Chapter Text
“Daddy says you shouldn’t stare.”
It’s always quiet in the small town in which he lives. Nothing to see except for the few passing cars filled with tourists on their way to avoid the traffic jams on the A13. They never stay, they only pass through the town. Never once stopping to marvel at Madame Dupont’s roses which she’s been growing and tending to for the past ten years. Never once stopping to buy an éclair from the Lefevre bakery.
They always pass, and no one ever stays with him.
Esteban has seen them come and go plenty of times in the years he’s been alive. Watching from the open door of his father’s garage. His father waves at the strangers in passing, gives them directions in French or broken English if they pause their journeys long enough; engines still rumbling like oncoming thunder as they hit the brakes right in front of their door.
His father never asks them to come in for a cup of coffee as he does with the neighbours, never gives them more than his kind smile and moving hands underlining every word. Esteban rushes to his mother when she comes down to bring lunch to her boys when the clock strikes twelve, tells her about the girl with the pigtails in the back of a brown Volvo that never waved back at him.
Mother ruffles his hair, and father swears underneath his breath as the rattling of the garage door signals another end of the day. Esteban never understands the empty jar on the counter, nor the sigh whenever his father closes the heavy, leather-bound books he keeps in his office.
Esteban is barely seven years old when a black Audi stops in front of the garage, the engine still rumbling like a promise underneath the summer sun. It has to be another tourist, no one he knows drives an Audi A8, especially not the second generation. He’s always been good at it, knowing the models of the cars which pass him by. He knows this one especially, has seen it in magazines displayed on the little coffee table in the waiting area of the garage.
“Papa says special cars are made to stare at.” he turns his head to look at the younger boy standing next to him. The stranger wears pants that aren’t jeans, and a striped polo shirt tucked into it. He looks uncomfortable for his age; a kid who’s forgotten how to play.
Maybe it’s the fact that his spine is so straight, or maybe it’s the fact that he has his hands folded behind his back. A pirate captain looking out onto the world from the deck of his ship.
Esteban immediately likes him.
Neither one of them notices their fathers talking, shaking hands before they step inside to escape from the burning sun overhead. Esteban is too wrapped up with looking at the car, trying to catch his own reflection in the chrome strips on the bumper, the other kid, too wrapped up with looking at him in return.
“Do you want to play?” the Audi is fascinating, sure, but there are few kids left in town. Most are older than him, shaped by the fields and the river where they play skipping-stones as a substitute for loneliness. They remember wild, just as they do gentleness, but in remembering they forget the younger kids with shorter legs standing at the edge of the woods - a world before them in which they cannot enter yet. “I have Legos?”
*
Neither one of them notices when their fathers call for them, too busy creating stories in their little corner of the garage; tucked away behind a partially stripped, faded brown Peugeot 104. Small fingers create racetracks, lay out the scene for glory, sharp corners and dangerous turns through which Esteban’s miniature Volkswagen Beetle chases Lance’s Ferrari Testarossa with great delight.
Lance had introduced himself, when he’d been hovering over the floor, not quite sure if he should sit down. Esteban had guaranteed him that the blankets were perhaps a bit dusty, but they were at the very least clean. He liked Lance, enjoyed how Lance smiled when he made racing sounds; pretending that the toy car in his hand had real brakes and a real engine.
Their fathers call them again, the French tone of Esteban’s father drifting through the open space as they walk towards their sons. They stop at a few cars, talk about the classics gathering dust. Father’s private collection is a pride, rather than a burden. Anything but a collection of broken dreams and would-be-projects.
Children gather themselves up from the floor to meet them halfway in the space, flock to their fathers. Esteban is the only one of them who reaches out to hold father’s hand. Lance just stands next to Lawrence, looks up at him expectantly yet finds nothing.
“You should give that back, Lance.” the man’s voice booms through the garage. It doesn’t settle peacefully among the cars - an echo, more so than a gentle breeze. Esteban glances at the small red car still in Lance’s grip. The Ferrari, a prized possession of his for as long as he can remember, yet it means nothing much to him in the grand scheme of things. Especially not when he sees the way Lance looks at it, hazel eyes reflecting something that nearly feels like sadness when his gaze is dropped to the figurine.
“Keep it!” words tumble from his lips too quickly, the grip on father’s hand growing a bit more firm. A beaming wide smile is offered to the younger kid, dripping honey as the sun outside starts to slowly set. Colouring the world a rich orange. “I have plenty of cars, and you like that one!”
Lawrence makes Lance thank him, before the both of them disappear into the Audi. Driving off with a roaring engine and a slight squeak in the tires. When his mother tucks Esteban in at night, she kisses his forehead and says she’s glad she’s been blessed with a kind son.
Esteban doesn’t understand why she says such a thing, but he’s glad he’s made her happy.
*
There is grease stuck underneath his father’s nails.
His father says it never leaves. Eventually, this, too, shall cut into his own hands. Make a home out of the grooves on his palm, cling to the cuts he’s gathering on the back of them like offerings. ‘it’s what makes you a real mechanic, Este.’ Laurent ruffles his hair whenever he sees his son washing his own hands frantically after a day of work. ‘I have it, as did my father before me, and if God’s willing, so will your sons after you.’
No one has ever asked him if he wants to take over the family business. No one really asks anything in this town, they only expect and hope. Whisper dreams when blowing out candles, fold their hands into prayer right before falling asleep. They all play their parts, but they don’t really ask.
They don’t ask, and Esteban doesn’t mind.
He wants nothing more than to take the burden off his father’s shoulders. Sees the way it weights on him, heavy on most days. Light only on some. He’s eight years old now. Old enough to understand that the leather-bound books in the office have something to do with the perpetual frown playing on Laurent’s features.
There aren’t enough customers. Most have decided to drive a bit further into the city to get their repairs done. No one around here drives the classics anymore, just as no one really appreciates the love and labour anymore. His father doesn’t blame them, loves them all the same as neighbours still. But Esteban has gotten used to coming home to the looks of worry on his parent’s faces more often than not these days.
Lance returns, always sitting in the back of Lawrence’s new car. The Audi only returns once, before it’s replaced by two brand-new BMWs and even a luxurious Volvo. Esteban never asks Lance where the cars come from, he just stares at them as they park on their little driveway.
They play with Legos and toy cars, create elaborate racing tracks around the cars which are rusting away in the back. Rarely does he play there himself, it becomes sacred ground, something shared with Lance and Lance alone.
“What do you have there?” Esteban knows he’s nosy, knows his parents have taught him better than to stick his nose into another’s business. But it’s not his fault that his curiosity peaks at the sight of a trailer behind the new white coloured Mercedes, nor is it his fault that Lance simply seems to beam when he notices Esteban’s eyes glancing over whatever it houses.
“It’s a kart! Daddy says I can finally start karting!”
Lance is bouncing, rocking back and forth on his heels from excitement. Esteban knows he’s always wanted to, he’s told him plenty of times that he wants to become a Formula One driver when he grows up. Lance is always talking about it, about his dream. He’s chasing it with open hands, unafraid of the burn of disappointment settling into the open space of his palms.
Esteban is always happy for him.
“That’s great, Lance!” he claps with excitement, tries not to find any disappointment in the fact that his hands aren’t stained with oil yet. If he’d been any older, and if the grooves on his hands had made a deeper impression, maybe he could have helped more. “You’ll be the next best thing in Formula One before you know it.”
He wishes he could ask Lance to go to the back with him, to play with the dust-gathering toy cars and scattered Lego pieces. He wishes for many things with childlike innocence these days. Caught between being a child still and halfway to being an adult. He’s trapped between the thing he cannot return to, and the thing he can’t quite be yet.
Lance doesn’t notice the inner turmoil, just smiles at him with his gapped tooth grin - somewhere between his last visit and this, he’s lost his front tooth. Perhaps next time he’ll have another loss to show for growing up.
“Do you want to look?” he holds out his hand, waits patiently for Esteban to take it, so he can pull the other closer to the kart waiting on the trailer. Esteban doesn’t recognize the model like he would with a car, doesn’t really know karts that well to begin with, but there’s a spark in Lance’s eyes, and he knows he’ll learn everything there is to know about them before the end of summer.
“I’d love that.”
They spend most of the afternoon looking at the clean kart. Talk about where they would add stickers if they could, talk about team colours and decorations. Where adults would see a kart, they see a could-be-work-of-art. Esteban talks about lions running around the frame, Lance says he’d much rather have horses. Bears, even.
“I once saw a bear on a hike, back home in Canada. You don’t have bears here, but they’re big, Este! They’re like - ” Lance stands on the tip of his toes, stretches himself to the sky with his arms while he balances on the back of the trailer. He’s still small, shorter than Esteban by a few centimetres, but he tries his best to be taller than he ever could be. “ - this big!”
Esteban believes him. He’s seen the images of bears in the books with crumpled corners and broken spines in his classroom. Maybe even a video once or twice, but never with his own eyes. Not even in a zoo. “Bears are strong too, and they can run real, real , fast. Mommy says they don’t have bears here, is that true? I think it’s true, because I haven’t seen them here.”
The younger kid talks quickly, doesn’t hold back the words tumbling from his lips like a waterfall. He’s always talking, always catching up with the words he wasn’t able to say before. Esteban doesn’t comment when he sees the way Lawrence only has to shoot Lance a glance, before Lance swallows down all the things he wishes to say. He sees the silence as well as the haste when words are finally allowed to come. He sees more things than most people might give him credit for.
“I don’t think there are bears in France.”
“We should go looking for them! Maybe they are near the river. Bears like to chase fish by the river, if they’re here, they’re absolutely there.”
Their fathers walk around the corner before Esteban can ask him to go with him
right now
, and he knows he’s lost his chance to grab the younger boy’s hand and make a run for it.
It’s impossible to see an opportunity and not wish you’d taken it.
*
“Lawrence Stroll wants me to work on his son’s kart.”
His father looks at his mother across the dinner table. There’s still grease stuck underneath his nails, but his mother has stopped complaining about it a long time ago. Once, when she’d kissed his forehead as she’d tucked him into bed, he’d asked about it. About how she’d stopped asking him to scrub his hands before they ate.
‘That is the meaning of love, mon coeur. You accept the things which you can never change.’
“Only once?”
“As a regular mechanic.”
“Will you?”
“It pays well.”
Mother tucks him in that night. Gives him another kiss on his forehead before smoothing the wrinkles out of his bedsheets. She’s always like that, always trying to make things seem neat, Esteban doesn’t understand, he’ll twist and turn soon enough, undoing her work within a minute of her leaving the room. “Can you do something for me, Este?” her fingers are going through his hair, soothing him off to sleep.
