#there is video of me opening my gift and getting choked up and just stuck on loop going 'oh my god' because like

[pastafossa]

The Glorious TRT Gift

I needed to make this one its own post specifically so I could link it on my TRT masterlist.

One of my highlights of going to the con was finally getting to meet with @wonderlandmind4​, who I’ve been chatting with for ages after bonding over the fic. It was one of those friendships where you finally meet and you feel like you’ve always known each other. There is no awkward period, no ‘um who are you exactly’. Just boom, we’re hugging, we’re chattering, we’re getting kicked out of Panera because we lost track of time while talking and they’re closing, we’re exchanging friendship gifts. And there was one in particular that was very special. If you’ve been around on tumblr, then you may have seen my mentions of her teasing about whatever this TRT gift was. I know she told a couple other people at the con, but when she finally gave it to me, I was just... stunned, and I immediately teared up.

She'd created a funko display of black suit Matt and a custom Funko Jane she'd ordered. It was set above the streets of the Kitchen, complete with beautiful, glittering threads she'd made and attached herself, with the Hell's Kitchen skyline at night as the backdrop.

Jane even has her key necklace, along with her leather jacket! Seriously, the fact that they have not just a red thread, but Matt also has his white thread signifying his love for his city, is just... perfection.

Girl, this is one of the wildest, sweetest, most thoughtful things I've been given and I have repeatedly teared up when proudly showing it to friends and family. My geek friends on my socials are literally losing their minds over it. I literally carried this in the Keanu Jesus tote bag with me every time I left the car on the ride home because I wanted to make sure nothing happened to it. The second I got home, I was rearranging the Matt Murdock shrine so I could set it up front and center. And I've been looking at it and touching it on and off all day, just stunned that someone loved TRT enough to make it. It is absolutely perfect and I love it so, so much. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 😭

[strwbrryfire]

Op. 71 Act 1, Scene 1: Regali Teneri: winter warmers day 003

✶ prompts: dildo | holding hands

✶ ship: pierresteban

✶ words: 1,593

+ a little song

Charlie

[Voice Message—0:35]

Transcript: 

“Cheri! Uh, was wondering if you and Este would want to join Max and I at the symphony this evening? Or is it the ballet?”

Max sounds grumpy as he supplies, “Ballet. The Nutcracker.”

“Yeah! What it is the, um, rat king and all that. The one with—” Charles starts singing the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, horribly off key. 

“Please say yes, Pierre, or else I’ll be stuck next to the FIA dick sucker—” “That’s rude, Maxie, he is only doing his job—” “I do not care he is of course a cunt who pushes bullshit—”

Pierre snorts as the bickering gets cut off, and even if he does ponder on it for a split second, his reply gets typed out faster.

pierre 

I’m sorry, mon amie, but I’ve got sim training to do. Surely you can just put Max on the end so he doesn’t even have to look at George? 

As he goes to lock his phone and continue with the monotonous task of cutting up lettuce for his salad, Charles’ contact shows up on a screen. With a reluctant sigh, Pierre shoves his phone in between his ear and shoulder, then answers with a tsk. 

“Charles, as I said I am busy. I cannot magically move around my schedule.” 

He can practically hear Charles pouting, “Oh, you are such a liar. We are all in London, non? So, it will be a lovely double date!” 

“Date?” Pierre sputters, narrowly slicing his finger, “Non, ce ne sera pas un rendez-vous. For me, at least.”

Charles sounds so confused, even Max has to chime in, “Este talked to me about you for so long in Qatar. Everything is good now, right? So I do not see the issue.” 

Pierre thinks he must have cut something somewhere and died from blood loss, then woke up in a world where everyone thought he was back to being in love with his ex teammate-best friend-boyfriend-whatever. All because of a 2-3 that really was just gifted to them. Utter nonsense. 

“Mon amie? S’il te plaǐt? I can video call you and plead with puppy eyes if you are not swayed!” 

“Jesus,” Pierre mumbles and rubs a hand down his face, “Sure, fine. Merveilleux. Just text me the address, d’accord?”

Charles giggles, all proud of himself, “Wonderful! I’ll see you at eight!” 

—

It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t like—equivalent to shunting it on a formation lap or equal to whatever Esteban must have felt when he was thrown out before Abu Dhabi or when he got the call from his ex about—it wasn’t a soul crushing thing to do. To open up the short string of blue and grey code between him and the person stuck firmly in whatever invisible string held Pierre’s life.

Pierre 

Hey man!

No. Too informal. This is a date, gotta make him think it actually is, right? That seems to be the best course of action; think of it as revenge given too late.

Pierre

Hi copain! Max and Charles have two extra spots for the Nutcracker tonight. 

Pierre thinks he might bite down through to the bone before he lets his thumb press onto another letter. It’s fine. Deep breath, it’s not hard, this isn’t hard. 

Pierre

Hi copain! Max and Charles have two extra spots for the Nutcracker tonight, at 8:30. Would you want to tag along with us? Max would appreciate it, since the other option is George and Carmen.

Delivered.  

He winces as he bites down on an olive with its pit still intact, and nearly chokes when Esteban’s reply comes through almost instantly. 

