#LOVE THESE TWO DORKS

[avatar-wtf]

Me every time Kyoshi refers to Rangi as ‘her girl’ 🤭:

[aestheticforzoe]

Mikal & Pronce

[dionisdefiesta]

Thanks @diffindofanclub For inspiration 🤭

Sebastian: Can’t believe you told some nobody fifth year about the Scriptorium when I’ve been begging you for Merlin knows how long about it.

Ominis: Well, I still can’t believe that you just went ahead and showed some nobody fifth year the Undercroft, which we've sworn not to tell anyone about since first year.

Sebastian: ...

Ominis: ...

*** P.S.***

MC: Sometimes I can’t believe that I told you both about ancient magic and my abilities though proffesor Fig asked me not to do that as it could be dangerous for all of us. But here we are.

[fan-girls-r-us]

Ah, to hell with it; I have been thoroughly convinced to link some of my fanfiction here, so… here’s one of them. Edelgard/Hubert as a pairing especially is so close to my heart, and it would be so cool to find more people who love them too. So, uh, enjoy the fic I guess? Please be kind, I worked very hard on this 😂

[alwayscaskett810]

[dreaming-for-an-escape]

Blood and Thorns drabble. This is just part of the morning after Maeve’s and Robb’s wedding. The actual scene in the story will be much longer but I’m excited to share this with you all :)

“You’re not in any pain?” Robb asked worriedly.

Maeve could feel the spot of where she bled on the bed but it did nothing to make her cringe. Instead it was a reminder of how amazing she felt last night, albeit how odd and slightly discomforting it had been at first. Now she only felt the aftermath of her wedding night, and it wasn’t entirely painful.

“I feel sore but my mother told me that was to be expected.” Maeve shared, and right away wanted to hide under the covers. However she fought against her shyness, keeping eye contact with her new husband. Gods, his blue eyes were beautiful. She had stared at them all throughout last night. “But I am not in any pain, so please do not fret.”

Robb took a deep breath of relief before asking his next question. “But did you enjoy what happened between us?”

His question was asked so gently Maeve felt like doing twirls. She stuck with nodding her head, giggling under her breath. “I did quite a lot, husband.”

Robb’s heart fluttered, his blue eyes soft as ever while looking at her. “That makes me happy to hear, wife.”

Maeve’s heart skipped a beat hearing him call her that. She perfectly remembered him calling her that during a certain moment of passion. She bit her bottom lip. “That thing you did last night...”

“I did a lot of things last night.” Robb smiled, caressing her cheek. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Maeve leaned into his hand despite her blushing. “The thing you did with your mouth.” She lowered her voice, as if she thought someone would hear them. How silly to think so since she certainly hadn’t been too careful about being quiet last night.

“Ah, that.” Robb laughed lightly, more self-conscious. He kept his hand on her cheek while his face began to feel warmer.

Maeve moved to sit up against the headboard. She began fidgeting with the fur blanket covering her. “You’ve done that before?” She inquired, trying not to frown.

Robb followed her move, his bare chest for her to view. “No.” He was quick to let her know. She was his one and only. There would be no one else.  “I’ve never done that.” He blissfully admitted, heart still longing for her. “Last night was a night of firsts for me as well.”

Maeve was astonished to hear that. “But you were exceptional.” She blurted, face turning redder after realizing what left her mouth. “I mean, it seemed like you knew what you were doing.” She sheepishly added, her shyness finally getting to her. She nervously rubbed at her nose.

Robb found the action and her rambling to be endearing. “I’ve heard many conversations over the years.” Conversations mainly from Theon. He chuckled faintly. “Don’t be mistaken, men also like to talk. But I mainly based it off your reactions, so I thank you for that. Otherwise I wouldn’t have known I was doing it right.”  

Maeve’s face was probably red as a strawberry but that didn’t stop Robb from leaning over and kissing her gently on the lips.