“Will you keep an eye on your father? Help him, with those karts. You’re such a big boy already, far too big for your age. But you need to be even bigger now, alright?”
Esteban doesn’t wonder if this too is part of love, if this, too, is just accepting the things which you can never change.
*
Laughter follows the kids rushing through the woods, backs turned to houses and homes, towards the sounds of the river. They’re running away from everything and nothing in particular. “Wait up!” Lance calls for him, breathless between the giggles and the physical exercise.
The paths are covered with red and yellow leafs, the colours of autumn scattered around as a reminder of the coming of winter. Both of them have wrapped their coats around their waist, far too warm in their own bodies to even consider putting them back on. Already forgetting mothers’ warnings of fevers and illness. This is their kingdom.
Lance his birthday is looming, just a few days away from being ten. Just a few days away from being grown . They’re still looking for bears, hunting imaginary tracks near the river. Chasing dreams they used to have as young kids on the weekends Lance is in town, and not somewhere in another country to chase the high of gasoline and burnt rubber. Esteban doesn’t talk about how he wants to follow, doesn’t mention how he really wishes he could experience it in person.
He’s thirteen now, barely, but he is it all the same. He’s thirteen, and he has more responsibility now. Father hands him the keys to the garage when he’s coughing, asks him to open up shop and wait for the first customers of the day to arrive. They rarely do, and when they walk in asking about a lightbulb for their Peugeot 206 Esteban can help them just as well as his father can.
“Wait up, wait up Este!” Lance laughs, gasps for breath at the same time. The air is carrying the chill of winter, it feels clean in his lungs. It tastes of new things, or good things. “Your legs are too long, fuck - ” Lance rarely swears when Lawrence can hear him, but every once in a while, it will slip out when he’s just around Esteban. “ - it’s unfair that you’ve had your grow spurt already.”
Esteban agrees with him. He is a stranger in his own body, too lanky now to properly fit in his old clothes. His overalls too short now, always showing his ankles when he wears well-worn sneakers to the garage, sleeves lacking the length to cover his hands. His mother says he’s endearing, and his father says it’ll all end up alright, but he feels lost inside of himself more often than not these days.
“Shut up, Lance.” there is no venom in his words as he climbs on top of a fallen tree, balances himself carefully, tries not to slip on the moss covered bark. There is only laughter rising in his throat. “Just look for bears, will you. Papa says I need to be back before sunset.”
“Well, your papa is lame.”
“Is not!”
Lance joins him on the fallen tree, gives him a playful shove until they’re both struggling to find balance. He’s known Lance for years now, has seen the passing of time reflected in the boy’s features. He’s changed a lot, like the seasons around them. It’s a shame that the town in which they live has mostly remained the same. The Lefevre bakery still sells the best éclairs, and Madame Dupont’s old neighbours have taken over the task of looking after her roses after she died two years ago.
Not a lot of things change around here, and Esteban is just happy that the friendship he has with Lance is one of the things which seems to be more eternal than anything else.
The both of them fall to the ground, are welcomed to the earth by a pile of leafs scattering as their bodies fall among them. An impression left when Esteban rolls over to position himself on top of his friend. Pinning the younger boy to the ground, long fingers wrapped around small wrists.
Laughter haunts them still as they stain their jeans and their shirts with brown and leftover green from fading summer.
*
“Este, hand me the wrench.” Laurent has his hands in the kart’s engine. Is tinkering away in an attempt to make it run again. Lance had crashed during his last weekend, bending back the frame had been easy, getting the engine to sputter back to life hasn’t been.
The shop would have been empty, if not for the father and son covered in stains in the corner. The kart is no longer white, no longer clean and untouched. It’s covered in logos now, in brands and in names Esteban doesn’t recognize. Colours from the team Lance now drives for, splattered like a rainbow across the frame.
Lance got his wish for horses, or rather, just a single one.
The Ferrari horse doesn’t look too bad on the kart, if Esteban is honest with himself.
His father is swearing in French under his breath, swallowing words as if Esteban is still too young to hear them. It’s been a long time since he was a child, a long time since Laurent actually had to do anything like that for his son. “You can just swear, papa - ” Esteban laughs as he hands his father the tool, stands next to the man to check the work himself. He’s still learning, still not as wise as his father is. “ - you know I hear swearing all the time in school.”
He doesn’t like school. Never has, never will. The art of sitting still and listening is lost on him on the best of days. Always tinkering with something, always tapping his fingers against the wood of his desk decorated in slurs and declarations of love. He can feel the names scratched into the oak underneath his fingertips, can feel them even when someone has attempted to scratch them out.
This is part of love too, accepting when it’s time to move on from those who do not want to change .
The school he goes to isn’t the best. A collection of boys and girls like him. Those who can’t sit still, those who’d rather shoot spitballs at their teachers than listen to whatever it is they have to say. Some call them a lost cause, Esteban likes to think of them as dreamers all the same.
All of them have grown up in these parts, all of them have hunted bears and chased waterfalls which aren’t quite here. All of them can remember wild, and all of them can’t accept the fact that they can never have it back.
None of them are asked, all things are assumed for them. It’s assumed that they want to take over family businesses and a father’s last name - even when that last name comes with the reputation of a man who they haven’t seen for years now. Esteban knows a girl who flips her hair like an act of defiance. Knows a girl who chews on bubblegum with open mouth. He knows she isn’t afraid of speaking her mind, except when she has to speak her mind to the grandmother who raised her.
“And you know that, even when you hear it all the time at school, that doesn’t mean that you have to talk like that.” father bites his lip in annoyance. Gives up on the four-stroke engine with an agitated huff. His fingers are cut by the sharp edges of plastic and metal. Shallow wounds decorated with grease.
Even hands which are so used to holding up the sky can grow to be decorated in shame.
“Let’s give up for today, we can try again tomorrow.”
Esteban gives father a nod, hands him a cloth to try and wipe the blood and oil off his hands. Knows damn well it’s a lost cause, yet offers kindness all the same. “I’ll try a little longer, tell mama I’ll be home before dinner.”
*
When father returns to the garage the next morning, Esteban is slumped over the kart. Head resting against the protective rubber around the frame, cheek nearly pressed to the black horse against the yellow backdrop. He’s asleep, fingers cut and stained, but the engine is clean and running with a gentle purr as the could-be-engineer dreams.
*
“Are you coming next weekend? Italy is nice this time of year.” Lance tips his head back to rest against the metal frame of the pulled apart Volvo Esteban is currently working on. His friend is sitting on the floor of the garage, a sheet underneath him to stop his pants from staining, legs crossed as he stares at the dancing dust in the beam of sunlight coming in through the cracked window.
“To Italy?”
“Yeah, didn’t dad invite you and your father? We need our mechanics on site for the race.”
“Papa didn’t mention anything about that.”
It’s March, and the chill still hangs in the air. Spring is barely beginning, and Lance is already two races into his new season. He came back from Italy yesterday, always moving between here and there - never standing still long enough for Esteban to properly observe him. His childhood friend is always changing shape, always morphing into whatever it is his team wants for him to be.
“Please, Este, just come.” Lance is giving him his best impression of puppy dog eyes, pleading wordlessly, when Esteban appears from underneath the car to look at him with disbelief. “It would mean the world to me if you could be there, I’ll ask my dad to pay for you guys if you can’t. I just need my mechanics there. I might get a win there, I can feel it!”
Esteban has never been able to say no to him to begin with, and he isn’t about to start to know how to now. “Maybe, if we can find someone to watch the shop for that long weekend.”
He doesn't make promises as easily as he used to, he's sixteen now. He knows better than he once did; childhood lays behind, summers spent with his feet in the river watching the sun set in the distance are a memory now. Exams turn into summer jobs and responsibilities.
"Telling, that you care more about the shop than the fact that you have school on Monday."
"Telling, that you do the exact same."
"Hold your horses, Este. My school is fully aware, and supportive, of my karting career."
Esteban bites his lip, holds back a comment about how even if they weren't, Lawrence Stroll could probably pay whatever it took to force the school to let Lance pass anyway.
He's never been jealous, never once has he looked at all the things his friend has and felt the tell-tale twist in his gut. Esteban doesn't care about the cars, about the trips to different countries. Doesn't care about the fancy school and the brand clothes.
He cares about his friend, more than he could ever tell.
“I will talk about it with papa, but I can’t make any promises.” he understands now, the weight of the leather-bound books and the empty pages inside. The lack of customers walking through the door, the lack of newer, shinier, cars waiting to be picked up by their owners. There’s a weight on his shoulders, and rarely does he speak about it with Lance.
While he adores Lance, Esteban knows that the Canadian would never understand.
Lance looks back at the dust, leans his head against the Volvo as if he has already won the battle between the two of them. He’s fourteen and not troubled by the same things that Esteban is these days. All Lance has to worry about is his final scores at the end of a weekend, performance crunched into numbers scattered on sheets of paper and digital documents. All Lance has to worry about it doing the exact thing he’s already fucking good at.
“My dad will pay, you know. For the both of you.”
“You know we don’t want his money.”
“It’s part of the deal, mate. You guys fix the karts, and he pays. Or did you think you and your father did charity work for us?”
The younger boy shoots him one of his famous smiles. The kind of smile that’s perfect, practised in front of both a mirror and countless flashing cameras. It’s the smile Lance reserves for podiums and girls which just so happen to find themselves near a karting track. Esteban has seen it, on footage he’s looked up on Youtube. The way his friend beams at the attention, the way Lance shifts into something he never really is when he’s sitting on the floor of their garage.
Sometimes, Esteban can’t help but wonder who the real boy is. The one he’s currently staring at, or the one who holds a shining trophy above his head.
Maybe it’s neither. Perhaps both personas are an act.
“Besides - ” Lance turns to him, reaches out to give him a soft pat on his shoulder. Lets his palm linger there for a moment, probably trying to change Esteban’s mind, even when there’s nothing to change. “ - I’d love it if you saw me race, at least once. It would mean a lot to me if you did.”
Esteban shrugs, turns his attention back to the Volvo with the leaking engine. Hides his face in the darkness underneath the machine as he scoots back underneath. He doesn’t tell Lance that he’d do anything for his best friend.
*
Pierre is waiting for him around the corner. Leaning against the school building with a cigarette between his fingers and a string of swears lacing his lips. “ - absolute fucking idiots! Morons! Fuckers!” Esteban obviously missed the first part of the tirade currently being unleashed to the rising smoke and the birds watching carefully from the bush.
“Let me guess, Madame D’Aureville flunked you in math?”
