” Yves says. The next breath he takes in exacerbates the tickle at the back of his throat, and he twists away, muffling cough after cough into a tightly cupped hand. “I didn’t mbean to wake you.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. He looks… upset, somehow, though the light is dim enough that his expression is hard to make out. Yves tries to think of what else he should say, but his head feels heavy.

He tries to re-cap the bottle of water, though his hands are shaky enough to make it a little difficult. Vincent takes the bottle from him and screws the cap tight in one fluid motion. Yves tries and fails to think of something to joke about.

Vincent presses a hand to his forehead. His hand is comfortingly warm, and a little calloused. It’s strange, how good it feels to be touched—he knows and knows well that it means nothing, but the gentle press of Vincent’s fingers to his skin—when he’s spent the past few days trying to keep his distance from everyone—is strangely comforting. Yves leans into the contact, despite all logic.

Vincent pulls away, too soon. “You’re—”

“Warm?” Yves finishes for him.

“Feverish,” Vincent clarifies, with a frown. “Did you already know that?”

“I had a hunch,” Yves answers, honestly.

Vincent just stares at him, for a moment, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. Yves repositions the blankets over his shoulders, a little self-conscious. “It’s fide. I’ll take something for it,” Yves says. “You should go back to sleep.”

“We slept early,” Vincent says. “I’m not tired.”

“What time is it?”

Vincent glances at his watch. “5:34.”

“That’s still early enough that you should be asleep.” Yves sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. His head hurts, and there’s a prickle in his nose again. “Sorry. I can be quieter.”

His breath hitches. In a frantic attempt to keep his promise, he lifts the blanket to his face and stifles—or, rather, attempts to stifle—the sneeze into the fabric.

“hh—! hhEHH’NGKTSHCH-iiew!”

It’s still not very quiet, despite his best efforts, and the attempt to stifle leaves him coughing a little. It’s a good thing they’re not sharing a bed, he thinks. He hasn’t exactly been careful about keeping this illness to himself.

“Bless you,” Vincent says, rising to his feet. He ducks into the bedroom, only to be back a moment later with a box of tissues, which he tucks into the crook between the pullout bed and the sofa armrests, conveniently in reach. “Was it like this last night?”

“What?”

“Were you unable to sleep last night?”

It’s not an accusation, but Yves freezes at the question, nonetheless. For a moment, he worries—that Vincent knows precisely how little sleep he’s gotten since they landed in France. That Vincent was awake last night—or worse, that Yves was the one who kept him up—which is why he’s asking this question now.

But if he knew, wouldn’t he have said something about it yesterday?

“I slept fine,” Yves says.

There’s a cold breeze coming in from somewhere—from the hallway, or from one of the air conditioning vents, he can’t say. Yves tries his best to suppress a shiver. He can tell, by the change to Vincent’s expression—the way Vincent’s eyes linger on him a little too long—that he doesn’t do it well enough.

“You should really have taken the bed,” Vincent says, with a sigh. “It’s warmer.”

“It’s warm here too,” Yves says. There probably wouldn’t even be a problem if he weren’t feverish—it’s just the relative temperature difference that’s making him shiver. “Are you goidg to stop interrogating me ndow?”

“If you stop giving me reasons to be worried,” Vincent says plainly, “Then I will.”

Yves sighs. He’s cold, and exhausted, and he wants this argument to be over. He doesn’t want to have to justify all of this to Vincent, who should be enjoying this vacation instead of worrying about Yves and whatever cold-slash-flu he’s managed to pick up this time. “This is not the first time I’ve been under the weather,” he says. “I—” he veers away to face the opposite direction from Vincent, pulls the blanket up to cover his face. “hHeh-!-hHEHh‘nGKTTSHH-iiIEw!”

“Bless you.”

“—I kdow what I’m doing, snf. I don't even feel that—hh… hHheh'iiDDZZCHH-iIIEW!” The sneeze comes on too quickly for him to stifle. “—that udwell,” he finishes, sniffling, though that’s not entirely truthful. He lifts an elbow to muffle a few coughs into it, blinking through the tears that are surfacing, irritatingly, in his vision.