[eilinelsghost]

Mark the line of my arm

An excerpt from Atandil Part 03: Unfriends

“It is like any natural process. Here,” he reached out and placed his hand against Balan’s cheek, “close your eyes and then set your hand over mine. Follow what happens within your mind as you do so.”

Balan hesitated for a moment, then let his eyes fall shut and raised his hand to rest tentatively over the Elf’s. He needed no injunction to note what passed within his thoughts and consequently sat in fear that the other might feel the pulse pounding through his skin.

“You did not need to look to place your hand. You knew where to meet my touch by instinct. By intuition, if you will. Now move your hand forward and follow my arm to my elbow.”

He did as instructed and let his fingers trace along the forearm, feeling the firm line of the radius beneath the fabric; a thin cloth, softer than any his people knew to weave, hardly a breath between the other’s skin and his. He focused to keep his breathing steady while attempting at once to observe whatever process of the mind he was meant to study.

“Good. You may open your eyes,” Finrod added with a smile and lowered his arm to rest once more across his lap. “The communication of thought is, in some sense, the same action. Your instinct directs you to the touch, your fëa—your spirit—knows to follow it as your fingers knew, sightless, how to mark the line of my arm without fumbling.” He pressed harder into the other’s thought than he would ordinarily. “Can you feel that touch? Or rather, do you see the image that I’ve set?”

“Yes,” Balan replied as the branches of a tall pear tree reared up through his perception with a surprising urgency. “I see a tree in flower with a low, white wall stretching behind it. The wind is blowing through its leaves.”

“That is placing your hand over mine. Now follow it back toward me, if you can.”

“How?”

“You have allowed me in already. And a door once opened, if there is willingness on each side, sets a path either may tread. Shift your focus and reach out with intent along that path. I will not bar the way.”

Balan concentrated on the gently moving branches. It was difficult to conceive of it as a path and not simply a foreign presence traipsing about his mind. Welcomed, yes, or at least not denied, but breaking in nonetheless. He focused once more and looked up into the other’s eyes, then reached out.

Finrod caught his breath. He thought he was familiar after these months of encountering each mind to glean their language, and yet having one reach out in return—having Balan reach out in return—sent an unexpected flood of sensations racing through his blood. There was an earthy rootededness in the brush of the other’s perception, a fumbling touch, at once rough and gentle. He had guessed through his own inspection that their hröar had a degree of prevalence, but this was something entirely different and beyond any framework he held in his own understanding. There was somehow a physicality even in encountering the other’s fëa and it took his breath away.

“Is this how it always is for you?” Balan’s voice was awed as he felt his way through the other’s thought. He could sense the restraint as well as the welcome and knew he was seeing only a small corner, a meticulously curated room laid out and fashioned for his viewing. But even that was overwhelming in its intimate vulnerability.

“It is,” Finrod replied, carefully holding his voice steady. “Openness is the natural state of any mind of the Mirröanwi, or rather it would be in an unmarred creation. Here, as we are, it is more often thus only between those who share affinity—kin, or those bonded in love and friendship.”

“This is uncanny,” Balan breathed as he looked about and Finrod felt again the fumbling touch within his mind. It reached the few memories he had selected and laid out, it passed through the curious fascination with these new creatures, his attempts to understand their ways, it grazed against the deep love he held for each of them, it paused.

Without warning, Finrod’s heart lodged in his throat. He had stopped breathing as Balan’s thought crossed the space of unique affection he occupied. A dear and fast friend, Finrod repeated to himself as he had each day, watching their companionship weave ever closer with dizzying speed, a brother unlooked for in the darkness. Yet even as he said it, he quietly closed off additional threads of his mind from the other’s view, unexpectedly timid in the face of inspection…

Read the full work on AO3 or SWG

[therealjarkes]

Kurt: Oh... um... (blushing profusely)

Juna: (winks) I see you’re enjoying the view.