He doesn’t even ask when he reaches for his friends’ cigarette pack, neither does he ask when he pulls one from it. Lighting it with an unsteady hand, watching the flame of the lighter flicker against the breeze. He doesn’t like smoking, doesn’t like the way it makes him cough when he inhales too deeply. Hates the taste of it even more.
And yet he does it to stay in favour with Pierre all the same.
Making friends is hard enough, even harder when one goes from class straight to work. Only moving between the lines of what needs to be done, never really stopping to socialize and enjoy one's youth. He’s missed one too many parties to have the courage to refuse an invitation for a smoke.
“Fucking bitch.” Pierre grits his teeth as he takes the final drag of his cigarette, carelessly flicking it away without really looking where the burning thing ends up. “I’ve always hated her guts.”
“Wasn’t she your favourite last year?”
“Shut up, Esteban!”
They stay loitering around in silence for the next few minutes. Pierre pretending to still be angry, even when the harsh look in his blue eyes has started to fade into something softer, and Esteban pretending to smoke, even when he doesn’t really allow himself to inhale.
“So, are you coming this weekend to Yuki’s party?”
Pierre and him have never really been friends . They used to be, once, when they were younger. When Pierre had still been satisfied with the simple things in life. When there had been no one else for them to really socialize with. They had been friends, once, but not anymore. Not since Esteban had started to become more responsible and Pierre had thought of him as lame for going home to help his father, rather than sneaking away with a bottle of booze after class.
“No, me and papa are going to Italy this weekend. We have a race we need to be at.” Esteban doesn’t flick his smoke away like Pierre had, he gently presses it against the brick wall, watches the glowing head fall towards the ground. He holds on to the rest of it, knows he’ll pass a trashcan on his way inside.
His could-be-friend whistles, clearly impressed by his words. Blue eyes glance over his features, try and seek out the obvious lie. Everyone knows neither Esteban nor his father have the money to simply go to Italy for a weekend. “Did you get a sugar daddy? Or did your father finally get a well-paying job?”
Pierre’s words cut like a knife. Settle between his ribs, wrap around his throat until he feels like he can’t breathe anymore. Especially not when Pierre is looking at him like a wolf, staring at his neck as if he’s wondering if he should go in for the kill.
“Neither. A friend of mine has a karting race.”
“Good boy, fucking a rich lad to give your daddy a paycheck.”
Esteban turns around without even giving Pierre a second glance. The other’s laughter following him like the smell of smoke when he heads back inside the school. He doesn’t have the guts to tell him how much it hurts, but he doubts that Pierre would care anyway, even if he did.
*
He took a nap in the car. Cheek pressed against the window as the old pickup groaned and creaked underneath. It was a miracle the thing even made it to Lonato del Garda in the first place. The ride had been well over 12 hours, Lawrence Stroll had offered to pay for the trip, just as he had offered to have the equipment to be taken to the track by a professional company.
‘Listen, Este.’ his father had whispered into his ear, ‘a man finds his pride when he knows when to accept help, but even more so when he knows when to do the simple things himself. ’
They’re caught in the wave of things, wind rattling the rolled down windows of the truck as Esteban’s hand moves playfully with the wind. His legs are tucked underneath him, shoes pulled off an hour into the journey. Laurent doesn’t comment on the fact that his sock has a hole in it, nor on the fact that the shoes themselves have seen better days. The radio is nearly broken, receiving more static than songs at this point, but they make a game out of guessing the title and artist.
He’s happy. Happy to be with his father, happy to be going towards his friend. Happy to be here, out of all places.
Lance doesn’t greet them as they start to unload their stuff. He’s probably off somewhere, doing whatever it is drivers do before their practice. Laurent keeps him too busy to even miss the younger kid, too busy to even think about missing him - if he’s honest.
Unpacking and setting up takes nearly the entire day. Exhaustion setting in before they’ve even properly realized it. Their space is small, cramped at best, but it’s covered with familiar tools and appliances. Wrenches, which he’s held for as long as he can remember, suddenly stalled out like a collection of precious memories on foreign ground. Pride is the feeling nestling into his chest.
“There you are - ” Lance waves at the two of them as he dashes towards them. The suit fits him nicely, he always looks nice, always dressed to the nines, but no amount of designer clothes would ever look as good on him as the sponsor covered racing suit ever could. “ - I’ve been looking for you.”
Esteban greets him with a hug, pulling the other maybe a bit closer than he had any right to. He blames the long journey, blames the fact that there’s restlessness nestling in his bones and muscles. He blames himself, most of all, but all is forgotten when he leans down slightly, buries his nose in the crook of Lance’s neck, and feels the rumbling laugh of the other against his chest.
All is well, even when he’s over a thousand kilometres away from home. Even when he feels like a stranger in a foreign country. All is well, but only because Lance is here.
If his father thinks anything of it, he doesn’t really comment on it.
“Let’s grab something to eat, you guys must be starving.” Lance moves through the crowd as if he was born to be in the middle of it all, as if it came just as natural as walking around the woods of home. Esteban watches him walk, stopping to nod at the right people, waving in passing at those who greeted him in return. It’s the first time he sees his friend like this, sees Lance as a child from another world.
He always forgets that Lance moved to France as a child. In his mind, Lance was just as native to the small town as he was, just as embedded in its history as the roots of the old oak tree standing tall on the square. He can’t imagine a life without the other boy, even when Lance seems to have no problem adapting to a world in which Esteban is a stranger.
They follow him dutifully, his father only stopping to look at another mechanic’s work once, as they slip through the area surrounding the track. “How was the drive?” Lance is next to him, wrapping an arm around him awkwardly. They’re still moving, and even when Esteban has always been slightly taller than Lance, the other hasn’t quite gotten the same growth spurt he has just yet.
“Long.”
“Didn’t dad say he’d get you a flight?”
“Yes, but papa wanted to drive instead.”
“Then don’t complain.”
Lance means nothing with it, squeezing Esteban’s shoulder playfully before giving him the practised yet dazzling smile. Esteban doesn’t know how he does it, being so cocky without actually being anything close to it. “Anyway - ” the other is already two steps ahead of him, talking without looking back as he swipes his little card to exit the set-off area. Sometimes Esteban forgets that he’s only fourteen, too.
No one at that age should be so mature, yet so childish at the same time.
“ - dad made reservations for tonight, our treat, don’t be late, Este. And oh!” he spins around, standing on the tip of his toes to place a hand on Esteban’s shoulder. The smile is dimmed now, yet somehow warmer. This is the smile Esteban is so fond of, the true smile, a more genuine smile. “You should try the pasta, when we get there. It’s delicious. You’ll love it.”
*
Esteban never tried the pasta. He and Lance shared a pizza while their fathers drank red wine, the kind which you have to swirl in the glass before taking a sip. The kind Laurent never drank at home, the kind Esteban knew they could never afford.
Lawrence had insisted on paying. Had done so without making a big fuzz about it, even when he’d placed the golden credit card on the waitress’ silver tray like it was a gift. His family isn’t religious, he’s never been fond of going to church, too much sitting still for the excitement in his legs to allow, but the way Lawrence Stroll slides the waitress the card, accompanied by a wink, feels like a holy experience all the same.
Their fathers are still chatting, still sitting at the table with a tiny cup of coffee, while the sons go for a walk outside. Lance has been growing his hair out. It’s getting a bit curly now, as the Italian wind plays with it. Esteban doesn’t think about reaching out and fixing the stray strand, making a brave attempt towards freedom.
“Do you still think you’re going to win this weekend?”
Lance is balancing himself on a little ledge, walking with his arms outstretched, trying to remain upright. Esteban is turned towards him, facing him with itching palms. He doesn’t mention that he’s ready to catch his friend, but hopes that it’s implied all the same. “Probably.” words are carried off by the slight breeze, the surrounding trees rustling in the wind. They’re nearly alone on the street underneath the soft glow of dusk.
“After all, you’re the one who worked on my kart. Should be the best race I’ll ever have.”
*
Lance finishes second the next day.
Esteban watches the race, standing on the tip of his toes, leaning over the metal frame barrier, cheering until he feels like his throat is bleeding and raw. Cries of joy are still resting on his lips when he sees the final results. His friend, his Lance, got silver underneath the Italian sun.
His father is next to him, one hand resting on his shoulder as a way of grounding his son even when it feels as if the world is going to fall away from underneath him. Pride nestles inside his chest, makes his heart expand to three times its intended size; it’s Lance who’s going to be on the podium, it’s Lance who’s delivered amazing results.
“He’s done it, he’s done it!” he’s 16 years old, and it’s the first time he actually experiences pride like this. Joy has never tasted so sweet as it does at that moment, with white knuckles from gripping the barrier harder than he probably should have, with a throat raw from use. “He’s fucking done it!”
Laurent doesn’t tell him to watch his words, and Esteban has never been more thankful for it in his entire life.
The crowd does not split like the Red Sea, does not adhere to movie theatrics when he tries to push his way towards the little podium. There are parents, proud of their children, whichever result they might have booked today. Investors, mechanics, and even a scout or two, all watching, all waiting to see a glimpse of the talent accepting trophies and medals.
Esteban understands them more than he might be willing to admit. He, too, is desperate for a single glance of the victors. Even if he only really cares about one of them.
Lance sees him, or maybe he doesn’t, perhaps he is just waving into his general direction with a cheeky smile and rosy cheeks. Esteban cares little about truth, only cares about the glow of his friend, about the joy blooming on younger features. His father’s hand on his shoulder is the only thing holding him back from jumping across the barriers and climbing on top of the stage to hug Lance.
“I am so proud of you.” arms wrap around his friend when Lance finally comes down to greet them all. He’s had his picture taken with some sponsors, holding his trophy in steady hands, the physical manifestation of his success reflecting the sunlight just right . “Second, what an achievement!”
Lips are placed against Lance’s cheek, or at least, that was the plan. Lance moves his head in the split second they’re about to connect, leave a passing mark against the corner of his friend’s lips. Not enough to be a real kiss, just enough to be a fleeting moment in time.
Esteban doubts Lance will even feel it.
His friend doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t really say anything except breathless laughter as he flings himself around Esteban again. A mess of arms and legs, nearly causing the both of them to fall to the ground. There is no longer a crowd around them, just the two of them celebrating out of step, jumping with excitement as budget speakers play pop songs way too loudly.
Suddenly the twelve hour car ride is forgotten, suddenly, nothing really matters anymore. They are still wrapped around one another, surrounded by strangers, and nothing has ever been more perfect. “Thank you for coming out for this.” Lance is beaming, Esteban can feel it, even when the other’s face is hidden in the crook of his neck. “It means a lot, Este.”