“So you’ve said,” Vincent says.

“Yes,” Yves says. “You can trust me on this.”

Vincent looks at him for a moment. For a moment, Yves waits for him to refute this, waits for him to point out just how unprepared he is, just how little of a plan he has aside from sticking this out until he has the chance to crash and burn.

“What do you need?” he says, instead.

Yves blinks at him. It’s not the question he expects Vincent to ask.

“Nothidg,” he says, honestly. “Seriously. It’s just a cold. I’ll take somethidg for it when I wake up.”

“Cold medicine?” To Yves’s nod, Vincent says, “I can get it for you, if you want.”

“No need. I’ll probably just — hhEhh-! HhEHh’IITShh-iiEW! Ugh… I’ll pick somethidg up from the codvenience store on the way to breakfast.”

Vincent turns aside to muffle a yawn into a cupped hand. Yves is unpleasantly reminded that he’s probably the sole reason why Vincent is awake right now.

“You should sleep, seriously,” Yves says, insistent. “Maybe you’ll be able to squeeze in a few more hours of sleep before sunrise. I’ll be okay.”

Vincent blinks at him. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Vincent says, softly.

Then he stands, sets the bottle of water on the cabinet by the sofa, switches off the lamp, and heads back into the bedroom. Yves listens as his footsteps recede. His sinuses are starting to feel like they’re slightly waterlogged, and the pressure from behind his eyelids is back, throbbing.

The tickle in his nose heightens, momentarily, and he finds himself muffling another set of sneezes into the bedsheets. He desperately hopes it’s quiet enough to not be disruptive. It’s hard to be fully quiet when whatever he has leaves him sneezing so forcefully, but he’s determined to try.

The coughing fit that follows leaves his throat feeling like it’s been nearly scraped raw. He clears his throat quietly, though that hurts, too. He takes another small sip of the water, though it goes down his throat with such difficulty he finds himself coughing again.

Two more days. He just has to make it through. He’ll grab a pack of cold and flu medication from the convenience store downstairs—the kind that’s supposed to smother all the symptoms—and then he’ll be good as new, he’s sure.

Yves shuts his eyes, turns to the side, and tries his best to get comfortable. He’ll be less disruptive if he’s asleep. It’s just getting there that’s the problem. He’s exhausted—that fact only seems to become more evident the longer he stays awake—but every time he finds himself drifting off, he’s jolted awake by another untimely sneeze which wrenches him back into consciousness.

In college, whenever he was up unreasonably late for some reason, Erika used to tell him to Stop worrying, Yves, I can hear you overthinking from the other side of the room. Ask anyone else and they’d say that Yves has his life reasonably put together—being the eldest of three does that to you. He’d spent his formative years growing up trying to be the sort of person Leon and Victoire could lean on—the kind of person impervious to the sorts of stressful situations he’d gotten regularly thrown into—and for the most part, it’d worked.

He’d learned, early on, that it is not really that difficult to keep things from people. He likes to think of himself as reliable, even if that means that whenever something does come up—something that feels frustrating and insurmountable—it doesn’t really hurt any less when he goes through it privately.

Erika had always been good at seeing through his bullshit. It was one of the things he liked about her—that he could lean on her if he needed to, without worrying that it’d take its toll on her. That she’d take a look at his problems, which always felt so all-consuming in the moment, and make them seem simple and solvable and almost trivial.

It’s hard not to miss her, now, when he’s alone in the dark, devoid of any and all distractions. Or maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was just having someone he didn’t have to hide from.

Yves wonders, faintly, what Vincent would’ve said if he were more honest with him. He and Vincent aren’t actually dating, but he thinks maybe Vincent would understand. He thinks that they’ve been getting along well, as of late—he might even consider them friends.