Kurt: (desperate “help me” glance at the others)

Musse: Oooooh my...

Ash: Get a room, why don’t you?

Altina: (pulls out popcorn bag) Commencing popcorn consumption.

[sirpunsalct]

sirius and i are long-time partners, epic's new to the squad, heh

[darhknight]

The Twins

Otis (left) and Zara (right)

Before Zara's accident and Otis becoming presumed dead by like everyone. In the known universe. Including his dear twin.

[tojisun]

i just know and i feel it in my little heart. bimbo reader collects sonny angels. maybe she’s even made them little outfits and says one is simon and one is her. i feel like she’s the type to sew a little pocket on his tactical clothes so a little part of her is always with him 😭

HONEY OH MY GOD HONEY THIS IS ADORABLE?? THANK U FOR THE VISION BECAUSE SHE ABSOLUTELY DOES!! got a full collection and a mounted shelf for the lil cherubs n all thattt 🥹🫶🏼 god what a cutie

just imagine how excited you were when you first started collecting them and simon’s a little confused but he gives you his card anyway when you tell him you want to order more.

“they all have the same face, sweets,” he says, bending over to get a clearer view of your display case to see the little things. some have full outfits, while some are almost bare except for their hats, but even then – even with their different skin tones and eye colours and costumes – simon can’t shake off the oddity of seeing a singular expression from an intensive collection. “i don’t get it.”

then, his eyes catch onto a unique set. these two don’t have a plastic-style outfits and are, instead, decked out in little sewn clothes. one’s a wearing a pink dress, sparkly and made of laces, while the other one’s in a basic tactical gear – dark jumper, dark pants, a grey vest that’s fashioned to look like a bulletproof vest – and… a balaclava?

huh. that almost looks like-

“it’s us!” you chirp and simon, well, his heart quivers.

“yeah?” he asks, unable to look away at the little things, feeling so choked up at the affection and love that’s slamming against his ribs.

you hum in reply before your hand, slim and bejewelled, juts out to pluck the two of the dolls from the stand. simon straightens up and turns to face you at your beckoning.

“made ‘em ‘cause i missed you,” you mutter, batting your lashes up at him in a shy manner. you snagged your bottom lip between your teeth, nibbling in anxiousness, and simon simply melts.

“oh, lovie,” he croons as he cups your jaw with his palm, his lungs constricting when you instantly nuzzle into his hold. “they’re perfect. y’r perfect.”

he murmurs his thanks when you give him the doll that’s fashioned to look like you, gentle in his touch and reverent as he slides it into the chest pocket of his jacket.

“there she is,” simon murmurs, unaware of how his actions are making you tremble with love. “safe and sound by my heart.”

he chokes in surprise when you throw yourself at him, climbing him with experienced grappling, before cupping his cheeks and pulling him in for a kiss.

well. simon’s not complaining, that’s for sure.

-;

you bring simon-sonny around when you go out with your friends, plopping it beside your cocktail drink or beside your lil cup of ice cream, before asking your friend to snag a picture of you and the cherub to send to simon (who’s currently deployed).

to: simmy <3

us!!!! 💖🩷 <

and simon responds with a picture from his end, just a little selfie, almost blurry, the angle just enough to show simon looking up at the camera and the little sonny that’s perched inside his chest pocket – the one you diy-ed yourself.

from: simmy <3

> us :)

-;

CRYING THIS IS TOO CUTE!!! RAHHHHH nonbc im so sorry i rambled again 😭 i just. i have sm lil figurines (not specifically sonny) and i just love thinking about a s/o who cares sm they indulge u :’>

[tokibuns]

this...... this is peak disear content

So I just did this thing. It took about 9 hours X___X The toughest animation I’ve done yet, but loads of good practice and stretching myself. I might edit it later, but for now enjoy the sillyness. It makes no sense at all and I love it.

