#pierresteban fic

[chilling-seavey]

Even Out of View (pg10, eo31)

↳ A/N I took so much creative freedom with this request from my 1.5k celebration, straying quite far from the modern-vibes song, but once I get a WW1 idea in my head, I can't say no. (Plus shoutout to my girl @starlightiing for not only submitting this request but also helping me to broaden my writing to include different interests, such as undertones of cardiophilia iykyk lolol)

↳ Inspired By: 'Beating Heart Baby' by Head Automatica

↳ Pairings: WW1!FrenchArmy!Pierre x WW1!WarCriminal!Esteban

↳ Word Count: 1824

↳ Warnings: Active historical war setting, some minor descriptions of heart related things, military crimes and their historically accurate punishments, descriptions of execution

Pierre’s footfalls echoed through the abandoned house as he ascended the rickety staircase to the second storey. His muddy boots thudded across the creaking hardwood floors with each step, his rucksack clanking ungracefully against the walls of the narrow upstairs hallway in his rush, past lived-in rooms with their furniture and once-loved belongings coated in layers of dust and gunpowder. All he could hear was his breathing, echoing in his mind, the thudding of his heart and the rush of blood loud in his ears.

He reached the door at the end of the cramped hallway in no time, the bullet holes in the wood overlooked by him in the world that had long since numbed him to the shock of war. Thrusting it open with an unattractive creak, Pierre was met by the sight of a tiny bedroom with a lanky figure sitting on the side of a single bed that was clearly built for a small child. The juxtaposition was a cruel mirth: a reminder of where they came from and the way war ripped their childhoods out of their hands far too soon.

The commotion of Pierre’s entrance had Esteban slowly turning his head to see who entered, keeping his hands folded with his forearms resting on his knees. His face stayed stagnant, pale, even when he noticed who it was. The sight of his expression sent a chill down Pierre’s spine.

“Este-” Pierre’s dry voice caught in his throat and he cleared it quickly before rushing closer, slinging his rifle from his shoulder to let it clatter to the grimy floorboards. In one smooth motion, Pierre helped himself to the side of the small bed beside his friend, his wide blue eyes dead focused on Esteban’s stone expression.

Esteban hung his head, shutting his eyes tightly.

“Esteban, how could you?” Pierre spoke as gently as he could, resting a firm hand on his forearm. He squeezed.

“Go away.” Esteban replied firmly, although his volume was quiet.

Pierre’s concerned expression faltered for a moment, eyes jumping all over Esteban’s face before he answered, “No, why would you want me to go away? In a moment like this?”

Esteban unclasped his fingers and shoved Pierre’s hand off his arm, “I am to be shot at dawn, Pierre, I don’t particularly want to sit here with you and make small talk. I want to be alone.”

Pierre swallowed thickly at his comrade’s bluntness and he turned his body to face forward too so they were sat perfectly parallel, side by side on the little bed with blue gingham sheets. Silence rested heavily on the dust coated room and the soldiers’ shoulders. Across from them, the ripped wallpaper was tacked with a few children’s drawings – or, at least the few drawings that weren’t shot to smithereens – and many of them housed colourful scribbles of stick figure men amongst red, white, and blue. Messy juvenile printing scrawled ‘Vive la France’ and ‘Pour le drapeau! Pour la victoire!’ on the parchment above the subjects.

The nationalistic phrases written proudly by the hand of a likely now deceased French child stared tauntingly back at the two of them.

Long Live France

For the Flag! For Victory!

None of this felt like they were heading towards victory.

Pierre’s shoulders sank, glancing around the abandoned bedroom of some unnamed child. They were supposed to be fighting for the children of France, for their future, for their country, and now, with the world in peril, Esteban was now to be treated as the enemy by his own people.

Despite Esteban’s firm request to be left alone, Pierre spoke up quietly, alerting him gently as if he were a grenade about to go off, “I can’t leave you. I’m your night watch.”

Esteban looked over at him again, eyebrows furrowed, words thick with angst, “Why are you my night watch?”

“I offered…I asked the Lieutenant.” Pierre answered, “I just…I needed to see you.”

He swallowed thickly, blinking back the dampness in his eyes that came with the weight of their hellish reality. He wanted to say more to him: to say that he was worried sick about him when he didn’t return to the trenches a fortnight ago, to say that when he heard he was captured by the military police and was to be tried for desertion Pierre first felt relief, to say that after such a short lifetime together he couldn’t stomach the idea of living without him…of going back out there to the battlefields without him.