But then again, hasn’t Vincent agreed to do all of this—lying to Yves’s friends and family, falsifying their relationship, letting Yves drag him from one celebration to the next—because it’s easy? Because he is willing to tolerate going to a party, or a housewarming, or a wedding, where there are no strings attached, when after the night is over he can drop the act cleanly?

It’s a lie that they’re telling, but it’s a self contained one. The moment they step foot out of whatever event they’re attending, there’s nothing left to pretend. Yves can go back to living his own life, and Vincent can go back to living his. Would Vincent really have agreed to do any of this if that weren’t the case?

It’s going to be fine, Erika would have said. Just breathe. She’s not around to tell him this, now, but he still tries.

The medicine will be enough to get him through today, and the day after. It has to be.

—

When Yves falls asleep, it’s the kind of restless sleep that sits somewhere in between unconsciousness and wakefulness. He dreams in fragments of scenes—him at Aimee and Genevieve’s wedding, the details hazy and illogical and unusually bright, the weddings he’d been to in the past all superimposed into one.

When he wakes up to the sound of his alarm, it’s to a pounding headache and what he’s certain must be a fever. He can’t seem to stop shivering. It’s already bright out—the curtains in the bedroom are pulled shut, but light streams in from the sliver of space between them.

He feels too cold and somehow entirely devoid of energy, though he doesn’t remember doing anything particularly tiring. Sitting up makes the throbbing pain in his head sharpen, so painfully that he has to grip the side of the couch to steady himself, blinking against the dizziness. If Aimee saw him right now, he thinks, she’d send him straight home—he’s in no state to attend a wedding, and he’s not sure if he’s in any state to pretend that’s not the case.

He breath hitches. He raises an arm to shield his face, habitually, even though there’s no one here to witness—

“hhEhh-’iZZSSHH’Iew!” The singular sneeze is, unfortunately, far from relieving. The tickle in his nose is irritatingly persistent, even when he reaches up to rub his nose, which is starting to run. “Hh-! hhEH-!! HEHh-’IDDZSCHh-yYew! hHEHH’iDDSCHh-iEWW!hhEhH-! H‘IIDzZCH-YIIIEEew! Ugh…” The sneezes scrape unpleasant against his already-sore throat, leaving him hunched over as he muffles cough after cough into his arm.

There’s a small packet of cold medicine on his bedside, along with an uncapped bottle of water, and Vincent is nowhere to be found. The medication is a relief. It’s strangely thoughtful—a part of him is a little worried that Vincent’s only gotten this for him out of a sense of obligation—but he’s grateful for it, nonetheless.

It’s exactly what he needs. Surely if he takes something for this, his symptoms will be, at the very least, tolerable enough for him to function as usual.

He picks up the packet, squints down at the instructions. The text is inconveniently small, and he’s always been better at speaking French than he is at reading it, but he gets it eventually. It’s supposed to last six hours. If he times this right, he can take a dose that will last him until the end of the rehearsal dinner tonight, and then—if he’s not feeling better by tomorrow—take another before the wedding starts.

It will be fine. He uncaps the bottle by the cabinet, downs two pills, squeezes his eyes shut, and sits there for a minute, forces himself to breathe, waits for the uncomfortable pressure in his temples to subside.

Then he shoots off a quick text—

Y: thanks for the cold meds :)

Y: sorry i essentially left you with some strangers (again)

Y: this seems to be a theme for me huh

Vincent texts him back just a few minutes later:

V: No problem. I hope you feel better soon

V: Leon and Victoire invited me out for lunch

Yves blinks. That’s a little surprising. But come to think about it, Vincent’s plans with Genevieve’s friends aren’t until dinner time, so it makes sense that he’s out doing something else.

His second thought is: he is definitely in for an earful from both Leon and Victoire.

Y: jealous! have fun!

His phone buzzes not long later with Vincent’s response.

V: I considered waking you, but I figured you could use the sleep

V: Do you want me to bring anything back?