[peppermintquartz]

[sharpmidnight]

I'm reading Bagginshield fics, and my favorite thing is reading different types of courting and I'm totally getting way into it

Flower? Sure. Totally a hobbit thing

Gifts? Makes sense. And the different types? Makes it great. Rock? Bead? Mithril?

Gestures?

Food?

Actions?

Hair? Braiding? Touching hair?

Yes to all

But what i love most is accidental courting

One does said courting thing by accident

The other: Oh, he didn't mean that.....or did he

[jadesaturn]

wake up babes, Jess cooked up some pierresteban and it’s the sweetest thing you’ll ever read 🫶🫶🫶

heartbeats between us - gen pierresteban ( pg10 && eo31 )

“Pierre, something is wrong.” Pierre is, admittedly, half-asleep in his chair as he leans across the table Alpine has situated in their meeting room. To his chagrin, the meeting is finally over - but being approached willingly by Esteban isn’t something he had on his bingo card for today. Esteban is usually very good at keeping his distance, so Pierre’s brows furrow on instinct and he pulls off his headset to turn around and give Esteban his full attention. “What do you mean something is wrong?” Pierre asks, eyes darting up to give Esteban a quick once-over. Concern pulls at his chest as he takes note of Esteban’s pale skin and shallow breathing, and the slight tremble to his hands as he raises one up to run through his hair. Or: Esteban has a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

READ ON AO3

“Pierre, something is wrong.” 

Pierre is, admittedly, half-asleep in his chair as he leans across the table Alpine has situated in their meeting room. To his chagrin, the meeting is finally over - but being approached willingly by Esteban isn’t something he had on his bingo card for today. Esteban is usually very good at keeping his distance, so Pierre’s brows furrow on instinct and he pulls off his headset to turn around and give Esteban his full attention.

“What do you mean something is wrong?” Pierre asks, eyes darting up to give Esteban a quick once-over. Concern pulls at his chest as he takes note of Esteban’s pale skin and shallow breathing, and the slight tremble to his hands as he raises one up to run through his hair. 

“I don’t know, something feels bad. Wrong.” Esteban replies, unhelpfully, if Pierre is honest.

“You look like shit, why don’t you start with what feels bad exactly?” Pierre urges him, scooting his chair back so he can stand to his feet. He doesn’t understand why Esteban isn’t telling his physio about this instead - he would be much better suited to handle this situation than Pierre.

“I feel weak and tired. My chest is fluttering and my throat is tight.” Esteban says,and when he swallows, Pierre can pick up on the difficulty in the action. His eyebrows furrow deeper as he reaches up and presses the back of his hand to Esteban’s forehead. His skin is surprisingly cool, but Pierre can feel the clamminess of sweat building at his hairline. 

“Where is your physio? You look sick, but I don’t think you have a fever.”

“No, Pierre, this is -” Esteban stops himself, and Pierre immediately makes eye contact with him, taking note of the fear and surprise evident in Esteban’s expression. The rest of the sentence never comes - instead, Esteban presses a hand to the base of his throat and lets out a strangled sort of gasping noise.

Pierre’s blood runs cold in his veins. Esteban is having trouble breathing.

“Hey! Somebody call the doctor in here!” he yells, carefully placing a hand to Esteban’s shoulder and guiding him down into the chair Pierre had been sitting in only moments ago. “Now!”

Pierre pats lightly at Esteban’s face, quickly grabbing his attention. His eyes are still alert which is good, but the wheeze that comes with his breaths is worrying Pierre more than he would like to admit. He can’t see what would be obstructing Esteban’s breaths, but the wheezing is sharp and prominent and it’s only getting worse. “Hey, keep breathing. Nice and easy, okay?” 

Esteban nods, his lips slightly parted as he tries to pull air in through his mouth. It sounds horrible, and Pierre winces in sympathy. He presses a hand to Esteban’s chest and rubs softly, as if it might help him breathe somehow.

It doesn’t.

