#forgive me estie I might have make more typo of your name more than anyone HELP

[bluenerdtastemaker]

We Miss You.

Esteban Ocon x Pierre Gasly x Charles Leclerc | G-rated | 8.9K

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warning: none except Esteban name typos. I am sorry and proceed with caution cause I have lost my soul re-edit this fic already. 😭

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One would say "Don’t give up because your dream will become reality!". But for some, they would say "Don’t give up, because everything will work out someday, even if your dream is forever dream."

--

--

Life does not always go your way, does it? Especially when your dream suddenly becomes just that—a dream, forever out of reach.

“Mr. Ocon, this is Mr. Gasly. He will be the man you will manage for the future.”

And it hurts even more when your best friend, your childhood partner-in-crime, is the one living that dream, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces.

My name is Esteban Ocon. I’m 28 years old, and I am my childhood rival's manager.

--

Esteban had long since perfected the art of masking his emotions. His handshake with Pierre was firm, professional—barely trembling.

Pierre’s familiar blue eyes sparkled, as if to say, Can you believe this? But Esteban could only force a tight smile. He already knew what Pierre would say. It was the same thing he used to say when they were kids, sitting in the stands at Le Mans, dreaming of a future together in F1.

We made it.

Except we hadn’t made it. Only one of them had.

Toto Wolff had saved Esteban. At fifteen, when his family’s caravan leaked in the rain, when his shoes had holes he couldn’t afford to patch, Toto swooped in with a promise: funding, education, a future. But even Toto couldn’t work miracles. Mercedes had no seat for him, no chance to race.

Instead, Toto gave him a job: managing Nico Rosberg. Esteban had never dreamed of this life—lugging schedules, fixing PR disasters, standing on the sidelines as others raced his dream—but it was work. It was steady. His family had a house now. His mother didn’t have to worry about dinner. For the first time, life didn’t feel like a struggle to survive.

And yet, no amount of success in his career could fill the gnawing void inside. He hated himself for the resentment that still festered, for the late nights when he stared at Pierre and Charles’s photos in their race suits, for the way their podiums felt like knives.

By 2024, Esteban Ocon was no stranger to the paddock. He wasn’t the scrappy, desperate teenager Toto Wolff had taken under his wing nearly a decade ago. He was one of the most respected managers in Formula 1, known for his sharp mind, calm demeanor, and ability to handle the most chaotic personalities.

“Gasly,” Esteban murmured, the name catching on his tongue like a thorn. His voice didn’t waver, but inwardly, his chest tightened. Of all the drivers, of all the possibilities—why Pierre?

Pierre Gasly, his childhood best friend turned distant memory. Pierre, who was supposed to be his partner in chasing their shared dream of F1. Pierre, who had made it while Esteban had been left behind, scrambling to make a name for himself in the shadows of the sport.

--

Pierre froze, champagne flute halfway to his lips, the confident smirk he wore like armor slipping just slightly. Of course, he’d heard about Esteban Ocon over the years—how could he not? The man had become one of the most sought-after managers in Formula 1. But Pierre had never imagined, not for a second, that their paths would cross like this.

And yet, here they were.

Esteban didn’t flinch, his expression betraying nothing as he shook hands with Alpine’s team principal. “Looking forward to it,” he said smoothly, his tone professional, as if Pierre wasn’t standing right there, staring at him.

“Gasly,” Esteban said finally, turning to him with a polite smile. It was sharp enough to feel like a slap.

“Ocon,” Pierre replied, his voice tight.

They shook hands, the grip firm but cold. Pierre couldn’t stop himself from looking for cracks in Esteban’s carefully composed façade. There were none. The man in front of him wasn’t the boy Pierre had known—his childhood best friend, his karting partner, the one he’d competed with and against for everything. This Esteban was polished, distant, untouchable.

--

The tension between them was impossible to ignore, though Esteban acted like nothing was out of the ordinary.

“I’ll be in touch with your PR team tomorrow,” Esteban told Pierre after their first meeting, his tone clipped, professional. “I’ll need a detailed schedule and—”

“You’re really going to do this?” Pierre interrupted, his voice low.

Esteban raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“Act like we don’t have... history,” Pierre said, his jaw tightening.

Esteban’s expression didn’t change. “We’re professionals, Gasly. That’s all that matters.”

Pierre tried not to let it get to him. He was a driver, after all. His focus was on the car, the track, the next race. But Esteban’s presence was a constant reminder of everything they’d been—and everything they’d lost.

They hadn’t spoken in years, not since their friendship had disintegrated into rivalry. Pierre had gone on to F1, and Esteban... Esteban had disappeared, only to resurface as a rising star in the world of management.

“Never thought you’d end up here,” Pierre said one evening, cornering Esteban after a team briefing.

“And where’s ‘here,’ exactly?” Esteban asked, his voice calm but his eyes hard.

“Managing me,” Pierre said. “After everything.”

Esteban’s lips twitched into something that might have been a smirk. “Trust me, Gasly, I didn’t ask for this. But I’m here to do a job, and I’ll do it well. What you think about it doesn’t matter.”

--

Esteban buried himself in work. It was what he did best—organize, strategize, keep things moving. He worked late into the night, assembling Pierre’s media schedule, reviewing footage from past races, and liaising with Alpine’s engineers. Every meeting with Pierre was curt and professional.

There were moments when the awkwardness was almost tangible, like the way Pierre hesitated before signing off on a document or how Esteban carefully avoided making eye contact for too long. But they both kept their distance, unwilling—or unable—to confront what lingered between them.