Esteban

That sounds wonderful! Is 7:30 a good time to come pick you up, chéri? 

Read 2:15pm

God. Jesus. Fuck. Pierre stabs the remaining sad pieces of lettuce with his fork and screams into his hands. He thinks about wishing he had choked on the olive pit. 

Pierre

Sounds good. Charles said to dress nice!

Delivered

“No, he fucking didn’t! What am I, sixteen again?” Pierre wallows to the open air of his flat, and flings his head against the back of the couch. Who was he, wanting Esteban to dress nice because, yeah, so what, he looks really fucking good in a suit. Pierre hopes a blizzard blows in and freezes him to death so that he never has to even think of doing something like this again.

Esteban

I’ll put on my very best for you, calamar ;)

Read 2:20pm 

Pierre grinds his teeth together and takes another deep breath to suppress another frustrated, throat scratching groan. He glances at the clock and does it anyway. Five and half hours. He’ll make it.

 —

He barely drags himself out into the front lobby.

His hands are stuffed into his Burberry coat as he waits, grateful Charles wasn’t forcing them into going to Covent Garden or something ridiculously unfun—sure, the ballet was equally miserable to Pierre, but at least there wouldn’t be a sea of tourists to push through just for a dried up overpriced mince pie. 

“Ah, there he is,” and Pierre swears he must have fallen into the fire, with how his face heats up at the sight of Esteban—a neatly pressed dark burgundy velvet suit, an obnoxiously adorable bow tie, and his perfectly fit black coat. Merde, “I was worried I overdid it with the festivity.”

Pierre clears his throat and opts to set his gaze on the Christmas tree that’s illuminating the halo of Esteban’s slicked back hair, “Surely Max will make us all look overdressed. As long as there is wine, I will be happy anyway.”

There’s a few moments of ungodly awkward silence before Pierre steps forward a little, “Before we go, I am…” He digs his nails into his palms and his shoulders feel like they’re about to snap with how tense they are, “I am sorry. I wish you had more time, to make a proper goodbye and all.  C'est injuste.”

And the guilt washes in the second Pierre sees the genuine hurt flash in Esteban’s expression, how he sadly smiles with those stupidly fucking adorable teeth, “What does Charles say? It is like this. At least I did not end up in Daniel’s boat. Que sera, sera,” he opens up the lobby door and gestures for Pierre to go first, “Prettiest out first.”

“Ever the charmer,” Pierre rolls his eyes and buries himself into his scarf, willing it will hide the blush that hasn’t left under his eyes. Once Esteban is distracted by fiddling for his keys, he mumbles, “You look really good.”

Esteban’s eyebrows fly up and he doesn’t even try to hide his grin, “Hm? What was that, again?”

“Oh, s'il te plaît arrête, you heard me!” 

“Still so small and angry, calamar,” Esteban laughs, leading them down the snow covered sidewalk to his car, “It is wonderful how so much but so little changes.”

Pierre doesn’t question the sudden philosophical ramblings, too busy mulling over every decision he’s ever made that landed him in this situation.  He thinks about feigning a migraine, or a fever, or near death—anything to avoid being in such close proximity to Esteban for any longer than he has to. Pierre had finally gotten rid of him; he was Ollie’s problem now. 

Fine. It’s fine. He can handle a few more hours. And if he wishes those hours were more plentiful, absolutely no one has to know. 

And the car ride, it’s short, it’s fine, it’s tolerable. Up until they park, Pierre unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches for the door handle—Esteban loudly protests, “Nuh uh! Getting the door is my job, mon chou.”

“Aie pitié de moi, I am not a child,” Pierre sighs into his hands and waits impatiently as Esteban comes around the side to let him out. It would be something to write away into a box to be burnt, until Esteban shuts said door, locks said car and then he’s—he’s. 

His gloved fingers are intertwining with Pierre’s like it’s as easy as breathing, “Bonsoir, Charles, Max!” Esteban calls to the couple huddled beside a space heater, all along dragging a stunned Pierre behind him.

His brain has been reduced to static and the soul crushing nostalgic feeling that the warmth of Esteban’s hand is giving him. It’s perfect, how they fit together. It’s like going home and sliding into the car for the first time pre-season and slipping on a favorite hoodie that smells like asphalt and expensive cologne. Which, Esteban is certainly wearing his nicest–all smoke and earthy leather. 

Pierre didn’t even realize he was aching for that missing piece—Esteban’s arm pressed up against his as they sit in their rented out box seats. The way he laughs at Max’s horrible jokes and the way his eyes crinkle at the photos of Leo he gets shown. Through every instance of small talk, his grasp at Pierre’s hand never falters. Esteban rubs his thumbs in circles, squeezes absentmindedly. Like they never stopped doing this. Like no binds had ever been severed and Évreux was just outside the back door. 

Once the lights dim and the ballet begins, Pierre finally looks over at Esteban, who is staring right back. All childhood wonder and glimmering hope—they’re teenagers again, they’re screaming in a hotel room, they’re crying in Pierre’s driver's room in Brazil. The first note plays and Pierre decides to swallow down the lump in his throat, in favor of squeezing Esteban’s hand back as tight as he can. To convey something. To keep him there, long after the curtains fall.