But, instead, the silence spoke enough. Esteban simply nodded once.

What else was there to say when he was to be facing his execution in less than twelve hours?

If it were anyone sent to keep an eye on him over night, he was damn glad it was Pierre.

As if that thought physically pained him, Esteban rested his elbows on his knees again and hid his face in his grimy hands. His blue uniform jacket was caked in mud until it looked almost brown and the sweat and blood of the enemy that he was drenched it flattened his midnight black hair across his forehead. Pierre didn't look much better.

Pierre just stared at him like that, wanting to ask so many questions and say so many things.

“I know you don’t want anything to do with me,” Pierre stumbled out, “but, can you let me in your arms just for tonight?”

When Esteban lifted his face from his hands, his mud-stained cheeks were streaked in tears.

He nodded.

Pierre’s heart leapt in his chest at the unexpected agreement and he hurried to shuffle off his rucksack and his utility belt to drop them to the floor before Esteban could change his mind. The tiny metal bed creaked and groaned under the two grown men as they arranged themselves in a hesitant mess of uniformed limbs.

Always the braver, bolder, more assertive of the two, Esteban cuddled up under Pierre’s arm like a weak child. Branded as a coward and a traitor to his country Esteban had just wanted a break. A break from the war, the cries of agony, the death. Here, now, in this abandoned house in the French countryside, in the country they were raised in together, they finally felt a moment of peace for the first time in a long time.

Pierre’s chest shuttered through his calming inhale as he familiarized himself with their newfound position, chest to chest with Esteban, his arms wrapped around his taller comrade. He could feel his rapid heartbeat against his own, the two of them a frantic mess of anxiety and unspoken uncertainties. In a world of darkness and fear and death, the feeling of Esteban’s heartbeat was a reminder of life, of love, of hope.

The two of them kept their eyes screwed shut as if silently willing themselves to be taken back to their childhood town on the beach where summers were joyful and the air was filled with laughter and they raced each other on their bicycles down cobblestone streets. Just like those summer days, their hearts beat firmly in steady time, rapid from exertion and the good company of familiarity.

As the sun set below the horizon to the distant sound of cannons and shells and gunfire, the two men stayed tangled together on that little blue bed. Their heartrates slowed as they held each other, finding a calming rhythm against each other beat by beat. Everything was uncertain – life was uncertain – but them always finding each other? That was always certain.

“In spite of all this, I still love all of you.” Pierre breathed into the night, trying to keep his voice from shaking with subconscious awareness of what the morning would hold, “I do…and I always will.”

Esteban’s hand tightened on the back of Pierre’s matching blue uniform jacket. His heart skipped a beat.

In the morning, they were woken by the officer in charge and two assisting men. Esteban was firmly yanked out of bed by the men of his same rank, each with a stone-like grip on his biceps as they nearly dragged him down the narrow hallway and towards the stairs. Pierre barely had a chance to grab his belongings before he was rushing after them, boots pounding down the flimsy staircase and out into the damp spring morning. It was so cold he could see his panting breath.

He wanted to call out for Esteban as the men let go of him outside of the abandoned house they had slept in that night, letting him fall clumsily to his hands and knees.

“On your feet, Private.” The commanding officer ordered, standing in front of a line of eleven soldiers all armed with their rifles.

As Esteban brought himself to his feet on trembling legs, he looked over at Pierre only a yard away. The officer followed his gaze.

With a cock of his head, the officer called out to Pierre next, “Over here, Gasly, open your rifle.”

Esteban and Pierre both looked at the officer as if he were completely out of his mind.

“Sir-” Pierre started as calmly as he could muster, trying to decline the order.

“We need a dozen men, Private, don’t make me ask again.”

If he argued, he would be put up there against the wall with him, he knew. With a curt nod to his superior, Pierre joined the lineup.

He was supplied three bullets to load into his empty rifle and he loaded it with trembling fingers before clicking his weapon back into place. His red rimmed blue eyes rose to Esteban’s figure standing in front of the stone wall of the house in which they shared their last night together. Out of everyone in that lineup, Esteban’s gaze was locked solely on Pierre.

Esteban was offered a blindfold. He declined.

On the order, the firing squad raised their rifles. Twelve rifles pointed at Esteban.

Pierre had killed a lot of men since the start of the war. He had more blood on his hands than in his body, one might argue. Killing Germans was easy. But this?