The paddock wasn’t kind to sentimentality, and Esteban had learned long ago how to suppress his own.

--

By the end of the week, Esteban had just started to find a rhythm. Then Charles Leclerc showed up.

Esteban saw him first, striding down the corridor toward Alpine’s hospitality suite. Charles looked the same as always—bright-eyed and effortlessly charming, his Ferrari-red uniform a stark contrast to the muted blue of Alpine. His smile widened when his gaze landed on Esteban.

“Estie!” Charles exclaimed, his voice cutting through the noise.

Esteban blinked. No one had called him that in years—not since karting days, when Charles, Pierre, and Esteban were inseparable.

Charles didn’t hesitate, pulling Esteban into a quick, warm hug before stepping back. “It’s so good to see you again!”

Esteban froze for a moment, unsure of how to respond. The kindness in Charles’s voice, the familiarity of his nickname—it stirred something he thought he’d buried.

“Leclerc,” he said finally, his tone neutral.

Charles rolled his eyes, unimpressed. “Don’t give me that. We’re not strangers.”

“I’m surprised you remember,” Esteban replied, a touch of bitterness slipping through before he could stop it.

Charles frowned, his smile fading slightly. “Of course, I remember. You, me, and Pierre—we were a team once.”

“That was a long time ago,” Esteban said quietly, glancing away.

“Doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten,” Charles replied, his voice softer now. “I always wondered what happened to you.”

Esteban opened his mouth to respond, but Pierre appeared then, stepping into the suite and interrupting the moment. His gaze flicked between them, his expression unreadable.

“Am I interrupting something?” Pierre asked, his tone casual but sharp enough to cut.

Charles turned to him, his smile returning. “Just catching up with Estie.”

Pierre’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. “Is that what we’re calling him now?”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “It’s what I’ve always called him.”

Esteban straightened, slipping back into his professional demeanor. “We should get going, Gasly. You’ve got media duties.”

Pierre didn’t move right away. His eyes lingered on Esteban, something unspoken passing between them before he nodded. “Lead the way.”

--

Later, as Esteban reviewed notes in his temporary office, he couldn’t shake the memory of Charles’s words.

I always wondered what happened to you.

It wasn’t like anyone else had asked. He knew Pierre never had, even after they’d drifted apart. And maybe that hurt more than he cared to admit.

Charles had always been the heart of their trio—the glue that held them together when competition and ambition threatened to tear them apart. And even now, years later, he still had a way of making Esteban feel like the kid he used to be: hopeful, determined, unbroken.

For the first time in years, Esteban allowed himself a moment of relief. Maybe he hadn’t completely disappeared from their lives after all.

--

The night was quiet, the Alpine paddock deserted except for a few staff tidying up after the day’s chaos. Charles and Pierre sat in a corner of the hospitality suite, away from prying eyes and listening ears. A bottle of wine sat between them, half-empty, their glasses untouched for the past few minutes.

Pierre stared at the floor, his mind tangled with memories of the past he tried so hard to bury. He hadn’t meant to bring Esteban up, but the mere sight of him—composed and polished—had stirred something. Something complicated.

Charles, always perceptive, broke the silence.

“Esteban’s working with you now, isn’t he?”

Pierre flinched, caught off guard. He swirled the wine in his glass but didn’t drink it. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low. “Surprise of the season, huh?”

Charles tilted his head, studying Pierre carefully. “You didn’t know?”

“Of course, I didn’t know.” Pierre let out a humorless laugh. “You think they consulted me before assigning him?”

Charles shrugged. “I thought maybe you two had… patched things up.”

Pierre snorted, shaking his head. “Patched things up? I don’t even know what we are anymore, Charles. Best friends? Rivals? Strangers?”

“You tell me.”

Pierre’s hand tightened around his glass. “We haven’t spoken in years. Not since…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “Not since he left.”

Charles hummed softly, leaning back in his chair. “You mean since he didn’t make it to F1 and you did.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken truths. Pierre didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the wine swirling in his glass.

“You still care about him, don’t you?” Charles asked, his tone gentle but direct.

Pierre’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

Charles gave him a knowing look, the kind only someone who’d grown up alongside him could pull off. “Come on, Pierre. You’ve been on edge all week. You keep glancing at him during meetings, avoiding him after. And when I mentioned him earlier, you didn’t even deny it.”

Pierre opened his mouth to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. He hated how easily Charles could see through him, how he always seemed to know what Pierre was feeling before Pierre himself did.

“It’s complicated,” Pierre said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Charles leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You used to be inseparable. You, me, and Esteban—always together, always looking out for each other. What happened?”

“Rivalry happened,” Pierre muttered. “We were kids, Charles. Kids who wanted the same thing. And when I got it, and he didn’t…” He trailed off, his throat tightening. “We stopped talking. I didn’t know how to face him, and he didn’t want to be around me.”

Charles nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “And now he’s back in your life, whether you like it or not.”

Pierre let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “He’s different now. He’s… cold. Professional. Like he’s built this wall around himself, and I don’t know how to get past it.”

“Maybe he’s protecting himself,” Charles suggested. “From you, from the sport, from everything that hurt him.”

Pierre looked away, his chest tightening. He hated how much sense that made.

“You still care,” Charles said again, softer this time. “Admit it.”

Pierre didn’t answer, but the silence was enough. Charles smiled faintly, leaning back in his chair.

“Maybe it’s time to stop being rivals,” he said. “And start being friends again.”

Pierre let out a bitter laugh. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” Charles admitted. “But if anyone can figure it out, it’s you two.”