Sure enough, when he checks his unread texts, Leon has texted him, are u alive????? And then, a few minutes later, ur sick? dude worst fucking timing ever 😦, to which Yves types back, thanks for your glowing reassurance

Victoire has sent him, vincent told me you’re sick :((( and, feel better soon (preferably before 3pm tomorrow!!), to which Yves says, thanks, fwding this to my body. hope it gets the message ✌️

Then he sends back to Vincent:

Y: i’m good, but thanks for asking! enjoy lunch

Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that, which means that he’s probably busy. Yves makes a note to thank him in person later. And again, much later—when all of this is over.

He just has to get the next day and a half to go according to plan.

—

The wedding rehearsal is mercifully uneventful. They walk twice through the processional, and then twice through the recessional. Yves picks a seat near one of the back rows, shivers through thirty minutes of run throughs, and tries to cough as discreetly as he can. He stifles every sneeze into a vague approximation of silence—he’s never been good at stifling—and does his best to ignore the mounting congestion in his sinuses, the persistent ache behind his temples.

It's easy enough to ignore all of those things in his excitement. He’s happy to be back—here, in France, surrounded by his whole extended family A part of this still feels unreal to him. He’s really here, in a place that feels familiar and simultaneously so novel, to watch someone who’s influenced him so fundamentally get married.

They’re all dressed for the spring weather. For the wedding rehearsal, Yves picked out a gray blazer over a dress shirt, chinos, and dress shoes. It’s not quite as formal as what he’s planning to wear tomorrow—the shoes are the only item he’s planning to rewear—but he finds himself distinctly grateful for the blazer jacket when the wind threads through the trees, knocking his tie slightly out of alignment.

It’s not unusually cold out—this would probably be considered temperate weather here, in March—but the wind is cold enough to offset the otherwise agreeable temperature.

The cold medicine helps, too—it keeps him feeling well enough to stay upright, which is already an accomplishment. He’s congested—his sinuses hurt a little, like everything’s a little waterlogged—but at least he isn’t sneezing as much as he was last night. His head still feels heavy, but the pain is a little duller, a little more muted; he’s tired, but he thinks right now he could stay awake on pure adrenaline alone.

“Dude, you sound awful,” Leon says, after the rehearsal ends.

“Thadks,” Yves says, muffling a fit of coughs into his elbow. “You always kdow just how to flatter me.”

Leon looks him over with a frown. “Are you sure you’re good for tomorrow?”

Yves doesn’t know. “Let’s hope so,” he says. “I don’t have any contingedcy plans for if I’m not.”

“I’m sure Aimee would understand if you told her.”

“I’m sure she would.” Yves looks over to where Aimee’s standing—she’s in the middle of a conversation with Yves’s parents and some of the adults on Genevieve’s side of the family. He’s too far to make out what she’s talking about, but she looks happy—she’s gesturing animatedly, her eyes bright. Every so often, he sees her flash a smile at Genevieve, as if to make sure Genevieve is following along.

Leon seems to understand that Yves has no intention of telling either of them, because he sighs. Yves changes the subject before he can say anything. “How was ludch with Vincent?”

“I like him,” Leon says, brightening at the question. “He’s surprisingly pretty funny. I hope you guys stay together.”

“Just because he’s funny?”

“That certainly doesn’t hurt,” Leon says, grinning. “But you work with him, right? If he’s a nice person while he’s looking at like, tax forms, or whatever, he’s probably a great person when he’s doing anything else.”

“Yves! Leon!” someone waves them over. When Yves turns, he sees it’s Roy, one of his younger cousins from his dad’s side of the family. “Pictures!”

“Coming,” Leon shouts back.

Yves has no idea why there are pictures happening today when the wedding is tomorrow, but he fixes his tie hastily and heads over to join them both.

—

When dinner rolls around, Yves finds he has no appetite, but he eats what he can and spends the rest of the time making conversation with some of his aunts and uncles. He’s always found this kind of small talk to be more enjoyable than it is tedious. They ask about his job, about his workload, about life in the states, about his parents, about Vincent—all things that he knows intimately, and has no problem speaking on. He thinks that speaking in French makes him a little more deliberate with his answers, partially because he has to spend some time formulating the sentences when they get more complicated, and he likes that, too. It has all the camaraderie of a family gathering—warm and crowded, welcoming, a little chaotic.