Pierre could hardly hear over the ringing in his ears, the rapid thump, thump, thump of his heart enough to drown out the officer’s pitch for Esteban’s final words.

Through the deafening noise, he barely heard Esteban’s voice cutting across the misty spring dawn, words off-set from the movement of his mouth as Pierre stared at him, “I defend France with honour and glory.”

Esteban’s dark eyes never wavered from Pierre’s baby blues, staring at him right through the rifle that was pointed directly at him. He raised his hand to set over his heart, a silent reminder of the rhythm they shared so closely the night before and all those years back home. Pierre swallowed the lump in his throat.

Finally, the commanding officer gave his order, “Fire at will, gentlemen.”

Pierre shut his eyes and pulled the trigger.

"You want nothing to do with me, I don't know what to do with you, Cause you don't know what you do to me. Baby is this love for real? Let me in your arms to feel The beating of your heart, baby."

[grandprix-ao3]

any pierresteban fans out there. well. i am one. here is some horrible awful Something because i was gifted with the power of free will and i have decided to use my free will to write a stupid amount of f1 fics in a narrow amount of time. enjoy

[mvlionheart]

SUMMER SPICE F1 FANFIC BINGO 2024

AO3 Collection | Info & Rules - Challenge / Collection will be open all summer, closing 8/31 - Mildly moderated, all prompts fully open to interpretation - Please check rules before posting to Collection - Open to all F1 ships, no hate please - Authors can post works to the Collection using the bingo card, or wait for some Challenge requests, just have fun and enjoy the summer spice.

[swaggypsyduck]

inspired by @lafaerie 's pierresteban fic with one gif slide being a direct quote: “Mais enfin, Pierre, je crois que ça suffit, hein? C’est tout.”

[aaltilis]

I just saw a post about (a very necessary) stats of f1 RPF on AO3. And I found out that pierre/esteban didn't even make it to top 15 pair in 2023. Idk if it just me or that is actually a crime? Like, how can people sleep on that pair?

I mean, they have a lot of potential. Childhood friends to lovers? Yes. Rivals to lovers? Yes. Teammates to lovers? Yes. Childhood friends turn to rivals turn to enemies turn to strangers turn to "shit we work in the same team so we have to be civil" turn to friends (again) turn to lovers? YES!!!

Please if you are an author, considering write something about them. I'm running out of good fics of that pair. Thanks 😭🙏

[leclercenjoyer]

good news everyone, its finally finished! and it only took me ten months!

[kenttyy]

Lets put two childhood friends to enemies to whatever the fuck this is in a forced proximity au cause why not????

[grandprix-ao3]

OH IT’S PIERRESTEBAN TIME. au. horrible horrible relationship. nothing is ever solved ever. we love the small town boys. for the bread server exchange yay <3

[scrollonso]

The Lab — Pierresteban

Esteban had learnt years ago what it means to love to the point of slicing apart at your soul to find that last shred of untouched thread to sew the ripped and the torn, put ugly black stitches on the outside and keep the insides where they belong — on the inside — keep them trapped and from leaking and stand without dripping syrup thick misery and heartache and staining his own shadow.

The school reunion had been lingering in the back of his mind, a forgotten flame still flickering. His mother rang him at seven fifty three, voice papery as she read out the venue and date and time and whether or not he wanted to attend so she could RSVP. Esteban had said nothing for two minutes, still trying to wrap his head around the matter.

Esteban likes to fool himself that his voice didn’t crack and he did not flinch as the ghosts from high school swarmed him at once. High school was kind in almost insignificant ways but there are memories he clings to, some people he is not ready to face, not back then, not now, not ever.

Nostalgia is a monster that is not afraid of guts and gore. Esteban is not interested in seeing the tenderest parts of being picked apart and laid in front of him again.

“Pierre declined apparently,” she had told, warmth bleeding over the tinny speaker and seeping into the flesh of his burning ear, everything fiery, hot and pink. Perhaps, she knew, or maybe she didn’t. Acts of kindness, small, unknowing, comforting. Either way it had made him more sure about his decision.

“I’ll go,” he remembers saying as something half ugly rearing his head with a fragile emotion like hope dangling around itself. It was easier now that he knew at least one ghost would not be there. Would not show up.

The storm brewing in the pit of his stomach shows no signs of easing, so he pushes himself to ignore it, just like he is actively ignoring the slew of memories pouring in, the bad, the good, the bittersweet and their common denominator —

Pierre Gasly.