Pierre didn’t respond, but deep down, he knew Charles was right.

The weeks turned into months, and the dynamic between Esteban and Pierre remained frustratingly professional. Their work together at Alpine HQ was smooth, efficient, and seamless. Pierre was delivering consistent results on track, and Esteban’s reputation as a sharp, effective manager only grew.

But despite their outward success, there was no warmth between them. Their conversations rarely strayed beyond racing strategies or PR obligations, and the unspoken tension between them hung like a heavy curtain.

It wasn’t until a quiet evening at Alpine’s headquarters in Enstone that something unexpected happened.

Esteban was sitting in his office, a neat, minimalist space filled with the hum of his computer. The long hours were nothing new to him; they kept his mind occupied and his emotions at bay. He was reviewing Pierre’s schedule for the upcoming week when the door opened without a knock.

Pierre stepped in, dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, his usual confident demeanor intact. Without saying a word, he placed a small bag on Esteban’s desk.

Esteban glanced up, surprised. “What’s this?”

Pierre shrugged, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “Just take it.”

Frowning, Esteban set his laptop aside and opened the bag. Inside was a brightly colored wrapper, unmistakable even after all these years. His breath caught.

The candy.

It was the same candy Pierre had always shared with him when they were kids—back when Esteban couldn’t afford luxuries like this, living out of a leaking caravan with his family. Pierre had never made a big deal of it, always slipping him a piece with a grin as if it were nothing.

“Why are you giving me this?” Esteban asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Pierre’s smirk softened into something more genuine, almost hesitant. “Saw it at a shop the other day. Thought of you.”

Esteban stared at the candy, his chest tightening with a mix of nostalgia and something heavier. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Pierre said quietly. “But I wanted to.”

The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken words.

“Do you remember?” Pierre asked, his voice softer now. “How much you loved those? You’d always save them, make them last as long as possible.”

Esteban’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though he kept his gaze on the wrapper. “Yeah, I remember.”

Pierre took a step closer, his tone gentle. “You don’t have to act like we’re strangers, Ocon. Not here. Not with me.”

Esteban’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

Pierre sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “This whole... thing. Acting like we don’t know each other when we used to be—” He cut himself off, his expression tightening. “Look, I know things went wrong between us. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Esteban clenched his jaw, his eyes dropping back to the candy. “We’re professionals, Gasly. That’s all that matters.”

“You really believe that?” Pierre asked, his voice low, almost sad. “That it’s all just about the job?”

Esteban didn’t answer. The candy in his hand felt heavier than it should have, the memories it carried weighing down on him.

Finally, he unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth. The familiar sweetness hit him instantly, the taste unchanged after all these years. For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting himself savor the memory.

“Still good?” Pierre asked, his voice lighter now.

“Still good,” Esteban admitted quietly, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.

For the first time in years, the tension between them seemed to ease, just a little. And as Pierre turned to leave, he hesitated at the door. “You’re not as hard to figure out as you think, Esteban,” he said softly before disappearing down the hall.

Esteban sat in his quiet office, the candy melting on his tongue. And for the first time in a long while, the ache in his chest didn’t feel quite so unbearable. Wait, did he said Estaben?

The dynamic between Esteban and Pierre shifted in subtle, almost imperceptible ways over the following weeks. They still called each other "Ocon" and "Gasly," but there was a softness to their interactions now, a lingering in their conversations that hadn't been there before.

Esteban noticed it most in the way Pierre looked at him—how his eyes lingered a little too long during meetings, how his gaze softened when he thought Esteban wasn’t paying attention. It made Esteban’s chest tighten, though he told himself it was nothing.

It wasn’t nothing.

He caught himself looking back just as often, his professional mask slipping more and more with every shared glance. There was something in Pierre’s expression that felt familiar yet foreign, a warmth Esteban hadn’t dared to hope for in years. Longing, maybe? Or was that just wishful thinking?

--

It was during a particularly chaotic weekend at the Austrian Grand Prix that things took another unexpected turn. Esteban had just finished coordinating media obligations for Pierre and was taking a rare moment to breathe in the Alpine hospitality suite when Charles Leclerc walked in, all effortless charm and boyish smiles.

“Estie!” Charles greeted, his voice warm as ever, the nickname slipping out as easily as it had years ago.

Esteban stiffened, glancing around to see if anyone had overheard. Charles didn’t care—he never had—and it was one of the reasons Esteban had always liked him, even if his openness could be overwhelming.

“Charles,” Esteban said, nodding politely.

“I was looking for you,” Charles said, ignoring the stiff formality. He leaned casually against the table, glancing over at Pierre, who was talking to some engineers a few feet away. “We’re flying back to Monaco tonight on my jet. You should join us.”

Esteban blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“My jet,” Charles repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You and Pierre can come. There’s plenty of space.”

Esteban hesitated, his mind racing. For months, he’d taken regular commercial flights after races, returning to his modest routine while Pierre occasionally joined Charles on his private jet. The two of them had always been close, their friendship easy and unshakable in a way Esteban could never quite relate to.

“I don’t know...” Esteban began, but Charles cut him off with a laugh.

“Oh, come on, Estie. It’s about time you joined us. You work too hard. Besides, I already told Pierre, and he didn’t object.”

Esteban glanced over at Pierre, who had finished his conversation and was now walking toward them. His expression was unreadable, but when Charles brought up the jet again, Pierre simply shrugged. “It’s up to you, Ocon.”

The way Pierre said it—calm, almost indifferent—grated on Esteban’s nerves. But there was something else in his tone, something subtle, like he was daring Esteban to say yes.