“Pierre…I can’t…” “You can,” Pierre immediately replies, keeping his hand on Esteban’s chest to steady him. “You can. Keep going. Keep breathing.” 

Esteban’s heartbeat feels quick but weak, just a gentle flutter against Pierre’s hand. His eyes widen slightly as the severity of the situation registers in his mind.

“Hey! Where is that doctor?” he yells out again, craning his neck to see if anyone is even around to hear him. A head pops in - Pierre immediately recognizes him as Francis, and his eyes widen when he takes in Esteban’s state.

“He’s on the way. Is Esteban okay?” Francis asks, and Pierre can tell he’s being as gentle as possible. Pierre looks towards Esteban’s frightened eyes, then back to Francis and shakes his head.

“No, I don’t know what’s wrong but he can’t breathe. His heart’s racing but it’s weak. We need the doctor now.” 

Francis nods, concern blossoming over his expression. “I’ll tell him to haul ass back here. Hang in there, okay?”

Francis is gone before Pierre can reply, which only brings a small measure of comfort. As soon as his attention is back on Esteban, though,  it dissipates in an instant. He’s gasping for air, one hand reaching at his throat as if something is in there blocking his airway. Pierre notices then the swelling in Esteban’s throat - subtle but distinguishable, and his heart drops to his feet. This is an allergic reaction to something, but he cannot for the life of him ever remember Esteban being allergic to anything. He never had issues when they were kids, nor during the time they’ve spent together at Alpine. 

He takes a deep breath and snaps his fingers in front of Esteban’s dulling eyes. “Look at me. Eyes on me, Esteban.” Pierre demands, and the panic that flutters in his chest when Esteban looks up and looks through him, tired and frightened, is almost overwhelming. “Do you have an epi-pen?”

Esteban looks confused for a second, just a fleeting moment, before shaking his head. “No. Never…had one.” He gasps out, his hand coming to rest right under Pierre’s on his chest. “Pi-Pierre, I can’t breathe.” 

“The doctor is coming.” Pierre says matter-of-factly, hoping to keep the concern and uncertainty out of his voice. Being calm for Esteban is crucial right now; and perhaps even for himself, too. “I know it is hard, but keep breathing. Keep trying.” 

Pierre watches Esteban’s face carefully, eyes trained on his expression to try and get a read on how he’s feeling. His eyes are dull and lifeless, something that is setting Pierre’s heart racing fast enough to be noticeable, now. Esteban is breathing but he’s barely breathing, and his heartbeat has only gotten quicker and weaker in the last few moments. “He will be here in a moment, it’s okay, Esteban.”

All Esteban does in response is blink at Pierre tiredly, slowly, like it’s far too much of an effort for his body to handle. Then, to Pierre’s horror, Esteban’s eyes flutter shut and they do not open back up again. His weight lolls forward, right into Pierre’s expectant arms, who catches him and gently lays him down on the floor so he doesn’t hit his head.

“Esteban!” 

Pierre immediately checks his breathing, ear hovering right above Esteban’s lips and listening intently for any sound - even the wheezing, hell, he would take the wheezing at this point. He listens, and listens, and listens, but not a single sound escapes Esteban’s lips. “Fuck. Fuck.”

A trembling hand reaches forward to Esteban’s neck, fingers pressing into the carotid artery in desperate search of a pulse. Pierre can feel something - something soft and weak - but he cannot differentiate if it’s the throbbing of his own pulse in his fingertips, or blood pumping through Esteban’s veins. He leans forward and rests his head against Esteban’s heart, listening even closer to his chest than he had for Esteban’s breathing a moment ago. He can hear it, just a fleeting heartbeat, so delicate and quick and uneven. He can hear it, and it brings him at least some modicum of relief.

That is, of course, until he hears it flutter, stumble, and then go completely silent inside of Esteban’s chest.

“Fuck! Help! Someone get that goddamn doctor in here now!” Pierre cries out, his voice urgent and desperate, “He’s not breathing! For fuck’s sake!” 

