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He knew something had felt off. He normally did not shy away from his routine, even choosing the same food. However, last night the hotel had tempted him with something different. Perhaps going off piece and having a seafood dish hadn't been the right decision because Esteban had been tossing and turning all night, stomach cramping painfully. Nothing had come up— yet. It was the yet part that scared him.
He had hardly had any breakfast, plain toast and some water. He couldn't stomach much else, and that was a concern. It was as if a storm was brewing, waiting to boil over and ruin him. He could feel it coming, nausea that rolled over him in waves and the tightness in his stomach that had persisted consistently. He had mentioned it to the team in passing that he wasn't feeling too well, a precaution just in case things took a turn for the worse. He prayed that they didn't and the feeling would pass. The race was in just over an hour; he couldn't afford to be sick. Couldn't afford to miss out on potential points. It wasn't as if they could have someone jump in for him; he knew that he needed to breathe through the uncomfortableness and push to the very end.
Unfortunately, Esteban seemed to be the unluckiest driver that day.
He had been walking through the paddock when it truly hit him. His mouth filled with saliva and a pain so prominent in his abdomen that could only mean one thing. There were too many eyes, too many cameras, and not enough time. Luckily, he knew the paddock inside and out. He knew of quiet alleyways and the packed places to avoid.
Someone— a fan, journalist, photographer, he didn't know, called his name but Esteban was hurriedly heading towards a shrouded walkway that you had to duck under a strip of red and white tape to get into. He hoped whoever had tried to speak to him hadn't followed because as soon as he was out of the glare of the public, his stomach squeezed aggressively and he was bent over, gagging.
It all happened so quickly. Vomit rose past his throat, tearing at fragile skin until it pushed past his lips and splattered onto the floor. Some managed to land on his race suit, dirtying the already damp material. He groaned, eyes fluttering shut as he fought another round of nausea. There wasn't relief like there usually was after throwing up. Instead, the pain had rooted itself deep within him. Enough to make him double over again and cough up more. He attempted to wipe the line of spittle from his chin, the back of his hand smeared it across his skin.
"Hello? Are you okay?"
Shit. Shit. Fuck.
Esteban knew that voice. The husky French accent that he was intimately intertwined with. He would be laughed at, for sure. All it would take was for Pierre to have one look at his teammate, their relationship already sullied after the mess they had been through, and he would have the perfect blackmail material. He would tear him apart and Esteban didn't think he could even bring himself to bite back like usual. He was covered in his own vomit, drenched in sweat, and he would look feeble trying to snark back at Pierre.
"Esteban, what are—"
Pierre froze. Esteban froze. They both froze, tension thick.
Esteban was the first to move. He crouched, body turned away from his teammate, and leant his shoulder and head against the wall.
"Don't look at me," it came out wobbly.
Esteban was an F1 driver. He risked his own safety week in week out by choosing to go dangerously quickly around tracks, flying past corners, challenging himself each time. Yet here he was, reduced to a shaky mess on the verge of embarrassing tears. Pathetically crouched down next to his own puddle of vomit, stench rancid and stagnant.
"Esteban?"
"Don't look at me," he repeated, voice cracking. He curled in on himself even further. A hand was on his shoulder, helping him up despite Esteban's protests. "Leave me alone."
"No, not like this," Pierre's voice trailed off. "Merde, Esteban, okay, let's—" There was rustling, yet Pierre's hand hadn't left his shoulder. "Let me just do this."
A tissue wiped across his chin, picking up the gross residue. Then another one at the corner of his lips. It was too close. Too intimate. Yet Esteban couldn't back away without looking like more of a fool than he already did.
(A part of him longed for the contact, a forbidden memory he had previously locked away.)
Finally, he decided to stare at Pierre head-on; he opened his eyes. He was met with a concerned teammate studying him. Brows furrowed and his lips formed a tight line. His eyes sparkled with a thousand unsaid questions but instead he let his hand slip from Esteban's shoulder down to his wrist, heading in the opposite direction from which they came.
"Where are we going?" Esteban croaked; the uneasy feeling in his stomach had reappeared. Uncomfortably sat, a coil ready to unload.
"The back entrance to the motor home. Should be fewer eyes." Pierre said calmly, guiding Esteban off the path and quickly speeding up.
Esteban kept his head down. They passed several people. He couldn't bear to look any of them in the eyes. He could imagine the headlines now— stating how pathetic he was and what a mess he looked like. Being dragged by his teammate through the paddock, suit stained with vomit and tears threatening to spill. He bit his lip to stop any embarrassing noises from escaping. The smallest of whimpers made it past him, which had Pierre glancing back and tightening his grip on Esteban's wrist.
He thought he had heard Pierre tell a nosy journalist to fuck off, though he wasn't properly listening. He was too focused on breathing in through his mouth, out through his nose, and not spewing again.
Instead, he only realised where they were when Pierre helped strip him from his race suit. He had complained softly, with no real malicious intent behind it, when Esteban almost tripped attempting to pull it off his leg. Then he was pushed into a seat and noted he was in one of the driver's rooms in the motor home. Not his own. But Pierres.
"What are—"
"Here," he shoved a small bin into Esteban's hand before heading to the door, "I'm letting the team know."
"Wait—"
But the door shut and Pierre was gone, leaving Esteban with only his thoughts and a bin held tightly in his grasp. His stomach spasmed again.