He finds Genevieve after dinner, sitting out on the steps.

“Hey,” he says, in French. She looks up, and he motions to the steps beside her. “Do you want some time alone before you get swamped with codgratulations tomorrow, or can I crash your alone time early?”

She smiles up at him. “You can sit here,” she says.

He takes a seat on the steps—a few feet away from her, because he doesn’t want to risk passing whatever he has onto her. He doesn’t know Genevieve very well. He knows her best through Aimee—through the stories Aimee has told about her, through the way Aimee’s entire disposition seems to change around her—but he’s exchanged very few words with her outside of that, all over the summer during their yearly family reunions in France. His extended family is large enough and the family reunions hectic enough that he can probably count the number of conversations he’s had with her in person on one hand.

“So,” he says. “How are you feelidg before the big day?”

“Do you want the good answer, or the honest answer?”

“The honest one,” Yves says. “hit me with it.”

For a moment, Genevieve doesn’t say anything. Yves zips his jacket up a little higher, just to have something to do. Genevieve pulls her legs in towards her chest.

“I’m terrified,” she says.

“You think somethidg might go wrong?” Yves asks, surprised. “You guys have planned this all out so thoroughly.”

“It’s not that,” she says. “It’s more like—this is probably going to be one of the most important things I’ve ever done,” she says. “You know, when something is really important to you, so it’s just that much more crucial that you don’t mess it up?”

“You’re the bride,” Yves says, clearing his throat. “I don’t think you can mess up. Unless you like, hheh-! hHheh… HEH’IIDZschH-YIEEW! snf-! Unless you get cold feet and say no when you’re supposed to be saying your vows. I wod’t forgive you if you do that, by the way.”

She laughs. “God, no. I’d never do that. It’s just—there’s all this perceived… I don’t know. Like, fragility around the moment. Like you’re just waiting for the moment to crystallize, and once it sets, it will be like that forever, so you have to make sure that it crystallizes right.”

“I’m guessing you’re ndot a fan of, like, pottery,” Yves says. He tries thinking about what other kinds of art carry the same lack of tolerance for backwards revision. “Or sculpting.”

“I haven’t tried either of those things,” she says. “Though I would probably be bad at them.”

Yves looks off into the distance, towards the countryside, the rows of verdant green hills which unfurl before them, the white cobblestone paths, the houses lining the winding roads all the way to the horizon.

“I think you don’t have to be so concerned about what it’s supposed to be,” he says. “You can give yourself permission to just—live it. Enjoy it, free of expectations. Who cares what you think about it after, right,” he says. “You’ll have a ring on your left hand. That’s good enough to offset any—well, awkwardness, or clumsiness, or anything, because as the bride, you are sort of incapable of doing anything wrong, by default.”

“I guess,” Genevieve says.

“It’d be a disservice to Aimee if you spent the wedding worrying about how to get things right idstead of like, just living,” Yves says, turning to face her. “What’s the worst that could happen? Like, you spill your drink during the wedding toast, or your mascara smears a little, or you trip on your wedding gown and you have to be helped up by the woman you love most? I think that almost makes it more romantic,” he says. “Because however the moment crystallizes, it’ll be you.”

“Did you learn all of this through pottery and sculpting?” Genevieve asks, wiping at her eyes. She looks a little better than before—she’s sitting up straighter, and the tension in her shoulders is less pronounced.

Yves grins at her. “I have a younger brother and a younger sister,” he says. He clears his throat again, though it doesn’t really do a good job at making his voice sound less hoarse. “It’s exactly as bad as you think it is. I have to be the one to talk them out of their stage fright like, all the time.”

Genevieve laughs. “It must be lively,” she says. “Your whole family is very accommodating.”

“They’re certaidly a handful,” Yves says, with a laugh that tapers off into a short cough. “I love them to death. And I’ll be happy to have you as part of them.”