The idea of CPR hammers itself into Pierre’s frantic brain. CPR would be Esteban’s only chance until the doctor got here, even if it’s success rate is - well, he won’t think about that right now. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. It’s Esteban’s only hope, and Pierre, god help him, will do what he can. He isn’t officially certified, but he doesn’t care. Something is better than nothing. Something might keep Esteban here with him.

Pierre swallows thickly and threads his hands together, positioning them over Esteban’s heart. He remembers he needs to compress at 100 beats per minute, and hard. Hard enough that he could potentially break Esteban’s ribs. The idea is terrifying, but he can’t dwell on it. Focus. Focus. Deep breath.

And he begins. 

“One, two, three,” he counts under his breath, pushing with all his might against Esteban’s chest. “Four, five, six…” 

Somewhere around twenty compressions, Pierre hears footsteps rush into the room. He doesn’t look up, forcing himself to ignore them and focus only on Esteban. He is Esteban’s heartbeat right now, and that comes before anything else. Push. Push. Push. 

Even for as fit as he is, Pierre can feel the strain in his arms and the way his breaths come just a tiny bit faster and more shallow. It’s hard work, but he doesn’t care - he keeps pressing down on Esteban’s chest until he reaches 30, and then gathers himself to give rescue breaths. “Pierre, let me help.” A voice says from above them, and Pierre snaps his head up to see Francis is back in the room. “Doc is on his way, I swear it. Until he gets here, I’ll give Esteban breaths and keep an eye out for his pulse, you just focus on compressions until you need to switch with me.” 

He can’t seem to argue with that, offering a curt nod. He’s grateful for the help, and for the speed at which Francis delivers it. He watches Francis tilt Esteban’s head back, pinching his nose and breathing into his mouth as hard as he can. Esteban’s chest barely rises, fuck, Pierre had forgotten about the swelling in his throat - but it’s something, it’s going to have to be enough. 

“Go. I’ve got him.” Francis says, pressing his fingers to Esteban’s wrist. Pierre doesn’t need any more than that, he jumps right back into action and begins his next cycle of thirty chest compressions. 

“Come on, Esteban.” He pants out, counting the compressions in his head as he pushes against Esteban’s ribs with all his might. About ten compressions in, he hears the sickening sound of bones snapping and he has to fight back the bile that rises to the back of his throat. The sound isn’t even the worst part, it’s the giveaway of bones he feels beneath his hands as he continues to pump Esteban’s heart through them. He can physically feel the ribs creaking and groaning beneath his hands, and as one after another snaps, he can feel a soft pop followed by diminished resistance to his compressions and, god, if he had the ability to stop and process it right now he would absolutely be sick. 

“Keep going,” he hears Francis urge him to his left. “It’s okay, just keep going.” 

Keep going. Pierre can do that. His arms are aching and he’s out of breath, but he’s alive and he’s healthy and he has the means to work as hard as humanly possible to bring Esteban back. And how jarring it is, to see Esteban so helpless and weak - two things Pierre would never use to describe him in any other scenario. No, Esteban is strong willed and stubborn; he doesn’t give up, doesn’t back down, never has - not even when they were just kids.

Pierre looks up at Esteban’s face as he continues the compressions, and something churns in his gut. He sees that lanky, goofy kid he used to know years and years ago. The kid that made him laugh until his stomach hurt, but also ran him down hard on the karting track without showing a single ounce of mercy. He sees the boy that let Pierre into his kart for the first time, with a proud smile and warm words of encouragement falling from his lips. He sees an old friend, lost to time and various other personal complications that seem so goddamn small and frivolous now in the face of all there is to lose.

Pierre looks at Esteban’s face and sees someone he still viciously cares about, no matter how hard he’s tried to deny it. He sees someone his heart simply cannot give up, will not give up, despite the trials and tribulations they’ve put each other through in the years since their friendship ended.