“Fine,” Esteban said before he could overthink it.

Charles beamed, clapping him on the back. “That’s the spirit!”

--

The flight back to Monaco was calm at first, the soft hum of the engines filling the luxurious cabin. Esteban sat by the window, his eyes fixed on the darkening sky, while Charles and Pierre exchanged light banter across the aisle. It was peaceful—too peaceful.

“Do you remember that karting race in Lyon?” Charles asked suddenly, leaning forward with a mischievous grin. “The one where you crashed into me?”

Pierre groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You always bring that up! It wasn’t my fault—you cut the corner!”

“I won that race, didn’t I?” Charles shot back, his tone smug.

“Barely.”

Esteban couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. For months, he had observed them from a distance—behind glass walls in Alpine HQ, in the paddock, during debriefs. They always seemed so natural together, their banter easy and familiar. Now, up close, it was even more intense.

“You were so smug that day,” Pierre added, pointing at Charles. “You couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks.”

Charles laughed, a genuine, infectious sound that made Esteban’s chest ache. “Because I beat both of you. Admit it, Ocon, you were pissed.”

Esteban blinked, startled to be brought into the conversation. He glanced at Charles, whose smile was warm and teasing.

“I was annoyed,” Esteban admitted. “But only because you wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“See?” Pierre said, gesturing to Esteban like he’d just proved a point. “He gets it!”

Charles grinned, his eyes sparkling. “And yet, you still came back the next weekend, ready to lose again.”

“Bold words,” Esteban shot back, surprising even himself with the sharpness in his tone.

Pierre laughed, low and genuine, and something in Esteban’s chest twisted. He looked away, trying to steady himself, but then Charles leaned closer, his elbow brushing against Esteban’s arm.

The three of them fell into a rhythm, their conversation flowing naturally for the first time in years. Esteban was cautious at first, unsure of where he fit between them, but Pierre and Charles were persistent, pulling him into their memories, their jokes, their world.

And that’s when it hit him.

It wasn’t just the way they spoke to each other, the easy back-and-forth that came from years of familiarity. It was the way they looked at each other—Pierre’s gaze softening when Charles laughed, the subtle brush of Charles’s hand against Pierre’s arm as he made a point. It was in the way they existed together, a quiet intimacy that Esteban had tried not to notice for months.

But now he couldn’t ignore it.

Oh, Esteban thought, his stomach sinking.

Oh, no.

He shifted in his seat, suddenly hyper-aware of everything. Of Charles’s arm still resting against his. Of the way Pierre’s gaze flicked to him every so often, like he was checking to make sure Esteban was still part of the conversation.

Oh, no.

It wasn’t just them. It was him, too.

He’d caught himself staring before, watching them through the glass walls of the paddock, wondering what it would feel like to step into their world. He’d told himself it was just envy—that he missed the camaraderie, the closeness they used to share. But now, with Charles laughing beside him and Pierre’s eyes lingering on his, Esteban felt the weight of something far more complicated.

Oh, shit.

The realization hit him like a freight train. He had feelings for them. Both of them.

Esteban swallowed hard, his throat dry. He forced himself to focus on the conversation, but his mind was racing. How long had this been building? How had he not noticed?

“And what about you, Estie?” Charles asked suddenly, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts.

Esteban blinked, his heart pounding. “What?”

“What was your favorite karting memory?” Charles asked, tilting his head. His smile was soft now, more curious than teasing.

Esteban hesitated, glancing between them. Pierre’s expression was unreadable, but there was a quiet intensity in his gaze that made Esteban’s pulse quicken.

“I don’t know,” Esteban said finally, his voice quieter than he intended. “Probably the time I managed to beat both of you.”

Pierre snorted. “That happened once.”

“And I made sure to savor it,” Esteban shot back, his lips twitching despite himself.

Charles laughed, and for a moment, the tension in Esteban’s chest eased. But as the conversation continued, he couldn’t stop himself from noticing the way his heart ached every time they looked at each other—or at him.

--

At some point, Charles got up to grab a drink, leaving Esteban and Pierre alone.

“Comfortable?” Pierre asked, his voice low.

Esteban glanced at him, surprised. “It’s fine.”

Pierre’s lips twitched, but he didn’t press. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, his eyes lingering on Esteban a little too long.

Esteban looked away, his heart pounding. What was he supposed to do with that? With Pierre looking at him like... like he mattered?

“Thanks for coming,” Pierre said suddenly, his tone softer.

Esteban frowned, turning back to him. “Why are you thanking me? It was Charles who invited me.”

Pierre shrugged, his gaze steady. “Yeah, but you didn’t have to say yes.”

Esteban opened his mouth to respond, but Charles returned, plopping down at his seat and breaking the moment.

As the jet continued its journey, Esteban couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted again—something he wasn’t sure he was ready for. But as Pierre’s, and now Charles's gaze met his across the cabin, that unspoken warmth still there, Esteban wondered if he was already in too deep to stop it.

By the time the jet landed in Monaco, Esteban felt like he was coming apart at the seams. Whatever this was—this tangled mess of old friendships, rivalry, and newfound feelings—it was going to destroy him.

--

The days after the flight were brutal. Esteban tried to convince himself he was overreacting, that this was just a passing phase of misguided longing. But every time he saw Pierre and Charles together, laughing in a way that felt too intimate, too familiar, the knot in his chest tightened.

And then he saw it—confirmation, the thing he had tried to avoid acknowledging.