Neither one of them comments on the fact that Lawrence isn’t there yet to congratulate his son. Esteban doesn’t really think they need to, and Lance doesn’t bring it up.
Some things are just too painful to really speak about.
*
They arrive home late the following night, somewhere between two and three am his father turns the key to their front door. His mother should have gone to bed a few hours ago, should already be fast asleep. She isn’t, of course she isn’t. Laurent asks her why she’s still up, sitting in the kitchen with a chipped mug filled with tea between her hands. “I was waiting for my boys.” Sabrine always had a way of making them feel welcome, even in the death of night.
She wants to know about Lance, calls him by his first name as she pours them a cup of tea to relax from their journey. His mother always wants to know everything about Lance, Esteban is convinced she sees him as her second son she never got to have.
“Second place, what an achievement.” Sabrine hums against the rim of her mug, stares into the dim nothingness of the kitchen around them. Sometimes, when she thinks her son isn’t looking, Esteban can see her gaze flicker to the picture hung up against the fridge. A faded Polaroid, taken a few summers ago, Esteban holding the camera with an arm wrapped around Lance, eternalizing their beaming smiles. “I bet Lawrence was incredibly proud of him.”
Neither Laurent nor Esteban have the heart to tell her. Love and affection comes natural to her. It’s written in the discoloured tubs with homemade food waiting in the fridge, in the little love notes she still leaves his father on the daily when she packs his lunch. She should have gotten a second son, her heart is big enough for it after all.
“Tell him to come over, Este.” she squeezes his cheek affectionately, offers a soothing kiss to ease the ache of it immediately after. “We should celebrate his achievement, don’t you two agree? I read a wonderful recipe in my cookbook once, it would be the perfect opportunity to make it.”
Mother flutters like a flightless bird through the kitchen, touching the spines of cookbook after cookbook until she finds the one she’s looking for. Affection is stored in hastily scribbled notes around printed words, alterations to recipes to make them to families’ taste. Lance doesn’t come over for dinner often enough for her to have filled the singular Jewish cookbook she owns with notes - and yet there are scraps of paper held to well-loved pages with paperclips, offering alterations to make favourites kosher.
“There we go - ” Esteban has never loved her more as at that moment, even when he’s fairly certain she mispronounces the name of the dish. “ - I could absolutely make sufganiyot!”
*
It’s the tail end of summer, when the sun is shining overhead and the evenings are still warm enough for one to sit outside. Usually there is sweat lining his brow, usually, he is overheating in his overalls cramped underneath a car to work on another engine. But not today, today he’s been invited to spend the Sunday with Lance at his family home.
Esteban rarely comes here anymore, used to when he was a kid, used to play with Lance when neither one of them had things to do during the weekends - back when he didn’t have exams to study for and Lance wasn’t busy flying halfway across the world for karting.
Nothing has changed much, except the pool has gotten a bit bigger, and Chloe is now lounging on a deckchair, rather than playing mermaid in the water around them.
“Didn’t you wear those swimming trunks like … three years ago, too?”
“Shut up, Lance.”
“Aren’t they growing a bit tight?”
Esteban nearly smothers the younger boy underneath the chlorine filled water, while Chloe laughs from the sidelines. It’s been a year now, since Lance came in second in Italy. A year, since they nearly kissed in the middle of an excited crowd. A year, since Esteban nearly lost his mind from shame. It had meant nothing, just something to celebrate, just something brought forth by adrenaline. It had meant nothing , and yet he wasn’t so sure if it hadn’t.
They are in the pool clinging to lost childhoods, splashing each other with water until they’re both breathless from laughter and swallowed gulps. Eyes rimmed red from the chlorine, nearly tipsy from the joy of it all. They no longer chase bears like they chase dreams, now only rushing towards the future as if their life depends on it. Maybe it does, maybe this was all they ever could have in the end.
Chloe has gone inside an hour ago. The automatic lights surrounding the house and pool have gone on, signalling the end of another day. Esteban should head home soon too, he has work tomorrow morning and a folder of study work which he hasn’t opened once during the summer break.
“You’re thinking about leaving, aren’t you?”
Lance is sitting on the edge of the pool, gently kicking his legs in the water. It isn’t chilly enough for him to worry about getting a cold, and yet Esteban is eyeing the discarded towel waiting on the deckchair - thinking about telling the other to dry off before he catches something.
“Well, I have to open up the shop tomorrow morning.”
“You could stay over, I’m sure my parents won’t mind.”
“I would have to leave really early though -”
“I will make you coffee in the morning.”
Somewhere in their short conversation, he has swum to the edge of the pool. Propping himself up next to his friend, leaning against the side, kicking his legs slowly to stay afloat. Maybe it’s easier to pull on Lance’s ankles and drag him back down into the water than to really think about things, maybe it’s just easier to not talk than to admit that such an offer sounds too delightful to pass up.
“You snore.”
“I don’t, you ass.”
“Fine, I’ll stay over, but only for tonight, you can’t keep me hostage for the entire summer.” if Lance is thinking about saying something, it gets swallowed by the water when Esteban pulls him back down.
*
He hasn’t been in Lance’s room since he was a kid.
Not much has changed, there are still posters of cars and formula one drivers plastered across the walls. Heroes of old staring down into the nothingness of a pristine clean floor and a neatly kept desk. The Stroll house feels cold to him, everything is too white, everything is too neat when he compares it to his own home. His mother tries, of course she does, but she is no match for two messy men and smears of black left against faded wallpaper.
There are some things in the room which are different from what they used to be, though. Toys have been replaced with a TV and a PlayStation - there are no longer Legos sitting in the corner, no longer miniature cars scattered around the place.
None, except for one.
Lance is in the bathroom, changing into his pyjamas, and Esteban is left staring at a small Ferrari Testarossa placed on the other’s nightstand. It doesn’t resemble a shrine, but there is no dust on the red of the figurine. He remembers, recalls the way tiny hands had clung to it, how smile had grown wide at the words ‘you can keep it’.
He never thought that Lance would have actually kept it, though.
“I see you still have it.” Esteban smiles at his friend, tries not to show how his heart clenches. Tries not to show how much it means to him. It’s a little gesture, probably something Lance never intended in the first place, but it means everything to him.
“Of course I did.” Canadian shrugs, smells of his shampoo now that he’s gotten out of the shower and dressed into emerald coloured pyjamas which probably cost more than Esteban’s entire wardrobe combined. He isn’t envious, not really, but he can’t imagine that the fabric itches during the night. “You gave it to me, I’m not so rude that I toss out a gift.”
The both of them sit down on Lance’s bed, too tired after swimming for what feels like the entire day to put in the effort to get a spare mattress dragged into the room for Esteban to sleep on. There is no need for it, either. Lance has gotten a queen-sized bed when he was 13 or something. “I don’t think that you’re rude at all.”
“You might be the only one, Este. You look ridiculous, by the way. Sorry, I don’t have any pants which actually fit you, but it isn’t my fault that your legs are taller than a deer’s.” friend laughs softly, points at the way his ankles show in the borrowed pants. At least Lance had given up on his futile mission to find him a shirt which would actually cover his entire stomach, never mind his arms.
He has never resented the growth spurt, never the fact that he was too lanky for his own good. Never, not even now. “Don’t worry about it, I usually sleep naked.”
“Gross. Don’t ever remind me of this fact ever again.”
Lance yawns, reminds Esteban of his youth in the way his face morphs into something softer, something younger, in the blink of an eye. He has lost his sense of time, only knows that it’s already dark outside, knows that Lance should absolutely be asleep at this hour.
“Only if you never ask me about this again.”
“I won’t, promise.”
*
They wake up in a tangled mess of limbs. Lance his head is on his shoulder, the soft sound of his breathing in his ear as the golden light of morning creeps through the curtains. Esteban can’t remember the last time he’s slept this well. They absolutely didn’t fall asleep like this, that would be ridiculous, and yet, somewhere in the night, Lance had rolled over to his side and draped his arms across his chest.
There’s no way he can untangle himself without waking the other up . Esteban is royally fucked.
“Lance, Lance! Are you awake, sleepyhead?” he does not get an answer aside from some grumbles, words muffled both by sleep and his own shoulder. Fingers reach for his phone with the cracked screen resting on the nightstand, glances at the time for a moment, realizes he still has an hour before he needs to leave.
He’s known Lawrence and Claire-Anne for years now, he’d probably get away with slipping away softly and making his own coffee in their kitchen before heading on home. There’s no need to wake up Lance, not really. There’s no reason to alert the other to the fact that they’re basically cuddling
Lance still snores softly into his ear, and there’s no way he simply cannot find it endearing. They had sleepovers in youth, stolen moments of blanket forts and toys scattered around dragged down mattresses. The younger boy would climb out of bed to sit with Esteban on the floor, eventually falling asleep with his head resting against friend’s shoulder. Esteban never told him about the times he gently guided Lance back into his bed, and if Lance still remembered, he sure had never brought it up either.
He makes a weak attempt at untangling himself, gets a single leg free before Lance mumbles something which sounds an awful lot like ‘Esteban’ between the tones of dreams.
He is seventeen, but he is not made of stone. Dips down to place a kiss against other’s temple. Immediately regrets the action when Lance mumbles something again, makes a face as he scrunches his nose. Esteban doesn’t even want to know if it’s because of the action, or because of the remaining dreams. He doesn’t think he has the heart to accept such information.
“Good morning, you promised me coffee.”
Maybe he has turned greedy, maybe he just wants another spare hour to spend with Lance. This he can brush off too, the way that they’re practically cuddling. They’re just friends, and it’s completely natural to have an arm draped across your best friend’s chest. Just as it’s perfectly normal to wake up your best friend with a kiss to the temple. There is realistically nothing weird about this, not at all!
“Go make it yourself.” Lance his voice sounds way too rough, especially for his age. Esteban can still recall the moment when his pitch dropped, when puberty took hold of his friend. One call it had been the same as always, the next, it had felt like he’d been talking to a stranger. “I don’t want to get up.”
Words are whispered more to his shoulder than to anything else, by now Lance surely must have become aware of their position, and yet he just snuggles a bit closer. Wraps his arm a bit tighter.
Yes, Esteban is extremely and utterly fucked
.
There is only one trick he has left. A dirty move. A final blaze of glory which he can use to ensure that Canadian next to him not only wakes up, but that there’s enough distance between them to stop their position from possibly being awkward. Fingers move to slide underneath emerald fabric, touch warm skin of friend’s side. Move across ribs until they come to rest at the perfect spot, which he knows will have the desired effect.
“Don’t - ” voice is still dragged out - but Lance knows exactly what’s coming.