She smiles at him. The evening light strikes the windblown strands of her hair gold. “Thanks for this.”

“Yeah,” he says. “No problem.”

They sit for awhile in silence. Yves crosses his arms in an attempt to conserve warmth and tries his best not to shiver too visibly.

“How did you kdow it was her?” he asks—a sudden, impulsive question.

As soon as he says it, he feels the urge to take it back. Genevieve is already stressed out enough about the wedding without him asking her difficult, abstract questions the day before the ceremony. He opens his mouth to apologize.

“There was never any doubt,” she says.

When he looks over at her, her expression looks a little wistful.

“Like, one day I woke up and I realized that whatever future I imagined for myself—in Marseille, or elsewhere; as a copywriter, or a journalist, or a director, or something entirely different—she would always be there.” Yves understands that—back when he’d been dating Erika, he’d felt like that too. That she was going to be the last person he’d ever date. That there was no conceivable future for him that didn’t involve her.

“Those kinds of revelations would come at the most insignificant of times,” Genevieve says. “I’d look over her halfway through morning coffee, or I’d watch her pick groceries from the aisle, or I’d watch her fiddle with the radio as she drove, and then it would strike me.”

“That you wanted to be with her?”

“That I was happy.” Genevieve tilts her head back to face the setting sun. “I’m really happy. It sounds like such a simple thing, and it is, but even a few years ago I’m not sure if I could’ve told you that that was true. And I think that finding someone who makes you feel that way—like they’d guard your happiness under any circumstance—is really something special.”

“You were the one who proposed to her,” he says. He remembers Aimee texting him about it, the night after it’d happened, remembers how he’d excused himself from dinner somewhere or other, ducked out of the room to get on call with her. She’d sobbed recounting it, the engagement ring on her finger.

“I was,” Genevieve says. She smiles. “I knew that if I gave up this chance I’d be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life.”

—

When he gets back from dinner at last, it’s late.

The cold/flu medicine he took from earlier is starting to wear off. His whole body aches—spending the evening outside in the cold probably didn’t help with that—and even in the relative warmth of the hotel room, he finds that he can’t stop himself from shivering.

He takes a hot shower, which feels pleasantly indulgent in the moment, but not long after he shuts off the water, he finds himself shivering again. The absence of the hot water makes him a little dizzy—he finds himself gripping the tiled wall, pausing for a moment behind the shower curtain to catch his balance.

His head really hurts. It’s the kind of sharp, throbbing pain that makes him all too aware of his heartbeat. He gets changed, towels his hair dry, and steps out of the bathroom.

Vincent is sitting on the bed, reading something. He must’ve gotten back at some point while Yves was showering. At the sound of the door, he puts the book down and looks up.

“How was the wedding rehearsal?” he asks.

“Great,” Yves says. He clears his throat, but clearing his throat irritates his throat enough that he has to muffle a few coughs into his elbow. “How was dinner with Genevieve’s friends?”

“They were very nice,” Vincent says.

“Ndicer than my friends in New York?”

“I felt less like I was being evaluated,” Vincent says, with a smile. “But if they were to express their disapproval of me in French, I would be none the wiser.”

Yves laughs. “I’mb sure that even if you learned the ladguage in full, you wouldn’t hear any disapproval from them.” He takes a seat on the couch, if only because he can’t quite trust his legs to keep him upright for the entire course of the conversation. “What did you guys talk about?”

“Lots of things. Life in France,” he says. “Life in the states. Individual freedom and the formal institution of marriage.”

“Do you believe in mbarriage?”

Vincent looks at him. “I think I believe in it just as much as everyone else does,” he says. Then, after a moment: “It worked out for my parents.”

“The busidess competition proved to be a good edough reason?”

Vincent traces a finger down the spine of the book, over the gold lettering. His shoulders settle. “They weren’t in love when they got married,” he says. Hearing him state it so plainly comes as a surprise to Yves. “Strictly speaking, I’m not sure if they ever were in love. But I think they came to love each other eventually.”