It was a quiet moment in the Alpine hospitality, long after most of the team had gone home for the night. Esteban had returned to grab a document he’d forgotten, only to pause when he saw them through the glass wall of Pierre’s office.

Charles was leaning against Pierre’s desk, his arms crossed, a soft smile on his face as Pierre spoke. The air between them was charged in a way that wasn’t platonic, their body language closer, more comfortable than friends typically allowed. And then, just as Esteban told himself to look away, Charles reached out, brushing a hand against Pierre’s cheek, and Pierre leaned into the touch.

Oh, they’re together.

The realization hit him harder than he expected, an ache settling deep in his chest. Of course, they were together. It made sense. They fit. They understood each other in ways Esteban would never fully grasp.

He turned and walked away before they could notice him, the tightness in his chest growing heavier with every step.

--

The following weeks were hell. Esteban threw himself into his work, keeping interactions with Pierre as brief and professional as possible. He stopped lingering in Alpine’s hospitality and made excuses to avoid any gatherings where Charles might be present. It was easier to stay away, easier to keep his feelings locked up tight where they couldn’t hurt anyone.

But Pierre noticed.

“Ocon, you’ve been avoiding me,” Pierre said one afternoon, cornering him after a debrief.

“I’ve been busy,” Esteban replied curtly, not meeting his eyes.

Pierre frowned, crossing his arms. “Too busy to even grab a coffee? We used to talk, you know. What’s going on?”

Esteban clenched his jaw, keeping his gaze firmly on the floor. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t let Pierre see the cracks in his armor.

“Nothing’s going on,” he said stiffly. “I’m here to do a job, Gasly. That’s all.”

Pierre’s eyes narrowed, the frustration evident on his face, but he didn’t press further. Esteban left before he could say something he’d regret.

The worst part wasn’t the avoidance or the guilt; it was the way his feelings refused to go away, no matter how hard he tried to bury them. Every time he saw Pierre smile, every time Charles laughed, every time they stood too close, the ache in his chest grew sharper.

He felt like a homewrecker, even though he’d done nothing to act on his feelings. Just the knowledge that he felt this way was enough to make him hate himself.

And yet, despite everything, he couldn’t bring himself to fully pull away. Some part of him still craved their presence, still wanted to be part of their world, even if it meant tearing himself apart from the inside out.

--

One night, after another long day at the paddock, Esteban found himself sitting alone in his hotel room, staring at the ceiling. The thoughts he’d been avoiding all day came rushing in, hitting him like a tidal wave.

You’re ruining this.

You’re going to destroy what they have.

They’re happy. You don’t belong in this.

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to block out the spiral. He needed to get over this. He needed to move on.

But how could he, when every interaction with them—every stolen glance, every accidental brush of hands—only made his feelings stronger?

--

The weeks after the realization were suffocating. Esteban’s attempts to distance himself were starting to feel like living in a glass box—he could see them, but they were untouchable, unreachable. Every time Pierre looked at him, it was with an unspoken question, but Esteban couldn’t meet his gaze. Every time Charles smiled at him, it felt like a dagger wrapped in warmth.

He couldn’t stand it. The tension had thickened between them like an unspoken barrier, and Esteban had built walls around himself that even he couldn’t break down. It wasn’t just avoidance anymore; it was an inability to be in the same space without feeling like he was suffocating. He couldn’t look at Pierre without remembering their shared past, the way they’d been inseparable—until they weren’t. He couldn’t look at Charles without knowing that the warmth he once felt for him was now something unrecognizable, a twisted version of what used to be friendship.

His life felt like a delicate balance between duty and overwhelming pain. He tried to focus on work, but his mind would inevitably wander to the same thoughts, the same unanswered questions. Could he keep going like this? Could he really continue managing Pierre, knowing how deeply he cared? Could he continue watching the dynamic between the two of them, knowing that he was now the outsider?

As the summer break rolled around, Esteban couldn't help but feel like he could finally exhale. The constant tension that had plagued him for months seemed to lift with the final race before the break. The distant walls he’d put up between himself, Pierre, and Charles felt almost suffocating at times. But now, he had a rare opportunity to escape. The relentless pressure, the unspoken words, the weight of emotions he'd been avoiding—it all seemed to fade as soon as the words "summer break" were uttered.

For the first time in months, Esteban felt free. He was finally going home. Back to the place where everything felt simpler. He’d booked a flight using his Air France star points, splurging on a business class seat, a luxury he rarely allowed himself. He needed the space, the comfort, and the time to think.

The hum of the plane, the smooth motion as they soared above the clouds, was a welcome relief. Esteban leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, letting the cool air of the cabin wash over him. He'd be home soon, surrounded by familiar faces, by his family. A place where no one expected him to be anyone other than Esteban—no complex relationships, no overwhelming dynamics to navigate. For once, he could just be.

--

Little did he know that the demons of his life—Pierre and Charles—weren’t done with him.

--

Two days had passed since Esteban had arrived back home, and the familiar scent of his childhood home, the sound of the ticking clock in the living room, and the quiet hum of his parents' house felt like a much-needed breath of fresh air. His parents were still away for work, so he had the entire place to himself. For the first time in months, Esteban allowed himself to relax, truly unwind. The pressure of the season had lifted, and for now, he was just Esteban—no racing, no drama, no complicated relationships.

That is, until the bell at the door rang.