Esteban doesn’t leave him time to prepare, starts tickling his best friend a mere heartbeat after his plea.
He doesn’t even mind being called asshole this early in the morning.
*
“Have you tried turning it off and on again?”
Lance is leaning against the dust covered workbench in the garage, watching him work with sparkling eyes. Esteban knows he must be bored - he always is during the off-season. He always is when he’s forced to function on any speed which isn’t ‘incredibly dangerously fast’.
He can’t relate to a lot of things Lance has, can’t imagine what it would be like to have a car that simply moves without rattling like it’s going to fall to pieces. But he can relate to this. The twitching of his fingers when there is nothing to tinker on, the bouncing of his leg when he’s forced to sit still. It’s a good thing his parents never had the money to get him into karting, it probably would have become an addiction for him too.
“Have you tried not acting smart?” it could be an insult, but it never is, especially not when it’s directed at his friend. “Last time I checked, I was the mechanic in this friendship. So unless you want to get your pants dirty and get under here with me, shut up.” wrench is pointed into Lance’s direction, shaken slightly to put weight to his statement.
He’s absolutely shocked when Lance simply shrugs and moves towards the floor next to him. “Move, we both won’t fit underneath there if you’re taking up all the space.”
Lance had never been a particularly good mechanic, but he'd picked up a few things from spending most of his childhood in the Ocon garage. Sunlight slips through the dust covered windows, illuminates the stillness around them. The radio had been off for a while, too much static through the broken speakers. His father had gone home for the afternoon, too. Nothing here but two friends, and a broken down Volkswagen Beetle propped up on a jack stand.
It's still pleasant out, even when the sun has started to set and spring isn’t quite here. February is one of his least favourite seasons, it’s the in between, the time in which the earth has not yet made up her mind if it wants to be gentle or harsh.
“Can you hand me the ten millimeter socket?” he doesn’t glance over towards his friend, keeps his eyes glued on the car above him, hand is outstretched, waits for the small weight of the socket to be placed onto his palm.
“I love it when you talk mechanic to me.”
Esteban nearly cracks open his skull due to the force with which he slams against the car above him.
Lance grew to be cocky, somewhere after he turned seventeen, too far gone from being the child he once was, not quite an adult who knows when it’s time to be silent for a moment. It must be the money and the karting success - he did sometimes show it during interviews, after all.
He’d watched many of those, blurry faces on his old laptop. Audio lost to the loud spinning of the fan in order to stop the thing from overheating. One clip of his friend has almost a thousand views on YouTube. He is pretty sure that he’s almost half of them; he never talks about it, but there’s something comforting about the way Lance looks into the camera and beams. Sometimes, right before he’s about to fall asleep, he can almost imagine that the golden smile is directed at him.
He hates what he has become. Some lovesick fool pining for his best friend, as if the poverty and his lankiness weren’t pitiful enough. No, he had to outdo himself and develop a crush on the kid who would probably be signed on by a Formula One team before his twenties. On the kid who he’d known for most of his life. On the kid who he called best friend.
Frankly, it’s pathetic enough as it is, never mind the fact that said crush is now dangerously close to him, equally trapped underneath a car, laughing at his own joke.
“Relax, relax Este. It was a joke, ever heard of them? No need to give yourself an injury, eh.” Lance is unaware of the grand debate that’s currently happening between Esteban’s brain and heart. It’s better that way, let the Canadian’s eyes remain filled with starts, rather than disgust for finding out that his friend is falling for him.
Fingers reach out to stroke his forehead, gently prod at the place where skin has connected to metal. “That’s going to bruise.” friend’s voice is way softer than it should be, filled with much more worry than it has any right to. “Shame, it could have been a scar, that would have made you look rugged. Like a real tough guy.”
He doesn’t feel particularly tough right now. Not when he’s trapped underneath a car, covered in grease and sweat, turned over slightly to look at his childhood friend as the brown haired boy is illuminated by the last rays of a bleeding sun. Everything around them is soaked in orange and settling dust. A fleeting moment in time which means nothing, yet means everything at the same time.
“You know I’m not a tough guy.” tries to brush it off, yet does not move away from the gentle touch still offered; Lance has not moved away either, just keeping his fingertips against his sweaty skin. The boy who’s so used to touching expensive things touches him as if he’s among those riches too.
Yeah, he’s absolutely and utterly smitten with Lance Stroll.
*
“Este, darling. What’s wrong?”
Mother takes a seat at the edge of his bed, moves hands to remove wrinkles from his bedsheets, as she has done countless times before. She still loves like that, she still tries to make everything better for everyone, even when her hard work won’t be around for long to be enjoyed. “You’ve been so quiet lately.”
She loves him, he just doesn’t know if she sees flaws in him that she would much rather change, or if she loves him with the same ease as breathing. He’s nineteen, and suddenly he can pin his flaws to his chest like medals, suddenly he can no longer hide behind childhood mistakes - the world in his hands is just as heavy as his heart. Arms are wrapped around his knees, and he can’t bring himself to look his mother in her eyes.
How does one break open their rib cage to let all the possibilities of an uncertain future out?
“Nothing.” he knows she won’t believe him, knows that she’ll ask him to be honest with her. Has danced around her questions before, will probably do so for the rest of his life. Her hands are soft when she reaches out to cup his cheek. If she feels the wetness of a tear underneath her palm, she has the mercy not to comment on it. “ - just tired.”
“I know what you look like tired, sweetheart, and this isn’t it.” she’s crying too. Softly, like spring rain which is clashing against the windows of his bedroom. He doesn’t know when it started, when he’d start to pull away from his parents, when throat seemed to close around the words which he wanted to say more than anything. He doesn’t know how to be honest anymore, not when he’s barely learned how to be honest with himself. “You can tell me anything, you know this, right?”
It would have been easier if she would have just left. If she had just left him alone to wallow in self-pity, when he would have been alone to make a weak attempt at figuring out whatever it was that he was feeling.
“Maman, am I good enough?”
Words slip from his lips before he can stop them. Before he can force heart to close and secrets to be buried underneath all the things he never wants to admit out-loud. She deserves better than to sit here, on the edge of his bed, doomed to pick up the pieces of the son who couldn’t be strong enough to keep it all together. Father is probably already asleep on the couch, pretending that there aren’t more red marks in the leather-bound books on the counter of the garage.
Pretending that they aren’t slowly falling deeper and deeper into debt.
“Oh, darling.” mother’s heart breaks, not easily, never easily. Sabrine is perhaps the strongest woman he’s ever known, and yet muscle shatters as she moves to pull only child into a hug. “Of course you are, of course you are good enough. What makes you think otherwise?”
Esteban can see it, a future laid out before him. A garage with his name on the sign, a woman who loves him in the same way as his mother loves his father, a child looking at him as if he’s hung the moon when he offers wrench to hands not yet large enough to hold it with ease. He can see the future, just as he can see it all being ripped to shreds.
The sign which spells out Ocon is ripped from the wall, the woman at his side doesn’t look at the oil stains on his hands as if they’re part of him, only sees them as an annoyance which he needs to scrub off before he enters a house that does not feel like a home.
There is nothing in that future, nothing but a boy with dark brown hair and hazel eyes who makes life seem a bit more bearable, and who has never asked him to change a single thing.
“I think I’m gay, maman.” maybe he isn’t, maybe he just doesn’t want to love the woman in his visions, or maybe he’s just too in love with Lance to even consider ever loving anyone else. He’s young - foolish at the best of times. He’s probably too young to even talk about love, to even consider that he knows what it feels like to love someone. Mother hugs him a little tighter, places a kiss against his forehead in the same way that she used to do when he was still a child.
It doesn’t take away the ache of a shattered heart, but it does numb the pain for a fleeting moment.
“I know, mon cher, I know.”
*
The truck rattles like it’s about to break right back down when he turns the engine on, sputters and groans when it’s forced to come to life underneath the summer sun glowing overhead. He’s been working on it for nearly the entire summer, no money to buy a newer model, barely enough to scrape together enough parts to replace those which have long since rusted.
“Drive me to Paris.”
Lance is in the passenger seat within the blink of an eye. Holding the bottle of water which was left there from when Esteban had been busy securing the last few bolts. “Come on, Este, it’ll be fun! A little road trip would do the both of us some good.”His friend takes a sip from the lukewarm water without asking, makes a face as he does so. Young man so used to luxuries seems unable to stomach that which has started to taste like dirt from being out in the sun for too long. “I’ll pay for the gas money. If we leave right now, we can still beat traffic in the inner city.”
He thinks about it for a moment, has no excuse to stop himself from saying yes this time. The garage will be closed tomorrow, and he’s been free from school for a few weeks now. The car is running, and there really is nothing to realistically stop him from taking his friend on a trip.
“Please?” Lance turns to him, hazel eyes resembling those of a puppy, as he practically leaps forward, his face a few inches away from Esteban’s. “Come on, Este, it’ll be fun! You, me, the car, and the A13. You didn’t work this hard on the car just to leave her standing around in the garage all summer.” he’s practically begging, putting his hands on his friends shoulders - shaking him, as if that’s going to change his mind somehow.
He wasn’t going to deny Lance anything, most certainly not when he said please.
“Okay, fine, when do you want to leave?”
“Right now suits me just fine.”
Heart stops for a moment, breath caught in his throat as he blinks once or twice. Lance his hand is still resting on his shoulder, the face of the other still a bit too close for comfort. Memories of childhood flood his mind once more, words of the mother whispered with great affection ring in his ear.
He’s still covered in sweat and grease, hands still coated in oil, and yet Lance does not reprimand him for the dirty fingernails. Does not tell him to get changed first. Lance touches a dirt covered shirt without fear of staining his own white pants. Lance does not reach out for him with hesitation, only moves towards him as if he’s accepted all those things about him a long while ago.
They’re driving before he even fully realizes it. Driving down the main road while Lance moves to open the window, sticking out his head to wave at familiar faces outside. The radio isn’t fixed yet, it still crackles as it tries to find a signal which will never come, but it adds to the atmosphere of it all. “I should have told my mother that I was leaving.”
Their town is passing them by as they leave it behind, familiar streets making way for other familiar scenes. This is where they spend most of their lives, or at least, where he has. Lance was always neither here nor there, always stuck between wherever he was wanted for another race and where the world came to a halt. Esteban dares to sneak a couple glances into his friend’s direction, nothing much, just enough to memorize Lance’s profile, as if he ever could forget.
“Don’t worry, bud, I’ll call her.” of course, his friend has his home number saved into his phone. He has been around often enough to be the second son his mother wished for. More than once, Lance had referred to Sabrine as his mother too. More than once, he had done so out of genuine feeling, and less as a joke.