He sees someone who, the world be damned, he wants back as his friend. Someone he would never let die, no matter the circumstance. Someone who deep, deep down in the far reaches of his soul he knows he loves and will always love.

And he compresses and compresses with every bit of strength left in his body, because Esteban will not die here, not like this, not now. It’s not his time. 

“Pierre?” 

He hears his name but wholly ignores it, not wanting to hear a word out of Francis’ mouth unless it’s to say he’s got a heartbeat. The likelihood of that is slim, so Pierre keeps going even as a third rib snaps beneath his palms.

“Pierre? Pierre, listen to me.” Francis insists, putting a hand on Pierre’s shoulder, firm enough as if he’s trying to stop the compressions.

Pierre shrugs him off violently, “No! I have to focus!” 

“Pierre, the doctor is here. You need to move so he can help Esteban.”

“No!” Pierre cries out, raw and guttural, from the bottom of his stomach. He sounds every bit desperate and devastated, still attempting to administer compressions as Francis tries to pull him off of Esteban. “Stop! I have to help him! He’s not breathing! He’s not - his heart-” 

“I know, I know, Pierre,” Francis soothes, using his strength to lift  Pierre up from Esteban’s body. Pierre thrashes, nearly loosening himself from Francis’ grip, but it’s just not enough. He doesn’t have the power left in his own body to free himself. “But the doctor has to do his job. He’s the best chance of saving Esteban right now.” 

“But I…I didn’t even…” Pierre pauses to try and catch his breath, his eyes snapping over to Esteban.

The team doctor is knelt over him, and Pierre watches as he administers something into Esteban’s body. God, he hopes it will help, he needs it to help. But why isn’t he continuing the compressions? “What are you doing? His heart stopped, he needs compressions, or… or something!” 

“Pierre, you have to let the doctor work. If you keep yelling he’s going to make you leave.” Francis calmly explains, tightening his grip around Pierre’s body. “You did it, okay? Those compressions saved his life. There was already a pulse when the doctor checked him over. You did it.” 

“No,” Pierre feels so breathless, so useless, so hopeless. That can’t possibly be true. “No, his heart was not beating.”

“But it is now. Because of you. Because you jumped into action so quickly and put all of your effort into those compressions.” 

Pierre takes a minute to let that information sink into his brain. His adrenaline is still high, his body and mind working overtime as Francis’ words process. Esteban’s heart is beating again, because of him. The strained arms and the cracked ribs and the effort - it was all worth it. He lets out a breath and deflates in Francis’ arms, becoming something akin to a ragdoll.

“My god. Is he breathing?” Pierre asks, never tearing his gaze away from Esteban or the doctor at his side.

“They just got him breathing.” Francis confirms, gently rubbing Pierre’s arm with one of his hands. “He’s back, Pierre. He’s here.”

Pierre’s body sags even further with relief, and he lets out a humorless chuckle as he surrenders all of his weight into Francis, “That fucking bastard. Thank God.” 

~~

It takes Esteban precisely two days and twelve hours to wake up after all is said and done. Not that Pierre is counting - he’s definitely not counting. He has not been sitting hopelessly by Esteban’s room for hours upon hours a day, waiting for this moment or anything. Two days and twelve long, painful hours before the nurses come out to let him know Esteban is awake, alert, and agreeable to company. 

It feels like so much longer, and Pierre almost doesn’t believe his ears when he hears it. Two days of filtering through worried text messages from other drivers in the paddock (namely Lance and Charles, though Fernando has sent his fair share of texts and so has Max), and awkward interactions with Esteban’s parents who had flown in immediately upon hearing the news. They are nice people, really, it’s just been so long since he’s had any positive interactions with them that when Laurent came in for a hug, Pierre hadn’t been fairly certain how to react, and Sabrina’s kisses to his cheeks still burn warm even hours after the fact. 