Esteban jolted, his body frozen in the middle of a bite from his breakfast cereal. He hadn’t expected visitors. Not today. He had expected the quiet of his hometown, where he could sleep in late and not worry about anyone showing up unannounced. He wasn’t expecting to see anyone, especially not Pierre and Charles. Not in this quiet little town where everyone knew everyone, and he wore his panda pajamas for the first time in months—those soft, fuzzy, ridiculous pajamas his mom bought him when he was a kid. They were so embarrassing that only his parents ever saw him in them, but today, Esteban didn’t care. They were comfortable, and he needed that comfort more than anything.

As he stood up, the doorbell rang again, and he cursed under his breath. He could hear the faint voices outside, and before he could even prepare himself, he heard footsteps approaching the door.

He quickly threw down his spoon, still in disbelief at the situation, before looking around the kitchen, trying to figure out what to do. But there was nothing he could do. His heart sank.

He quickly padded to the front door in his panda pajamas, knowing full well who stood on the other side. His gut twisted. There was no way. His attempt at isolation was over, and in the most inner Esteban way possible, it was his childhood pajamas that would be his undoing.

Taking a deep breath, he swung the door open.

And there they were.

Pierre stood there, looking as casual as always, but there was something different in the way his eyes narrowed at Esteban’s appearance. Charles, on the other hand, had a grin that spoke volumes. It was that grin. The one Esteban used to see every time they both cornered him into a conversation about things they never fully said out loud.

Esteban felt like he was about to combust from the sheer awkwardness of the moment, his cheeks burning, his mind scrambling for something to say.

--

Pierre stood at the door, his hand still resting lightly on the handle. He had expected many things when he arrived in Esteban's hometown—he hadn’t expected to be greeted by this.

Esteban opened the door, looking somewhat disheveled, but what caught Pierre off guard was the sight of him standing there in panda pajamas. The fuzzy black-and-white onesie, complete with little ears and a tail, was the kind of thing Esteban would only ever wear when he thought no one would see him. And apparently, he was right—no one was supposed to see him dressed like that.

Pierre blinked, his mind briefly short-circuiting as he stared at his manager in total disbelief. He’d always known Esteban was a bit of a dork, but this? This was something else entirely.

His lips twitched, fighting against the grin that was threatening to break free. His first instinct was to tease Esteban, but he couldn't help but let out a soft laugh before quickly catching himself.

“Well, that’s... a look,” Pierre finally said, raising an eyebrow with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Nice pajamas, Ocon.”

Esteban, clearly embarrassed, shifted awkwardly, his cheeks flushing. "I—uh, it's just for at home," he muttered, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of Pierre’s gaze. "Not for public consumption."

Charles, standing beside Pierre, let out a quiet chuckle, clearly enjoying the situation. "Should’ve known."

Pierre couldn’t hold it in any longer. He chuckled fully, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Esteban just stood there, mortified, tugging at the sleeves of the onesie as though he could make it disappear. Pierre couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Esteban look so utterly flustered, and honestly, it was adorable.

But as much as he wanted to tease Esteban more, something in his expression changed. There was a tension behind those wide eyes, something deeper than just embarrassment. Pierre took a step forward, feeling that familiar weight settle in his chest. They weren’t just here to poke fun at Esteban’s pajamas. This was something else.

Pierre sobered up, his playful grin softening as he met Esteban’s gaze, still standing there in the doorway. "We came to talk, Esteban," he said, his voice quieter now, his usual teasing edge replaced with something a little more serious.

Esteban blinked at him, clearly thrown off by the sudden change in tone. "What do you want, Gasly?"

But Pierre didn’t break eye contact, sensing the walls Esteban had put up. "About you," he said simply. "About everything."

Charles, meanwhile, leaned casually against the doorframe, his grin more subdued now. “We’ve been patient, Estie, but you’ve been avoiding us long enough.”

Pierre could tell that Esteban was trying to keep it together, but the way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the way his gaze flickered nervously, told Pierre all he needed to know. They had pushed him too far, and now there was no turning back.

“You’re not getting away from this,” Pierre added softly, his voice almost too gentle.

Esteban’s face tightened. Pierre couldn’t tell if it was frustration, guilt, or something else entirely, but it was there—clear as day. And in that moment, Pierre realized that all the time they’d spent together, all the moments they’d shared, had led to this. To this conversation, in the doorway of Esteban’s childhood home, with the most ridiculous, adorable pajamas on display for both of them to see.

Pierre didn’t want to be the one to break Esteban, but he knew they couldn’t go on pretending anymore. Not after everything they’d been through. Not after everything that had been left unsaid.

Finally, Esteban sighed, his posture sagging, as if he’d given up on fighting it. He stepped back, letting them inside. "Fine," he muttered. "Come in, then. But you better not make fun of my pajamas."

Pierre and Charles exchanged a quick look, both holding back grins at the same time, and then stepped inside, closing the door behind them. The tension still hung in the air, thick and heavy, but it was clear now: the conversation had started, and there was no going back.

--

Esteban stood in the kitchen, the kettle whistling softly as he poured the hot water into the teapot. He could hear the quiet shuffle of footsteps behind him, the sound of Pierre’s voice low and soft as he explored the house, and Charles’ occasional laughter as he flipped through an old album.

He stole a glance at the rearview mirror in his home (don’t ask why it is in the house), his gaze unintentionally drifting to the living room. He saw Pierre standing in front of a photo on the wall, one that featured the three of them, years ago—young, naive, and full of promise. A picture from before everything fell apart. Before he lost everything that mattered, before he became a shadow of the person he once was.