“Mother, it’s your favourite child - ” he jokes with her as easily as he does with her son, shifts around in his seat to nudge Esteban just as the other turns onto the A13. “ - yes, I’m fine, thank you for asking. Yes, yes I know I still have to come over for dinner. You know how it is, a lot of practise, a lot of races. Formula three is hard, mother.” there’s a moment during which he rolls his eyes, shifts again to put his feet up on the dash of Esteban’s car. Flashes him a beaming smile as he does so.
“Esteban is here with me, don’t worry, I won’t let your golden boy out of my sight. But I am taking him on a little impromptu trip to Paris, or rather, he’s taking me. Weird, right, how I can drive a formula three car, but I can’t drive a road car yet. Gas is on me, don’t worry, but he won’t be home for dinner. Don’t worry, Sabrine, dear, I’ll have him home before dark.”
Lance laughs at something his mother says before giving her his well-wishes and hanging up. The latest model iPhone is once more shoved into his pocket as he makes himself more comfortable in the passenger seat. Esteban has to be honest, at least he isn’t the annoying race car driver who tells their friends to go over the speed limit on the highway. “She says to stay out for as long as we want.”
“Of course she did.” sometimes he wonders if his mother knows more than she lets on. Perhaps she knows about his feelings for the other, she seems to know an awful lot, it honestly wouldn’t surprise him. “She probably loves you more than she loves me.”
The trip to the city takes little over an hour, the highway relatively quiet now ahead of the busy tourist season. Friend has been aimlessly playing games on his phone while Esteban drives in silence, the rattling of the truck and other cars passing them by on the road the only sounds around them for a while.
“I’m bored.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Play a game with me.”
Esteban sneaks another glance, meets the eyes of the Canadian, who’s already looking at him with a shimmer of hope in those hazel eyes. Funny, how he never really seemed to notice them before, and yet now they’re all he can seem to focus on.
“You want me to pull out monopoly while I’m speeding down the highway? Have mercy, Lance. I know I’m not a professional racer, but you can’t tell me that - ”
“Truth or dare?”
“Lance, what are you - ”
“I said, truth or dare?”
There’s no way he’s going to deny Lance anything, especially not when they’re still twenty minutes away from the city, longer, perhaps, if they can’t find a decent parking space somewhere.
“Truth.”
He wonders why his throat is suddenly so dry.
“Do you have a crush on anyone?” Lance moves to sit up straight, turning his whole body to look at him. It takes everything he’s got not to hit the brakes and simply turn the car around. It takes even more not to simply burst out laughing. Moments pass by in silence, the car is still groaning as it pushes through, but there isn’t an answer that leaves his lips. “Come on, Este, you have to answer, that’s the whole purpose of the game!”
“I do.” it comes out wrong, tastes like a lie when fingers wrap a little tighter around the steering wheel. “Why would you even ask that?” Lance shrugs, yet doesn’t look as guilty as he perhaps should. “Because I wanted to know, is that such a crime?”
They’re silent for a moment, Esteban’s gaze once again fixed on the road in front of him. Anything not to accidentally look into Lance’s eyes again. Heaven knows what he’s going to do if he does, heaven knows what he’s going to see there, lurking in the depths of the brown.
“Aren’t you going to ask me anything?”
“Why would I?”
“You’re so goddamn boring, Este.”
*
They eat their ice cream in silence, looking at the Fontaine du Jardin du Trocadéro rather than the Eiffel Tower. There’s something brutally honest about the splashing of the water, something more sincere than the fixture up ahead. It’s still warm out, and the city is as alive as it always is, even when the sun has set.
He can’t think of anywhere where he’d rather be than in Paris with Lance.
“Do you think you can still do things like this when you make it into Formula One?” Esteban doesn’t doubt that Lance will make it, he’s already set to win the Formula Three championship this year, there’s no way they’re not going to sign him with a team soon. Not if Lawrence can help it, at least. “Perhaps you’ll get bored from all the screaming fans.”
Lance has a drop of chocolate covering the corner of his mouth, and Esteban has to resist the urge to reach out and wipe it off.
“I want fans - ” friend stares out across the water for a moment, seems to think about his answer, as Esteban holds his breath, waiting for it in return. “ - I want to be adored, I guess? I want people to be happy for me, I want people to consider me their favourite.” Lance shrugs again, finally licks up the hint of brown, and he mourns the loss of it instantly.
“Is that weird? That I want that?”
It’s been a long while since Lance has been so open with him, usually he hides behind that wide smile and the air of cocky self-esteem which Esteban has grown to adore. He doesn’t really recall the shy kid who’d shuffled his feet the first time they’d met. Doesn’t really recall the child who accepted a toy car with shaking hands, who had to glance at his father before accepting the gift with a gentle smile.
“I don’t think so.” they’re silent for another moment, the bustling of the city and the rushing of the water doing the talking for them. It takes him a moment to glance over, to look at his oldest friend. He nudges their shoulders together, reassures him in one of the few ways he knows how to. “As long as I get to be the president of the official fan club, I don’t think it’s weird at all.”
Both of them are too busy laughing and playfully nudging one another, that neither one notices that the lights of the Eiffel Tower have gone on. Sparkling like a thousand stars, yet none of them really shine as bright as Lance does at that moment.
*
Lance gets signed on by Williams a few days after his eighteenth birthday.
It isn’t really a surprise to anyone, especially not when Lawrence just so happens to invest 80 million dollars into the team, but they’re still ecstatic on Lance his behalf.
“You should come to my party tonight - ” Lance his voice sounds off through the static of the phone, close enough to be his, yet not real enough not to be distorted. Esteban misses the richness of close proximity words. Misses the light twang of an accent which still remains, even after all those years.
Esteban promises that he’ll be there, and a couple of hours later, he’s surrounded by people who sneak glances at him as if he’s a freak walking around the Stroll estate.
The guys wearing polo shirts whisper something into their friend’s ears, as the girls who carry their designer bags as if they are weapons whisper behind their hands. Snakes watch him from the grass - determine if he’s worthy of being bit in the ankles by venomous mouths. He’s the odd one out, he knows he is, even when he’s worn his nicest shirt and jeans, he can’t possibly hope to compare to the likes of them.
“Esteban!” Chloe greets him with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. She has to stand on the tips of her toes to reach, yet she wraps her arms around his neck and hugs him for a moment. At least Chloe still greets him as if he’s welcome here. “Lance is out in the garden, come on, he’ll be excited to see you.”
She takes his hand and guides him through the familiar living room, past Claire-Anne who greets him with a smile and a swift ruffle of his hair. For a moment, it’s nearly enough to make him feel at ease. “He’s been super busy lately, with the signing and stuff, but he mentioned that he hadn’t seen you in a while just earlier today.” Chloe chats with ease, doesn’t even look back at him as they step out through the patio doors onto the carefully laid out stones soaked in golden light.
“Lance! Look who I found!”
Lance looks into the general direction of his sister, and Esteban loses all the air which was left in his lungs. The other looks gorgeous like this, underneath the lights, surrounded by flashing cameras of the people invited wishing to take a quick shot of the new Formula One star. He looks like he was born for this. As if the spotlight was made for him and him alone.
“I knew you’d come.” Lance wraps his arms around him in a hug, too. He doesn’t kiss his cheek, and Esteban only mourns this for a fleeting second. “Thank you for being here.”
“Lance - ” a girl who blows bubblegum as if her life depends on it slides in next to him, wraps her hands around his arm as if he’s something she can possess. “ - who is this, and where did you find someone with such hideous taste in fashion?” her blue eyes glance across his features, seems to decide if Esteban is even worth talking to. He supposes he isn’t, because cold gaze once more turns to Lance. “Baby, you’re a Formula One driver now, you need to surround yourself with people who are good for your image.”
He likes to think that it isn’t a slap to the face, but it isn’t far from it either.
Esteban hates the way she says baby , hates the way she stretches the word past its limit, the way she makes it pop like her fucking bubblegum. She chews it too loudly. Her eyes aren’t kind enough. She’s holding onto Lance’s arm too tightly. She is -
She is everything he could never be.
“Esteban, childhood friend, nice to meet you.” his outstretched hand shakes slightly, too much adrenaline pumping through his veins. He doesn’t mean for his voice to turn harsh. Doesn’t mean for anger to rest on the tip of his tongue. He just smiles, smiles like he’s always done to Pierre whenever the other boy got snappy with him, as he’s always done whenever something simply hurts too much to do anything else. “He found me in the garage, actually. Where I worked on his karts for a couple of years, you know, little things to help his career. But I get it, he really should focus on the people who help his image, rather than his races.”
He can’t say that he’s particularly upset when she huffs and walks away.
“What was that for?” Lance raises an eyebrow at him, and perhaps he’s right, perhaps Esteban was out of line - perhaps he shouldn’t have acted as if the signing party of his best friend was a war rather than a celebration. He’s never been particularly good at articulating whatever it is he wants. “She was just trying to protect me. You know, being a Formula One driver does come with more responsibility.”
Esteban can’t be sure what hurts more, the fact that Lance was sticking up for whoever that was, or the fact that he has to admit that his friend is right in a sense.
“Whatever.” heart shatters inside his rib cage. Breaks into a million pieces, and he isn’t so certain he can glue them back together again. “Don’t mind me, go mingle with the people who are good for you.”
He wonders if Lance can hear his heart breaking when he walks away.
*
“Yuki, move.”
He’s fighting with Pierre’s roommate for the good spot on the couch, he wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for the fact that his laptop had broken down a couple weeks ago, and the TV at his house couldn’t receive the channel to watch Formula One on. “Please?”
Pierre had been kind enough to allow him to come over to watch the race in real-time, rather than watching clips on YouTube on the computer in the garage office whenever he was on break. It isn’t perfect, but it is way better than simply not knowing what’s happening a couple of countries away.
They hadn’t really talked after the party, he’d considered calling, once or twice, maybe more, maybe he’d been hovering over his cellphone with the cracked screen every second of the day between the moment he’d open his eyes and the moment he’d go to bed. Just casually considering it. As one does.
( TO: Lance Stroll. drafted ) Give them hell out there! I’m so proud of you.
( TO: Lance Stroll. drafted ) I wish I could be there with you, I said I would be the president of the fan club, and I still stand by that promise.
( TO: Lance Stroll. drafted ) Sometimes I wonder if you still have time to miss me with your busy schedule. I sure miss you .
Some things just don’t get easier with time, some wounds don’t really heal, no matter how badly one might want them to.