Back in his college days, Esteban had roomed with an older astrophysics major who had occasional bouts of enthusiasm where he would devour a dozen thick books in a week before an important assignment or an exam. Esteban never understood how he did it but he admired him in a strange way.

It was during one of those weeks, in the midst of a reading spree — the genre this time was poetry — he had asked Esteban to highlight a line for him with a garish orange that had hurt his eyes even for the short time it took him to highlight the quote. 

But nothing makes a room feel emptier than wanting someone in it.

Esteban realizes this: They have their own story and someone has to leave again for it to end. Again. As always. For a room to feel empty, someone has to leave, someone has to be absent. You cannot emphasize a presence without understanding the void the absence creates. You only realize it is empty because someone you want is not in there. It’s twisted, it’s true.

Stranded in the present, he watches, partly in horror and partly in awe as Pierre, both achingly familiar and unfamiliar, stands in front of him, in flesh, in warmth, in the remnants of dusk and dark.

“Este,” he hears him say, voice still syrupy sweet but also cold like gunmetal and ice and frozen lakes, maybe it is Esteban who is making mountains out of molehills before they’ve even exchanged proper greetings but something is dying in his cage of a body at the mere honorific.

It is both a curse and a blessing for Pierre to consider themselves close enough to keep calling him that. 

“Pierre,” he replies, voice a hollowed out echo, vision flickering between in and out of focus. He feels his mouth dry up. He fakes the familiarity so they do not have to stand in more choking awkwardness than they already are.

Pierre smiles, polite and distant with straight teeth and no shyness, shattering another fragile thing in Esteban. This is not the boy he left behind, the person standing in front of him is no longer a boy but a man. A man he is not entirely familiar with.

“I didn’t think I would see you here. The reunion is tomorrow,” Esteban states, forcing his legs to move — on, past, away. 

His hair is now a dark shade of brown that makes him seem oddly unapproachable. Pierre's cologne smells like a burning thing, an ashy memory, the aftermath of a forest fire.

He shrugs. “Me neither but I was in the area and thought why not.” It’s a breezy reply but the tightness of his shoulders where the fabric of his jacket crinkles and creases give away just how much he is affected by this, by Esteban, by his mere presence.

It’s a terrible thing. The school ground has never felt more vast than it does right in this minute. 

“Charles is here as well.” A statement, an olive branch, an open window allowing Esteban to take a peek inside, a chance to familiarize himself again.  “Want to walk around with me?” Pierre asks, offering a half smile.

Esteban should say no, turn back and walk out of the building, forget about his school and the impending reunion the next day, and hop on the next train to Draguignan and think of excuses that will sound legitimate enough for his friends to not outright cut off contact and paint him as an asshole. 

Instead of doing any of the above, Esteban takes a deep breath and says, “Sure.” 

The doors are locked but Pierre has procured a set of duplicate keys to let them in. Esteban does not ask him why he has them.

“This way we’re committing to only slight breaking an entering,” he says in lieu of an explanation, brazen and confident, cheeks flushed with excitement, eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Is it still considered breaking and entering if you have the keys?” he quips back and only gets an open mouthed laugh in reply.

And isn’t that just lovely. Esteban has seen this expression on him so many times, at one point he could draw this Pierre Gasly, with his child-like glee and starry eyes half awake and tired, which is to say, Esteban has known him, intimately, in a way that went beyond being just about the bodies and adrenaline and teenage romance.

Esteban has seen the stars and named them with his own mouth, he’s touched the red on his cheeks and held his face like a gentle thing, a fragment to be cherished for the next eternity. He has constructed an entire universe that revolved and spun solely around Pierre for so long that it’s disarming now. To think about a thing that does not exist anymore.

“Oh, they changed the plaques,” Pierre notes, voice suddenly dropping to a whisper, words held down by a heavy emotion. The wind carries his hair in a soft wave.

It is jarring, to see him lose his poise even for a moment. In his head, the last image of Pierre is achingly close to the one in front of him, dappled in last dregs of sunset orange and dimming light, eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

He tears his eyes away from the man and instead focuses on the plaques that are now blue and green and not gold and black. Realistically, Esteban is aware of the time that has passed and the things that have changed but it still sends a pang through his heart and makes his insides twist uncomfortably as he stares at the blue blue blue and the swirls of the letters in green green green. He is burdened with the fact that his memory will remain a memory buried within him. Things will never be the same after this, the notes will overlap, the gold and black will fade and be replaced by the blue and green.