He leant inward to rest his forehead against the rim of the bin, eyes closed. The strain between him and Pierre was tight. In his weakened state, he couldn't stop his mind from wandering to memories long ago and a past he tried to forget. With his mental fortitude slipping, he thought of himself and Pierre through the years.
The friendship formed as children. The days spent playing pranks on teammates and bosses. Days on track, sweating profusely but smiling proudly. To the wins, the losses, and everything in between.
To something… more.
He tried not to think about it but in the quiet of Pierre's driver's room, he couldn't stop himself. Late nights as he snuck through silent hotel corridors to get back to his room. Gentle looks from across the track. From warm holds to whispered words to the light filtering through curtains as the smell of breakfast cooking— fresh bread and the sizzling bacon— wafted through the air. A secret the two of them held, now fractured beyond fixing.
Esteban sometimes thought about how he could glue the shards back together. Repair what was once lost. It wouldn't be perfect. There would be sharp edges and small bits missing that he couldn't quite fit right. But they were never perfect to begin with and that was what had charmed him in the first place.
He shook his head, an attempt to rid the thought. No use holding onto hope that would only slip through his fingers. Not when they had exchanged such heated words and pointed jabs. With their relationship splayed out for the world to see, so pundits and reports could pick apart their lives and analyse how it somehow translated into the mistakes they made on track.
He felt tears prick the corner of his eyes, desperately trying to escape. His stomach twisted. He didn't notice the door open as he lurched, emptying the bile that rose up his throat. Hacking, his body trembled as another wave coursed through him.
"Hey," Pierre's voice was unusually soft. Esteban hadn't heard him use that tone in a long time.
Esteban tried to look up, to meet the other man's gaze, but all he could do was gag. He winced as more solids hit the plastic bag in the bin.
Pierre was next to him, his hand resting on Esteban's knee. "Let it all out, alright, Estie? You’ll be okay. Just let it out."
That was what did it. Estie. A nickname Pierre hadn't used for him in a long time. It was said quickly, as if Pierre himself was unsure whether he would utter it or not. But it was out there now. And with it, it held a thousand memories that pushed their way through them both.
Once the first tear had slipped past, the floodgates had opened. The emotional fragility of being ill was too much. Sobs tore their way through him, his sick, addled mind telling him he just needed to let go. His stomach still hurt, he felt ashamed, and he felt nostalgic for something he wished had never turned into nostalgia in the first place. He shook, full tremors, and let himself cry.
Pierre gently pried the bin from him, putting it on the floor. Close enough if they needed it again, but far enough to let Pierre pull Esteban up and lead him to the sofa. Then Pierre lowered them both, Esteban leaning against his teammate as they sat in silence, only his cries filling the space around them.
When they subsided, he sniffled, blinking away the fat tears still trying to hold onto his lashes. "Why are you being so nice to me?" He asked, voice quiet.
"Because it's you," Pierre responded as if it were that simple. As if their history was nothing. As if it meant no big deal to have his teammate, someone he had openly despised, tucked into the crook of his arm. Who was now reduced to a snotty mess. "I'm not a monster," he continued. "Even if sometimes we may act like monsters towards each other."
"The race—"
"Is soon, yes. You won't race." Pierre paused as if ready for Esteban to make an argument. He didn't have the energy to do so. That alone was enough of an answer to know he was not fit enough to get in his car. "But I can stay. Just for a bit."
So they sat. Pierre with his arm wrapped impossibly tight around Esteban's shaky form. It felt foreign but familiar in a mismatched way. He'd been here before, in this position, albeit it had been under very different circumstances.
"You will wait here," Pierre spoke suddenly, "and I will race, come back, then take you to my hotel room."
For a moment, Esteban thought he had heard it wrong. But he braved it and caught Pierre's eyes and saw the seriousness there. It was as if he was holding onto the glue too, shattered parts scattered between them. It felt like an offering to fix the assumed unfixable.
"Okay," he nodded. Pierre seemed content with the answer.
Eventually, there was a knock at the door and someone told Pierre he needed to go. Esteban shared one last look with him before his teammate got up from the sofa and stepped to the door.
"Wait," Esteban called.
This time, Pierre did. Esteban hesitated. Unsure why his food-poisoned state had him feeling so soft. But then the words were being blurted out of his mouth before he could stop them.
"I've missed you."
They saw each other almost every week. When they had training, media obligations, and a race all in the same week, it was a daily occurrence for them to run into each other. Though Esteban hadn't meant it like that, and he knew Pierre was aware of that too. It was deeper. Far deeper than either of them had imagined it could get. The glue to fix it all was out there for either of them to grab. Esteban was ready. Scared, but ready. He could try.
Pierre offered him a smile. The one Esteban was used to seeing sun-kissed by the morning glow as they untangled themselves from their bed covers. His eyes crinkled slightly, how they would when reflecting the stars as they sat on the balcony and shared each other's space.
"I've missed you too."
There it was. Both of them acknowledged the glue. Noticed the shards. Both of them looked, thought, and then said fuck it. Maybe second chances were there for a reason. Or perhaps third, fourth, fifth, considering the ups and downs of their past. But the glue was there. And they both saw that.
The door shut and Pierre went to race. Esteban sat in the driver's room and thought, all things considered, the food poisoning hadn't been all bad.