“Which one is your boyfriend again?” Pierre looks bored, shifts on the couch to put his feet on Yuki’s lap. He’s not really paying attention to the screen, more so looking at his phone than anything else. “Is it the pretty one with the helmet on in one of those cars?”
“Stop acting like you don’t know.” half the town has been decorated to be a shrine to Lance. Heritage is forgiven when he can provide them a fleeting sense of glory. Pictures of the kid he grew up with are now plastered everywhere, there is even one on the counter at Lefevre bakery. “And he isn’t my boyfriend, just a friend.”
Pierre glances up from his phone long enough to see the white and blue Williams spin.
“Well, it seems like your not-boyfriend-just-a-friend has forgotten how to drive in a straight line.”
( TO: Lance Stroll. drafted ) Seeing you struggle like this kills me .
*
Lance ends the season twelfth in the Drivers' Championship. It’s far from a bad feat, and yet Esteban knows it must be killing him. Eating away at him from the inside out, like a longing for starlight nestled in his lungs; he knows Lance better than perhaps Lance knows himself, or maybe he used to, once.
Lately, it seems like he doesn’t really know Lance at all.
He’s texted him from time to time, just enough to prove to the other that he was still thinking about him, that he was still rooting for him, even when they hadn’t seen each other in person since the damned party.
If his mother heard him cry in the evenings before she went to bed, she doesn’t comment on it.
Father still hands him the wrench, still gives him advice when he’s arms deep in another engine. Still comments on the grease around his fingernails, still keeps silent about the red numbers in the ledger. Esteban knows what it means, that’s why he works two jobs these days. One with his father in the garage, and one at the counter of the grocery store.
He’s too old for that kind of work, too expensive when there are fresh-faced sixteen-year-olds running around town. The only reason why he gets the job is that the daughter of the store owner used to be in his class. She, as one of the few, still has some sympathy for him.
He rings up groceries with hands covered in dark lines, dust settled into the grooves of his palms a long time ago, no one berates him for it. Esteban suspects that they can see the fragments of a broken heart pieced to his sleeve like an omen. They might be nosey, but they do respect a broken heart and a shattered spirit.
Lance doesn’t really talk about growing up in a small town on interviews, flashes his beaming smile as he talks about Canada. It probably has to do with sponsorships, with the name of the father that’s written in drying ink underneath another contract for another year. Esteban watches the clips on the library computer, his own laptop still broken and his own funds still lacking to replace it.
‘I grew up chasing a lot of bears.’ friend looks into the camera and laughs. Esteban nearly believes that he’s talking about him.
Father on occasion calls with Lawrence, only when he thinks Esteban can’t hear. Slips suggestions across the phone line like they’re made out of gold, his father probably had dreams in his own youth too, something about him makes Esteban think that he would have loved to be a Formula One mechanic. “I’m too old now, Este - ” father ruffles his hair, squeezes his shoulder as the sun sets on another day. “ - besides, I have all my dreams right here.”
Both parents have stopped teasing him about his lacking love live. Mother has stopped mentioning age when she talks about her wedding, when she talks about her and father’s first date. He cannot thank them enough for it.
He’s tried dating, kissed the German boy who came down for a few weeks in the summer. Mick was nice enough, too nice, even, if such a thing was even possible. Mick never asked about Lance, didn’t even know that he was the one person in town closest to their regional superstar. They’d kissed a few times, stolen moments near the river, which always made his heart clench far more than it probably should.
Mick didn’t resent him when he told him he couldn’t do it a single day before the other had to leave. He just laughed and gave him a tight hug. Mick said he understood, Esteban didn’t have the guts to tell him that he never could.
( TO: Lance Stroll. drafted ) Come back home. This place sucks without you.
*
His father gets sick in early December.
Nothing bad, just a stubborn cold that doesn’t want to leave. Just enough to keep his father from going to work in the garage. It’s nearing Christmastime, and the owner of the grocery store is disappointed enough in him that he has to take a step back during the busy season that he’s fired on the spot. Esteban doesn’t mind, knows there’s a sixteen-year-old who probably needs the money more than he does.
Working in the garage is easier too, the people who come in mostly know exactly what they want, or at least they trust Esteban enough to just hand him the keys of their car and have him fix whatever is wrong. A neighbour drops off a plastic container filled with soup for his father, Esteban thanks her with grace, just as he does whenever she drops off some bread and cheese when she can tell he hasn’t been eating well.
Time passes, it always does. But that doesn’t mean that it goes easily.
Lance is supposed to return home somewhere in the next few days. He’s texted Esteban confirming this, something about sponsor obligations and post-season meetings with the team. Somewhere along the lines of their friendship, they stopped telling each other everything - they now communicate in a string of emojis and gifs rather than words.
Only once has his finger hovered over a gif of a man kissing another man’s cheek, he decided not to send it in the end, but the fact that he even considered in the first place was enough to make his heart stop.
His crush on Lance hasn’t lessened, not in the slightest. The driver has a shrine in the garage too, even when it isn’t located straight on the counter. In a small corner in the office, tucked away from customer’s prying eyes, a patchwork collection of faded Polaroids and print-outs of official pictures. There is one in the centre of it all, Italian sun overhead - a second place karting trophy in Lance’s hand.
( TO: Lance Stroll. drafted ) Remember Italy? I nearly kissed you when you came down from the podium, I kissed your cheek by accident. We were young, too young, but sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had actually kissed you that day. Weird, right?
He’s busy working, head stuck underneath the hood of a Peugeot 206. He’s always working these days, anything to take his mind off things. Anything to take his mind off the shrine waiting for him in the office when he takes a break. The damned car doesn’t want to cooperate, a bolt stuck no matter how hard he tries to get it off. It was only supposed to be a routine checkup, not something that would likely take him the whole day.
It’s a good thing that he knows the owner, and that she won’t be mad at him for keeping it for far longer than expected.
“Hey, stranger.”
The familiar voice cuts through the silence of the shop. Rings between the dust-covered cars and the tools waiting in anticipation to be used. Heart flutters at the moment his mind catches up to the fact that this is, indeed, Lance.
Lance who’s come back home. Lance who’s come back home earlier than expected.
He nearly breaks his skull again with the force with which he moves up, bumping his head against the hood of the Peugeot. “Holy shit, Lance - ” hand moves up to feel for damage, pulls back only to find no blood coating his fingertips. “ - you have to stop doing that, you’re going to give me a concussion one of these days.”
They’re hugging within the blink of an eye. The kind of hug only shared by men who no longer know how to accept affection without feeling the twang of shame. Open palm against each other’s back, a few pats on the shoulder to make up for the lack of words. He doesn’t trust his voice not to break if he decides to speak up. “You came home early.”
Lance talks about his season, about the politics behind the scenes. Talks about the girl who’d grabbed his arm at the party, and how he realized somewhere between Austria and Hungary that she only hung around him to catch a glimmer of his fame. Esteban has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying something mean.
They spend most of the afternoon in the garage, with Esteban working on the car and Lance talking about the thrill of high-speed driving. It’s almost as if they’re back to their usual routine. It’s almost as if he can function without feeling the heavy weight of his own heart in his throat.
Evening comes way too soon, some bread and cheese retrieved from the fridge in the office, a bottle of cheap red wine passed back and forth between the two of them as they settle on the dust-covered blankets in the back of the shop. Red and white coloured toy cars still wait for them there, Legos put on display waiting for the racetracks drawn in the dust to return to them. Childhood lays behind now, and Esteban mourns the loss of it.
Lance plops a grape into his mouth, leans back to rest his head against the rusted classic Fiat 124 from the seventies. “Truth or dare.” his eyes sparkle with mischief as he glances over at his friend, cheeks a shade of pink from both the wine and the heat blown into their direction by the small heater they’d dragged out. “Come on, Este, just like that one time during the trip to Paris. Indulge me, it’s been a hard year.”
Esteban takes another swig of the bottle, takes another moment to think about it. Not much has changed in the years which have passed since then, he still can’t deny Lance anything.
“Truth.”
“Do you still have a crush on someone?”
“Yes.”
Friend reaches out for the bottle, takes it from him with gentle fingers and an apologetic smile. Thumb brushes against the back of his hand, touch still comes easily between the two of them, and it still sends the same sparks flying through his spine.
“Come on, ask me something.”
There’s a silence as he thinks about it, eats another bite just to stretch the moment a bit further, just to taste something other than longing on the back of his tongue. He has nothing to lose, not when Lance seems to think it’s just a silly game, not when the Canadian will be gone soon enough anyway. It won’t be long until the both of them will be forced to move on with their lives, before Lance realizes that there’s nothing tying him to this place except the memories of a childhood friend, before Esteban realizes that there is something that’s called duty and parents who rely on him to get the job done whatever it takes.
“Truth or dare?” his voice shakes, watches his friend take a sip, watches the way his throat moves as he does so. Heater crackles, reminds him of a world outside the two of them.
“Truth.”
Lance seems so cocky, so sure of himself when he makes himself comfortable, shifts to lean some more against the car, fingers pull on the label of the bottle of wine, picks at the edges.
“Do you have a crush?”
Silence stretches out between them. Weights heavily on the both of them. Esteban doesn’t have the guts to look the other in the eye, simply stares at his friend’s hands as they still pluck on the label. The bottle is half empty, and so is his courage. He doesn’t know if he has the stomach to hear the answer to the question he’s just asked.
“I do. And now it’s my turn. Truth or dare?” the bottle is passed back to him, courage offered in red liquid. He’s never been a big drinker, but he does wish for something stronger, strangely enough.
“Dare.”
It seems like the safest option. Like the option which won’t cut out his heart, like the option which won’t make him implode at this very moment. He should have moved on from Lance many years ago, should have forgotten what it was like to even have a crush on him, never mind being in love with him. It has always been so easy, to follow the other without question - to hold out his heart in trembling hands and not ask Lance to be gentle with it. He’d let Lance do anything he wanted to it, and he’d still be grateful for the time they had together.
“Kiss the person you have a crush on, right now.”
Hazel eyes meet darker ones, Lance has his signature smile of victory on full display. He grins as if he’s just won the championship, as if he’s holding a trophy, rather than his friend’s heart in his hands. Esteban can feel the weight of the dare, can feel the pull of some invisible rules. He’s always played fair, has never chickened out of a dare before.
He’s spend too long figuring out how not to mess this up, only to forget to dream about the things that could possibly be. ‘That is the meaning of love, mon coeur. You accept the things which you can never change.’ words of his mother still ring in his ears as he moves forward, gets caught up in the blankets wrapped around his legs, nearly stumbles into Lance’s lap, catches himself with one hand on the car and the other on friend’s shoulders.