“You never did this back then,” Pierre says, voice quiet. He’s searching for a lost thing on Esteban and Esteban is looking at the fading mole near his nose. It used to be darker, more prominent.

The lump in his throat won’t budge and he can’t swallow. When he asks, “Did what?” his words are garbled and choked out, roughly pushed out or maybe dug out with a shovel. 

There is no immediate answer. A line marrs the smooth plane of his forehead. 

“Go quiet like that. You’re absent-minded today, Este.” 

Esteban cocks his head to the side and stares at Pierre, as though he is a peculiar thing to be scrutinized. It is not far from the truth at all; rather, peculiar is the nicest word he can currently use to describe the behavior Pierre is displaying. He was not this coarse back then. They were both kinder in ways that remain clouded in nostalgia.

“People change,” he sniffs, keeping his eyes locked on the moon softened features until Pierre looks away and Esteban is left to stare at the sharpness hidden in the gentle slope of his nose and the curve of his jaw. It’s already dark outside. Esteban should leave before before before before he does something that will fill his mouth with regret.

Pierre, somehow, seems agitated by his words. Esteban hadn’t said them to make him uneasy. Of course, they’ve had a history of stepping on each other’s toes and exchanging sharp, biting remarks as a means of affection but it has always been intentional, carefully constructed to ease any worries that may be clinging to their minds. Esteban was just as soft as he was sharp and Pierre knew it, he knew it better than anyone else.

So, when Pierre spits out the words, “It seems like it.” They feel like blades of a million knives pooling near his feet, iron and reflection, and his face — a distorted recollection.

It hurts and Esteban realises he hasn’t stopped hurting ever since he stepped in and it’s all his own fault.

History is repeating itself as they stomp over a graveyard of rotten things buried, trying to stop the dead things from waking up.

They wander the empty halls like forgotten ghosts. In a way, they are just that and nothing more.

Forgotten and ghosts.

Pierre plucks his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans to turn on the flash and Esteban feels a flush settle over his cheeks as he notices just how big his hands have become. They’ve always been big but now that Pierre has grown into them and as bittersweet as it is, he can also appreciate these changes.

He doesn’t think he would have noticed these if they had been together. It would have been a given, both of them growing into — their bodies and each other — details like the size of hands and shape of their molar teeth all taken for granted. Just another mundane detail no one will care to know, a detail that would only make them grow closer.

Now, it seems as though the proof of their time apart is a knife and a wound and a thorn all at the same time.

A thing to hurt, a thing hurt and a thing hurting.

“Oh the science lab is still here,” Pierre says, pointing the flash at the door. Esteban remembers it before he can recognize the place.

“It is,” he faintly hears himself say. The memory flashes and, it is almost a punishment, to remember. 

“Aw, it’s locked,” Pierre sighs after uselessly pushing at the door and trying to twist the handle of it. Esteban is almost relieved about it.

The memory alone is enough to make his heart beat quicker. His mouth is sour with the past, their past.

“We should get back before we’re caught,” Esteban mutters, scuffing the heel of his shoe against the floors. 

He leaves first, Pierre follows him, the flashlight turned off. It’s not dark enough for the possibility of tripping and injuring themselves but it is just dark enough to mask their faces to not hurt more.

Pierre doesn’t say anything for a very long time.  Esteban doesn’t either, as always. 

Esteban had been fond of Pierre. He liked him at some point during high school when he realized that he liked boys too. It was not a big deal, it was never supposed to be. Pierre was a friend, someone Esteban could talk to without worrying about coming off as weird.

Then during their final year, Pierre confessed to him that he liked him. That he liked him as something more than a friend, more more more, like a crush, a boyfriend, a lover, and it scared the shit out of him. 

Esteban had been grateful then, for school to come to an end and college being just an arm’s length away, far enough for Pierre to not continue haunting him. 

Pierre had cried. Esteban had too. It hurt him more, to lie about what he didn’t feel, but he was a boy too. Just a boy. Even if Pierre had more tender palms, more delicate wrists, more softness on his face, Esteban had made himself to be some sort of cornered animal, irrational and solely acting on instinct. 

Esteban went off to college and didn’t come home for two years until he was sure that Pierre had left town too. He worked during the summer and liked a boy and had his first kiss in the storage room of his workplace.