He watched Pierre’s fingers hover over the frame, almost as if he was tracing the contours of their past with his eyes. The picture had always been a reminder of how far they had come, of how much had changed, but now it felt like a dagger to Esteban’s heart. It wasn’t the first time Pierre had seen this photo, but it was the first time in this home—the one they had never visited, the one that had come after everything.

Esteban closed his eyes, letting out a deep sigh. How long had it been since they all last spoke in home? Years? He couldn’t even remember anymore. The whole thing—the crash, the collapse of his career, the split from everything—had become a blur. And now, here they were, standing in his new home, a far cry from the days when they’d been inseparable, when everything had seemed possible.

His parents were away, working like they always were, and Esteban couldn’t help but feel a bit lost. He needed them right now, more than ever. But instead, he was left alone with his thoughts, with Pierre and Charles in the next room. And he couldn't shake the feeling that they were about to turn his world upside down.

As he busied himself with making tea, his mind raced. He wanted this to be a quiet, easy evening. A simple summer break where he could curl up on the couch, binge-watch Netflix, and forget about everything for a while. But instead, he was about to confront the wreckage of his past, the things he had avoided for so long.

His hands shook slightly as he poured the tea, trying to keep himself calm. God, he wasn’t ready for this. Not yet. He just wanted to bury his head in the sand, but he knew that wasn’t going to work. They were here for a reason. They had come to settle things, to talk about everything they had avoided.

Finally, he walked back into the living room, setting the tray of tea down on the table. Pierre and Charles were both sitting on the couch now, looking at him with quiet, expectant gazes. They were so calm, so collected, and it made Esteban feel even more nervous. He took his seat, his eyes darting nervously between them, before finally settling on Pierre.

“Tea,” Esteban muttered, his voice soft, as he sat down. “It’s not much, but it’s... it’s something.”

Pierre’s gaze softened as he accepted the cup, but Esteban could see the concern lingering in his eyes. There was something different about him now—something that made Esteban feel small and vulnerable. He had been through so much, and yet, Pierre was here, looking at him like he still mattered.

“So,” Charles started, breaking the silence. “We’ve... been thinking about you a lot, Esteban. You know that, right?”

Esteban swallowed hard, his throat dry. He nodded, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He wasn’t sure he could.

“You’ve been kind of... absent, you know?” Pierre continued, his voice gentle but firm. “Not just in work, but in our lives. We’ve missed you.”

Esteban bit his lip, his heart racing in his chest. The words they were saying were sinking in slowly, but he couldn’t let himself believe them. Not yet. He was afraid to.

“We didn’t just know you as a manager,” Pierre said, his voice growing softer, more vulnerable. “We knew you more than that. You were always there for us.”

Esteban felt his chest tighten, the words slicing through him like a blade. The lump in his throat grew bigger, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. He was just Esteban Ocon, the guy who had been left behind. The guy who had nothing.

“We tried to make it right,” Charles said, his voice full of guilt. “We wanted to... we wanted to be with you again, back in our lives. We couldn’t... we couldn’t just leave it like this.”

Pierre nodded, his eyes intense and full of something Esteban couldn’t quite name. “We even thought about going to Mercedes, just for you. We didn’t care about anything. We just wanted to see you again.”

Esteban’s heart stopped. Mercedes. He had been so far removed from everything that he hadn’t even realized that they had thought of him like that. They had come so close, and yet... And yet they were still here. Still, somehow, a part of his life.

“You became a manager, Esteban,” Pierre continued, his voice now tinged with warmth. “And when we found out you were working with me, it was like... like everything came full circle. We wanted you back in our lives, not just as a manager, but as... as... As someone we care about.”

Esteban could feel the tears starting to well up in his eyes, his face flushing as he struggled to keep himself together. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Not like this. He hadn’t expected any of this, especially not from Pierre and Charles. But there they were, telling him that they still cared.

That they missed him.

Esteban’s chest tightened as the tears continued to flow, his heart racing with the overwhelming flood of emotions. He could feel Pierre and Charles surrounding him, their arms comforting, their presence grounding him, but there was an unspoken tension that lingered in the room—one that made his throat constrict even more.

As Pierre’s hand gently rubbed his back, Esteban felt a strange heat in his chest, a mix of longing, guilt, and confusion. The warmth of their embrace felt too familiar, yet too foreign all at once. His mind was racing—too many thoughts were fighting for attention. His feelings for both of them, for what they had shared, for the spaces they once occupied in his life—it was all so much to process.

“I—” Esteban’s voice cracked as he pulled away slightly, wiping his eyes, still not trusting himself to meet their gazes directly. “I didn’t think... I didn’t know you two were—”

Pierre’s hand, still resting on his back, paused for a moment before he spoke softly, his tone steady but tender. “We’re together, Esteban. We’ve been together for a while now.”

Esteban’s heart skipped a beat, and the weight of their words hit him like a ton of bricks. He’d suspected something had been different between Pierre and Charles, especially lately—something had shifted in their dynamic. But hearing it, hearing it confirmed out loud, left him momentarily breathless. His stomach churned with a mixture of disbelief and something deeper—something he was still too scared to face.

Charles, sensing Esteban’s hesitation, leaned in a little closer, his voice gentle. “We know you’ve been... distant. And we’ve seen the way you look at us, Esteban. The way your gaze lingers when we’re together. We’re not blind.”

Esteban’s face flushed crimson, his mind reeling. He had thought he had been subtle, or at least that his feelings for them had remained unspoken. But clearly, he had been wrong. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his hands trembling slightly as he clutched the edges of his tea cup.

“You don’t have to be scared or hide it, Esteban,” Pierre added quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “We know you have feelings. We know what you’ve been going through. And we... we want you to be with us, too. We want you to be a part of this.”