“What about you?” Yves asks. “Do you think you’ll fall in love someday?”

“Is that really something I’d choose?” Vincent says. “It either happens or it doesn’t.”

“Sure, but there are plenty of ways you can seek out love actively.”

“If I found something worth pursuing, I’d go after it,” Vincent says.

Yves laughs. “That’s very like you.” he wonders what kind of person Vincent might be drawn to enough to see as worth pursuing. Wonders if, after all of this is over, he’ll even be in Vincent’s life for long enough to know.

His head hurts. The slight prickle of irritation in his sinuses is already tiringly familiar.

“hHEh… HeHh’IIDZSCH-yyiEW!” The sneeze snaps him forward at the waist, messy and spraying. He reaches for the tissue box Vincent left him this morning, still nestled into the crook of the couch, and grabs a generous handful of tissues. “Hh… hehh-HEh-HhehHh’IIzSSCH-iEEw! Hh…. HEHh’DJSCCHh-IEew!”

The sneezes leave him coughing, afterwards. His throat feels raw and tender—he raises the tissues back up to his face to blow his nose.

“You sound worse than you did last night,” Vincent says, with a frown.

Yves opens his mouth to speak, but he finds himself coughing again. He can feel Vincent’s eyes on him. It’s embarrassing, he thinks, to be seen when he’s like this by someone who’s usually so well put together. “I’b a little prone to losidg my voice when I’m sick,” he admits. “It’s pretty incodvedient.”

“I’m probably not making it any better by talking to you,” Vincent says. That might be true—Yves is half sure that any time he does lose his voice, it’s because he typically makes no effort to converse any less than usual—but Yves likes talking to Vincent. Besides, they haven’t talked all day.

He opens his mouth to say as much, but then Vincent asks: “How are you feeling?”

“Good as new,” Yves says. When Vincent raises an eyebrow, at that, he amends: “Good enough for tomorrow, at least. The ceremony doesn’t start until three, but I’ll probably be up earlier to see if there’s anything else Aimee and Genevieve ndeed help with.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “If anything comes up, I can help.”

“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You don’t have to ask. I’m offering.”

“I can handle it on my own. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, I— hHHEh’IDJZSCHh-yyEW! snf-! I’mb really fine. I swear.”

“Yves—”

“I’ve done this before,” he insists, which is true, too—he’s certainly been through worse. It would be wrong to put himself first, to take things easy when he might be needed still. “It doesn’t have to be your problem.”

For a moment, there’s something there, to Vincent’s expression—a flash of something that looks suspiciously close to hurt. Then it’s gone. When he blinks, Vincent’s expression is carefully neutral, as usual. He wonders if he’d imagined it.

“Okay,” he says. He sets the book gingerly on the bedside counter, and pulls the cord on the lamp. Darkness engulfs the bedroom. “You should sleep soon, if you’re able to.” A pause. The rustling of sheets. “Goodnight.” Yves wants to say something. He has a feeling that he’s messed things up, somehow, though he’s not entirely sure how.

But what can he say? He just—he just wants, desperately, for all of this to be okay. He wants the wedding to go just as planned, wants to be as present and as reliable as Aimee deserves for him to be. All of that responsibility falls on him and him alone, doesn’t it?

“Goodnight,” Yves says, instead.

[ Part 4 ]

#sneeze fic #snz fic #sneeze kink #snz kink #snzfic #this chapter turned out to be kind of personal to me in some ways?#i am so sorry if it feels uneventful 😭#i have done so much googling on so many things that did not make it in (and a few that made it in only peripherally)#work is killing me and i am stressed out of my mind so i am posting this before i get swept away and am unable to edit for a week #next chapter will be the wedding for real!#and i will be mean for real when i get to writing it 🙇‍♀️#yvverse #my fic #thank you to anyone who has left nice tags/comments on previous parts :') it's hard to express the full extent of my gratitude but #thank you for making my life a little happier

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