They’d broken up even though they never put a label on their relationship but it still hurt like a human when the fling ended. Esteban had come home that summer and cried in his mother’s arms for two hours, babbling about the boys and their rough hands and how sorry he was to be who he was. 

Acceptance did come a lot earlier than Esteban had thought it would. His dad had awkwardly patted his back and his mother pretended he was just heartbroken. It didn’t matter to them, who had broken his heart. 

He didn’t see Pierre again and stopped thinking about him, as much as he could. There was no use in bringing up old scars and re-opening them till they were wounds again. 

His mom eventually knew. About him and Pierre and how Esteban still felt about him. She tried to help, telling him when Pierre was in town, when he wasn’t, even if it made her sad to do so.

Pierre had been Esteban's friend, a good friend, the closest person he had to a best friend. He was the first person Esteban had brought home and perhaps it was the nostalgia which made it harder for her to see both of them hurting without each other but hurting more with each other. 

They used to be almost best friends and now Esteban cannot stand being in the same room as him. Not because there is malice, not because there was anything, because there was nothing that made him run away. 

He could change it now. He could make the leap, not look at the fall, and hope to reach the other side. 

Esteban does nothing. The silence continues.

“Will you be there? At the reunion tomorrow?” Esteban asks, kicking a stray pebble as Pierre locks up behind him.

Esteban knows the answer. He won’t be. It’s the entire reason he is here.

As expected, Pierre shakes his head. “No, Este. I have a thing tomorrow,” he answers, awkwardly tugging at the bottom of his tee. 

The streetlights are bright and yellow and make Pierre look almost washed out, exhausted. He doesn’t remember seeing Pierre like this. He used to smile a lot more but then again, Esteban used to smile too. 

Esteban nods. “Must be important.”

Pierre flinches as though he was not expecting Esteban to say anything. He composes himself a second later. “Sort of. I don’t want to—” he cuts himself off with a stricken expression on his face.

The last time Pierre had this expression, he confessed to Esteban in the science lab. Esteban had knocked over a skeleton and broke three of its bones. 

The familiar feeling of dread crawls back to him like his own shadow. 

“Don’t want to what, Pierre?” he presses. Maybe Esteban hates himself more than anyone else. Maybe he wants to keep hurting, press on the bruise until the scar opens into a wound. 

“I don’t want to hurt you again, Esteban,” Pierre blurts, face reddening. 

Esteban shakes his head, he has got it all wrong. Pierre has never been the one that had hurt him, it was Esteban himself that had hurt Pierre.

“You didn’t — you weren’t at fault. Not then, not ever.” The words are not easy, they don’t come to him, he has to drag them out.

Pierre looks like he wants to say something. He blinks, eyes big and brown and wet. He might as well drive a knife straight through Esteban's gut.

“Then why did you leave? Why did you never talk to me again, Esteban? Did it disgust you so much? Being liked by me?” he screams, words getting louder and louder, like the sun expanding. 

They don’t draw any attention, the streets being fairly deserted, but Esteban still turns red from embarrassment. It is humiliating to be asked all this. To be seen, to be taken notice of. Pierre is pointing at all the ugly bits of his soul that Esteban had hidden behind carefully sewn blind spots.

“It wasn’t like that, Pierre. I— I was scared, I was confused. I didn’t— it didn’t disgust me… no, it— I liked it, I liked you too but —” there are tears brimming in his eyes as well. The years of compressed memories rising up to the surface, ready to break though and remind him of what he was truly afraid of. 

“But what?” Pierre asks, almost snarls the words at Esteban. He looks at him with wide eyes. The tip of his nose is pink which means Pierre is close to bursting into tears and it should not mean anything for Esteban to remember this except it does, it does and the words are once again, slipping through the gaps of his fingers like sand. 

“But I was scared!” he yells, the words stinging as they leave him.

Esteban doesn’t realize he is crying until Pierre thumbs under his cheeks. That day in the science lab had Esteban admitted just this instead of running away, there is a big chance that they would not be having this conversation years later, standing in front of their school, a cemetery of their youth.

“So was I,” Pierre admits, tone soft, tears spilling over his cheeks. 

Esteban hesitates for an inhale before he pulls Pierre into his arms. It feels good, it feels like coming home again. Pierre feels different now, bigger, taller, but he is also just as fragile as he used to be. 