Esteban’s heart skipped again, and he swallowed hard, trying to process their words. He had always felt a pull toward them—both of them, in different ways—but he had never allowed himself to acknowledge it. He had buried those feelings, buried the longing that he thought could never be reciprocated. But now, sitting there with Pierre and Charles, he realized that maybe he had been wrong.

“But—” Esteban started, struggling to find the right words. “But I don’t... I don’t want to ruin anything. I don’t want to... make things complicated. You two are already together, and I don’t know if... if I could—”

“You wouldn’t ruin anything, Esteban,” Charles interrupted softly, his hand gently brushing against Esteban’s. “We’ve missed you so much. And we care about you—more than just as a friend. We always have. This isn’t about complicating things. It’s about us, together, and wanting you to be a part of it.”

Pierre nodded, his eyes softening. “We want you, Esteban. We want all of you. We always have. Don’t you see? It’s not just about us being a couple. It’s about us, the three of us. The bond we had. The one we’ve always shared. It’s still there. And we want to bring you back into that. We’re ready if you are.”

Esteban’s heart raced, a sudden wave of dizziness sweeping over him. He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected them to want him, to want this. The idea of being with Pierre and Charles, the men he had spent years with, the men who had become his family despite everything that had happened... it was almost too much to process.

He stared down at his hands, still trembling. His mind felt foggy, his thoughts swirling. He couldn’t tell if he was dreaming, or if this was real. But in the pit of his stomach, he knew that this was more than just an offer to be close again—it was an invitation. An invitation to love, to trust, to share something deeper than just a friendship.

“I—” Esteban’s voice faltered. “I don’t know what to say... I never thought this... I never thought you would—”

“We are saying it,” Pierre interrupted gently, his thumb brushing Esteban’s knuckles. “We want you, Esteban. We’ve always wanted you.”

And just like that, the walls Esteban had carefully constructed around his heart seemed to crumble. His tears, which had started as a quiet flow, began to pour out again, this time with a sense of release. It wasn’t just the weight of his fears anymore—it was the weight of everything he had held back, everything he had kept from them.

The love they spoke of, the love they shared, was so much bigger than he had imagined. It was a love that wasn’t confined by the boundaries of their past, by the pain or the distance. It was a love that could embrace all three of them, if they let it.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Esteban allowed himself to believe it. To believe that maybe, just maybe, they weren’t too far gone. That the three of them—Pierre, Charles, and Esteban—could find a way back to each other. That they could rebuild what had been broken and make something even more beautiful from it.

As Esteban finally nodded, allowing himself to believe in the possibility of something more, Pierre and Charles both reached out, their hands hovering for a moment as if unsure. The air between them was heavy with unspoken words, but there was a softness now, a tentative understanding. Then, without another word, they both moved in, their arms wrapping around Esteban in a tight, almost protective hug.

Esteban, still unsure whether this was real, melted into the embrace. His heart raced, but in a way that felt comforting, not anxious. He was squeezed gently between the two athletes, their bodies solid and warm, contrasting sharply with his own smaller frame. His panda onesie, the one he had worn for years to seek comfort, suddenly felt even more absurd, but also oddly perfect in the moment. It was soft, worn, and innocent—a stark contrast to the rough callouses of Pierre and Charles' hands. The feeling of their hands pressing against the fabric, the roughness of their skin against the softness of the onesie, made him feel vulnerable in a way that was strangely reassuring.

As they pulled him into the hug, Esteban felt how small he was in comparison to them. Pierre’s broad chest and Charles’ muscular frame dwarfed him. He felt the difference in their heights, the way his own thin neck seemed to disappear between the two, his body feeling smaller, almost fragile between their strength. Pierre’s head rested just above his, the heat from his body radiating into Esteban’s, while Charles’ chin was nearly on top of Esteban’s head. Their bodies framed his, and in that space, Esteban felt like he was both insignificant and the most important person in the world at the same time.

He tried to bury his face into the softness of Pierre’s shoulder, but even then, he could feel the contrast between his thin neck and the solid muscle of Pierre’s, and then the roughness of Charles' collarbone against his cheek. The physical distance that had once felt so insurmountable now felt like a comfortable, solid presence, as if they had closed the gap that had stretched between them for years.

"Esteban," Pierre murmured, his voice muffled but tender as his hand gently cupped the back of Esteban’s head. "You’re not alone anymore."

Charles, his voice soft but steady, added, "We’re here. All of us. Together."

Esteban closed his eyes, letting their warmth seep into him, the once-hidden fears slowly starting to dissipate in the embrace. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to feel cared for, loved, and maybe—just maybe—he felt like he finally belonged.

His voice cracked as he spoke, barely above a whisper. "I never thought I could have this again... not after everything."

Pierre squeezed him tighter, his other hand brushing lightly against Esteban’s back in reassurance. "We’ve always had this, Esteban. We just didn’t know how to see it."

And for that moment, with the soft warmth of the hug enveloping him, Esteban allowed himself to believe in it—the love, the possibility, the future they could share. Even as the weight of the past hung heavy in his chest, the three of them, standing together in his small, humble home, felt like the beginning of something new.

The contrast between Esteban’s smaller, slender frame and their sturdy, muscular bodies felt strangely fitting. As they stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the bond that had always been there between them seemed stronger than ever before. In the safety of this moment, the outside world seemed so far away, and all that mattered was the connection between the three of them.

For the first time in a long while, Esteban didn’t feel like he was running away from anything anymore. He was finally home.