Lance doesn’t want him to kiss him… Lance doesn’t want him in the same way that he wants him in return… There’s no way that he ever could, there’s no way that he’d ever be good enough for someone like Lance. There’s no way that this isn’t just a dream - but there’s no way that he’s passing up on this opportunity either .
If he has to break his own heart, he might as well cut the strings of their friendship like a vengeful god. If he has to pour out all the things unsaid, he might as well do it swiftly and with vigour. And if Lance doesn’t like him like that in return, it’s better to know, than to never have taken a chance at all.
Hand moves up to cup clean-shaven cheek, strokes thumb against flesh for a moment. Wonders if his friend’s lips will taste of wine. Lance doesn’t tell him to fuck off, just stares at him with equally held breath. Esteban has never been particularly brave, but he has never been this foolish either.
Is it really a kiss, if it’s barely more than a fleeting peck on the lips? Barely something more than the near-kiss they shared in Italy years ago. Gone before it has even started. Lance never specified what kind of kiss it had to be, Lance didn’t dare him to fully kiss his crush, didn’t dare him to confess love with a brush of lips.
It just is what it is, a wrinkled love confession passed from mouth to mouth, broken and bruised and a lifetime in the making.
“Truth or dare?” it’s whispered against Lance’s lips, finds bravery in the fact that the other hasn’t pulled away from him yet. Finds comfort in knowing that he hasn’t felt the sharp sting of a slap against his cheek yet.
“Truth.”
Word is barely more than a tremble, spoken softly, like a secret spilled only for him and the surrounding dust to hear. He wants, he wants everything and nothing at the same time.
“Am I the one you have a crush on?”
“You are a fucking idiot.”
Lance lunches forward within the blink of an eye. Has his arms wrapped around his neck in another, he’s kissing him like he matters - like their years together have mattered far more than he has ever allowed himself to dream. Someone knocks over the bottle of wine as they tumble onto the dirty floor, a mess of limbs trying to settle in the space they have created in history.
He doesn’t even know when he started crying, just know he is when Lance’s thumb strokes through a tear, smears it across his cheek in a weak imitation of an offering. He must be crying from joy, there’s no other explanation for it. Fingers slide up, bury themselves in friend’s hair, entwined and entangled, almost as if he’s afraid that this will all end up being a dream when he opens his eyes again.
Lips do taste of wine and bread, taste almost holy. There is no gasoline resting on the tip of his friend’s tongue, no smell of burned rubber or a blown engine. They’re just this, a stolen moment of peace during the in between.
Esteban wouldn’t want it any other way.
*
They’re in the kitchen, fingers entwined as Esteban gives Lance a spin. Illuminated by the refrigerator light, it’s almost as if they’re perfect. The radio plays a chanson with minimal static, the wallpaper is faded, the clock on the counter ticking away with malicious intent. Parents are out of town for the weekend, an anniversary gift from him. A single night in Paris in a half-decent hotel, something he’s been saving up for.
It does help that it now means he gets to spend time with Lance in the comfort of his own home without needing to tiptoe around things such as labels and uncomfortable questions. He still doesn’t know what they are aside from what they have always been - just two boys who understand one another way better than they understand the rest of the world.
Lance moves away from him, takes a seat on the kitchen counter, the same way he used to do when he was twelve years old and he was watching Esteban’s mother make latkes for the first time. Scraped knees and a bruise on his cheek, a karting crash has given him a parting gift which is sure to fade in a few days. Esteban leans up, moves until he’s positioned between the other’s legs, stealing a kiss between smiles as hands are placed on the countertop besides not-quite-boyfriend’s thighs.
“What are we?” The Canadian glances down at his lips, moves hand to cup his cheek, pull him closer for another kiss. Esteban doesn’t know what to respond to that. What aren’t we? “We are whatever you want us to be.”
A polaroid camera is kept on the highest shelf in the kitchen, the film is too expensive for them to be able to afford to keep it within reach, something which is only taken out on special occasions. Lance reaches for it with ease, takes it out of the case and flicks the cap off the lens. “I want us to be forever, exclusive, boyfriends. Something more than what we are right now.”
The flash of the camera is nearly blinding, Lance snapping a picture of the both of them at the moment he pulls Esteban closer, kisses him with fingers buried in his hair. He doesn’t know which grip is tighter, the one on his heart, or the one on the back of his head. He minds neither, yet longs for both at the same time.
“I want that too.” voice comes out rough, even a tad needy if he’s completely honest with himself. He can’t remember a time during which he hasn’t wanted exactly that, during which he hasn’t wanted anything Lance was willing to give him.
“You should have said so sooner.”
They end up in his single-person bed, a hickey on his throat and a bite mark on Lance’s bicep. Sheets discarded on the floor as they cuddle on the limited space, legs wrapped up together and his head resting on Lance’s chest. There’s snow outside, and the Polaroid camera is resting on the nightstand, scattered photos around it. Esteban likes the one where Lance looks at him as if he’s hung the moon best.
Fingers are playing with his hair, gently lulling him to sleep with soothing motions. He doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to miss a moment he could spend with Lance.
“When did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That you liked me.”
Lance lets out a sigh, continues to run his hands through lover’s hair, he takes a moment to answer the asked question. Maybe it’s only fair, Lance had rarely asked him a personal question which he could immediately answer. “Honestly? I don’t know, maybe when we were driving to Paris. Or maybe when you got all snappy at my party.”
He laughs, and Esteban can feel it rumble through his entire chest. Can feel the way his chest rises and falls, the way muscles move underneath the skin of his cheek. He’s never been happier. He’s never felt more alive.
“I think I’ve always loved you, just in different amounts, just in different stages. But that doesn’t mean that there was ever a time when I didn’t love you.”
*
Lance leaves for Melbourne in early March, he’s been gone a couple of days here and a few weeks there for testing and contract obligations, but every moment he wasn’t tied up with the team in another country was spent with Esteban. It’s weird, to love someone who’s always living in the spaces where time moves differently. Lance lives at parking lots and airports, moves from one factory to the next, while Esteban stays behind in the place where he’s grown roots.
Esteban is settled here, and Lance doesn’t get a chance to do so.
They told their parents somewhere in February, when sneaking around from one house to the other just to make sure they could steal kisses away from prying eyes was no longer enough. When the thrill of a quick hug before someone saw moved from a game to a genuine worry.
His parents were overjoyed, genuinely happy for their son’s happiness, while Lawrence just nodded and made Esteban sign a contract not to make things public until it was all agreed upon by all parties involved. He never thought that ‘all parties involved’ would have included the whole of Williams PR team, and yet, he had signed on the dotted line.
( TO: Lance Stroll. delivered ) One of these days I’ll fly out to spend a race weekend with you.
( FROM: Lance Stroll. received ) If you do, I won’t be able to focus on the results 😉
Pierre leans against the counter of the jewellery store, clearly bored beyond measure, glancing at his painted black nails. “Just pick something, fuck, Esteban. Hurry up, I have places to be.” he knew it was a wrong move when he’d asked Pierre to accompany him to buy a gift for their six-month anniversary, but it wasn’t as if he had many other friends to ask along, especially not any who felt like they could give their honest opinion about anything and everything.
“You think he’d like this?”
“I don’t know, he’s your boyfriend, and I’ve never met the guy.”
“You have, we all grew up together.”
“Must have blocked him from my memory, then. Just pick something, I’m waiting outside.”
Esteban ends up picking a small necklace, something which isn’t as bulky as the rest of them on display at the men’s section, something which isn’t just leather and iron. A silver chain, delicate between his fingers, and a tiny charm in the shape of a wrench.
It’s nothing if not a good joke.
It’s nothing if not a warped good-luck charm in its own right.
*
He flies out to Azerbaijan on a Tuesday. Knows Lance is already in Baku, the team isn't there yet, most of them have gone home to see their families during the break between the Shanghai race and this one. Esteban never knew how much a week meant, not until he was left counting days on scar covered fingers.
“Hey.” Lance greets him at the hotel door with a kiss, pulls him inside before anyone can see them. He isn’t out yet, not to the team, and most certainly not to the world. Lawrence has hinted that maybe it’s all a phase, maybe this is something that will pass. The venomous words of the girl with the damned bubblegum still ring in his ears in the moments right before he’s about to fall asleep.
He’s in Formula One now, he should surround himself with people who are good for his image .
Esteban knows he isn’t good for Lance’s image, debates if he’s even good Lance in general, doesn’t particularly care for ethics when hands move underneath lover’s shirt to feel skin. Not when mouth busies itself with leaving a trail of kisses slipping down toned stomach.
He’s twenty-one, and on top of the world when Lance pushes him onto the bed. He’s twenty-one, when back hits soft mattress and giggles are lost to the lips of the boy who he’s loved for most of his life. The necklace in his bag is nearly forgotten, rational thinking slipping like self-control when hands wander across his boyfriend’s back. Nearly, but not completely .
“I got you something - ” it comes out breathless. Sounds a lot more like a prayer than it has any right to do. He knows worship now, finds it on his knees looking up at Lance when time stands still for long enough when they can be together. “ - but you have to promise not to laugh.”
Lance rolls over, wraps arms around his waist to pull him along. The bed big enough to do so, soft enough not to feel a coil poking him in the ribs, too. “God, I hope it’s flavoured condoms?”
The silver looks good on him, it’s hidden well enough underneath the team polo when he poses for photos the following couple of days. Lance takes the attention with grace, bows his head to the vultures bearing cameras with a smile. Shows of the soft flesh of his neck, as if he expects for them to tear out his throat like a pack of hyenas. He doesn’t hold Esteban’s hand, though, as they walk down Baku’s streets. Esteban doesn’t expect him to, but that doesn’t mean that it hurts any less when he becomes aware of the emptiness resting in his palm.
At the end of the race on Sunday, Lance finishes P8. Not enough to get a podium, but he brings home the first points for the team in the season. He celebrates as if he’s brought home the trophy, and so do the people he’s surrounded with.
Esteban tells him he’s proud of him when he hugs him with the familiar open palm on the back and the pat on the shoulders. There’s nothing he wants to do more than kiss him at that moment, yet he knows better than to risk a stray flash of a camera. “You were amazing out there.”
His boyfriend is less concerned with the possibility of strangers watching, reaches out to cup his cheek and kisses him in the darkness of a secluded corner of the Williams garage. It must be the victory which is making him bolt, must be the thrill of it which makes him reckless.
“I love you.” he whispers it against Canadian’s lips. Places it into his hands like the points Lance has just earned for a team that doesn’t deserve his skill. “I really fucking love you, Lance.”