They sway in the embrace until they both run out of tears. Esteban's phone vibrates in his pocket. Pierre pulls away with a puff of laughter.

“You should check your phone, Este,” he points out, staring at the asphalt. Esteban looks at the three messages and one missed call from his mother that cover his screen.

“It’s my maman,” he says in lieu of an explanation. 

Piette shrugs. “You don’t have to tell me who it is.”

Esteban wants to, so he says just as much. Pierre's eyes snap to him. He knows this won’t fix everything, not right away, not for a very long time but it is a beginning. A good place to start.

“I want to see you tomorrow,” Esteban confesses. 

Pierre snorts and shakes his head. His hair looks so red, so warm, like the blood in his body. “Can’t do tomorrow.” Esteban's face must fall because Pierrw immediately adds, “I’m free the day after. If you’re still here.”

Esteban nods and nods and nods until Pierre laughs. 

“I do have to go,” Esteban starts, rubbing at his nose. “But I’ll text you. I’ll text you and we can see each other again.”

“Do you even have my number?” he asks, brushing the hair out of his face.

Esteban snorts at the question. What a Pierre thing to ask. “Ma mère does,” he replies, maintaining as much of a serious face as he can. He is the first to crack up and they dissolve into peals of light stained laughter again.

Pierre leaves first this time and Esteban watches his back until the dark swallows him. 

The moon hangs full and heavy in the sky overhead. Esteban thinks of Pierre and there is no silence for a very long time.

[logan-lieutenant]

pierresteban: amnesia pt. 4

<- pt. 3

It doesn’t go well. There’s some sort of thunderstorm happening on the other end and Esteban must be outside because it’s almost impossible to hear him over the rain. Esteban’s having a panic attack, Pierre can barely get him to slow down enough to explain what happened but finally he gets out that Esteban tried to go for a walk during the evening and got lost and now it’s too dark and stormy to see and he has no idea where he is so he just started taking left and right turns on instinct, feeling like he was heading somewhere but not consciously aware at all. And finally Pierre talks him down enough that he can listen to instructions: “Okay, okay. Take a deep breath, alright? You’re gonna be okay. I need you to do something for me, yeah? Can you take a picture of where you are?”

So Esteban does and sends it to Pierre and Pierre doesn’t speak for so long Esteban thinks he’s left the call because holy shit it’s Pierre’s childhood home. Basically Esteban’s second home until they were teenagers.

Pierre calls his parents and tells them what’s going on and they take Esteban in for the night while Pierre manages to pack and plan for a last-minute slapdash plane trip worthy of a romcom and gets there in a few hours… you guys know the line from Memories by Conan Gray that’s like “It’s late, I hear the doorbell ringing and it’s pouring; I open up that door, see your brown eyes at the entrance, you just wanna talk and I can’t turn away a wet dog” that’s exactly the vibe. His parents greet him at the door and he gives them a hasty and rushed greeting in return even though it’s impolite because his main priority is just “Where is he??”

And turns out Pierre’s mum has tucked Esteban away in Pierre’s childhood room because that’s where he used to stay which normally would be like. Well. Awkward. But Pierre looks at Esteban and his heart melts… Esteban’s just timidly perched on the edge of his bed with a blanket over his shoulders and his hair still wet and dripping in his face, he’s got a mug of tea in his hands and he’s just folded over it like he’s trying to absorb the weight, he’s still shaking and his eyes are bloodshot and frightened and as soon as Pierre opens the door he looks up with exhaustion and desperation and relief on his face and says in such a small broken voice, “Pierre?”

And even though it’s been months since the incident Pierre can’t remember the last time Esteban said his name with actual, solid recognition in his voice and any sort of emotional distance he thought he could keep between them to be safe falls away. Pierre crosses the room so fast he nearly staggers and takes Esteban in his arms, and even though Estetban’s so much taller he seems so frail and tiny like this and Pierre feels like if he doesn’t hold on to Esteban he’s slip away like mist in the sunlight. And Esteban’s crying again just a little because he feels like it’s safe to cry and Pierre’s holding Esteban’s head to his chest and just whispering, “I got you, I got you, it’s okay I’m not going anywhere…”

:)

[onmyzoomies]

pierresteban arranged marriage au would be so juicy but my brain cannot conceive a world in which they would need to be married

[starlightiing]

so the car crash pierresteban thing is pierre whump right? will you do an esteban whump after? :)

Yes! And yes!