It’s all a bit overwhelming, and Pierre of course let them go visit their son first and foremost. But if he’s honest, he’s chomping at the bit to go in and make sure Esteban is okay with his own eyes after everything that’s happened. 

And yet, now that it is finally his turn, his palms are sweating and he finds himself at a loss of what to say or do when he’s finally face to face with Esteban.

“He’s eager to see you.” Sabrina tells him softly, her touch on his shoulder warm and comforting, similar to his own mother’s. “Don’t worry.”

Pierre nods at her words, swallowing a lump in the back of his throat as he reaches out and opens the door to Esteban’s room. Almost immediately, Esteban’s eyes are fastened directly on him, and his breath catches in his lungs. He closes the door behind him, and takes a few steps towards the bed as he tries to ignore the echo of his heart pounding in his ears.

“You’re awake.” “I am.” Esteban agrees, smiling up at Pierre tiredly. “I have heard you are the one to thank for that?” 

Pierre clears his throat, looking down at the blankets on Esteban’s bed and nodding softly. “You don’t have to thank me, though.”

“Thank you, Pierre.” He says anyway, and it stirs up something warm and comforting in Pierre’s belly. “You saved my life. That more than deserves thanks.”

“I think you would have done the same for me.” Pierre says carefully, not wanting to put words in Esteban’s mouth. “I’m just glad you’re okay now.”

Esteban nods, leaning his head back into his pillows and sucking in a deep breath. Pierre watches his chest rise with the action, and it's relieving to see him breathing so easily. Above the bed, the monitor tracking Esteban’s heartbeat is beeping very softly and gently to indicate the rate and rhythm of his heart, and it’s all so unbelievably comforting to Pierre to see for himself that Esteban truly is okay. 

“Sorry you had to do it. I had no idea what was wrong and you were the closest person.” Esteban explains, and Pierre can detect something like guilt in his tone.

“Don’t apologize for that. I’m glad you reached out for help at all. I know you are sometimes too stubborn for your own good.” Pierre says, meeting Esteban’s gaze with a knowing smirk. 

“Yeah, well, I’m just glad I reached out to the right person. When did you learn CPR anyway?”

Pierre chuckles at that, shaking his head as he settles himself down in the chair next to Esteban’s bed. “I’m not certified. I just got really fucking lucky.”

“No, I got really fucking lucky.” Esteban jokes, though his chuckle sounds more half-hearted than anything. Pierre knows it’s just because he’s tired and probably still a bit disoriented. He can’t imagine how he might feel if he woke up only to hear his heart had stopped and his childhood ex-friend was the one to restart it. 

“You should probably get more rest. More people are going to want to come visit you soon now that you’ve woken up.” Pierre reaches out on instinct, grabbing Esteban’s blanket and pulling it up over his arms. “Do you need anything before I go?” 

“No. Just for you to stay a little longer.” Esteban replies, looking over at Pierre with something indistinguishable written into his features.

Pierre feels his heart freeze momentarily in his chest, not expecting Esteban to want him to stay. And hell, he’s been here for nearly two days - what would a few more hours hurt? Especially if it would help Esteban to relax.

“Yeah, I can stay a little while. Just make sure you get some rest.”

Esteban smiles at him, and Pierre’s stomach does flips. Rude of it, honestly, to react that way without his express permission. After a moment, Pierre smiles back, watching as Esteban’s eyes flutter shut.

“Thank you, Pierre.” 

Pierre clears his throat and leans forward a bit in his chair, reaching out to tousle Esteban’s hair affectionately. “You’re welcome. Just never do that to me again, okay?”

Esteban grins, letting out a soft, amused breath through his nose. “I’ll do my best.”

He falls asleep only moments later, and Pierre listens to each and every breath that enters and leaves his lungs as he sleeps.

It’s all the proof Pierre needs to know that Esteban is truly going to be okay.

[daouoffroads]

This is Ton. He's my best man.