I will say, however, the car crash fic is physical Pierre whump (poor thing gets absolutely destroyed) but it is emotional Esteban whump to the max.

However, I am plotting around in my head for some physical Esteban whump stories as well. Happy to hear any requests if you have them!

I just want to write the boys. I don't care how rancid the vibes are these days, my dedicated Pierresteban heart wants to write /everything/.

[gulabsjamun]

the song of angry men

He can see it. Their whole entire lives ahead of them. Planned out and picture perfect, the other always cropped out, just beyond the edges, erased over and over again. God, what a thought. It’s sad. More than that, it’s maddening.

[thepavementsings-archive]

Pierresteban Fic Fest 2023 - The Reveal

Collection Link

I am so excited to reveal the fics from the Pierresteban Fic Fest!

First of all thank you all for joining in and supporting this first fic fest of mine! It has been so fun getting together to talk about these two in the build up to them becoming teammates. Please be on the lookout because there will be more incredible fics added to the collection as the season goes by. 

If anyone is interested in joining our fic fest discord, or wants to add to the collection my messages are always open for an invite :) 

Thank you all💙Fics below! 

how to lick your wounds by @housepandacrimes​ | M | 7.3k words

It wasn’t a kiss. That’s not how kissing works so it doesn’t count. Kissing is not all teeth and riled breath, hot with years of ceaseless competition and growing resentment. Kissing is not when you try to force the friend you lost long ago to choke on the tip of your tongue, just to make him flinch away first. It can’t be. They didn’t kiss.

The Heart is a Muscle (and I wanna make it strong) by @elementalmoments​| E | 6k words

Esteban and Pierre haven't been friends for a while, but sometimes it's better with the devil you know.

In which Pierre and Esteban make dubious and self-destructive life choices, then make still-dubious but less destructive life choices.

here goes nothing by Anonymous | M | 7k words

One day, Este stopped coming to races, stopped showing up to the track, stopped responding to Pierre’s messages. Just like that, Este was gone from Pierre’s life.

you can come find me (in 2003)  by @unabashedlycasualangel | M | 4.8k words (Chapter 1/?)

Otmar Szafnauer is convinced his drivers hate each other.

He's going to make sure that changes.

Alternatively:The one where the Alpine PR team unwittingly play matchmaker for Pierre and Esteban. 

[kritischetheologie]

16. What do you think is the sexiest part of f1 canon?

[Questions for smut writers]

sebastian vettel in wire to wire voice: the champagne

the actual answer is the structure of the teams. when I'm trying to sell people on f1, I do the little monologue from episode 1 of DTS about how your teammate is your greatest competition, because they're the only person you're ever truly measured against, and so the person you're meant to trust the most is also your biggest rival. it's a recipe for psychosexual drama not found in other sports-- the catcher/pitcher relationship in baseball is the closest thing I can come up with to the way an f1 team provides two people who are a built-in ship in a sport, and even that doesn't have the same competitive edge. it's not a surprise to me that f1 is the first sport that made me want to read and write rpf. it's not a surprise to me that some of my favorite ships of all time are within-team rivalries (brocedes, obviously, but also martian).

and then you get deeper into it, and you get to the other relationships that make the sport run. the driver and the team principal (I've written that one). the driver and the engineer (I've written that one, too).

actually, when I think about it, I've almost exclusively written within-team dynamics when I write fics set in an f1 univese-- going thru my stuff by bookmarks, we've got S&G (driver/engineer), an AU (maybe it's not a coincidence that my sewis fic is an au!), the urbp (teammates), EWTRTW (driver/principal), an AU, I'm the weight (the exception that proves the rule), caught my reflection in the mirror (teammates)... in my deeper cuts we get some exceptions, like the random mick/alonso fic, but even the seb/max is about both of their relationship to red bull, the lewis/valtteri is while they're teammates, the galex makes them teammates...

yeah. I like teams. the forced proximity. the intimate knowledge of another person. the way the relationship you're supposed to have will always be colored by whatever it is you actually do have. that shit's hot, in all sorts of forms.

[super-max-verstappen]

I know Pierre is FUMING right now, his little French model ego must be so threatened lmao.

He’s doing god know what - something that does not involve being shirtless on a boat, while Charles and Esteban are both on full out Hot Boy Yacht Summer bullshit... Posting thirst traps on the gram on the same day as each other??? Them both looking incredible????? Not to mention MICK in that those pictures with Esteban!!!