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To say he was angry was an understatement. Esteban wanted to cry. He might actually. He'd been fighting for his damn life in the car. Just for it to explode on him. Power unit issue. Or a gearbox. He doesn't care. He's seeing fucking red. "No, no, no!" He screams over the radio, slamming his hands against the useless steering wheel. He can't be bothered to stay in it and complain, already climbing out of it. He was on the points, on the track for good ones. Fucking shit.
Esteban wants to hit his car, but he just walks away. He ignores most of the marshalls, he feels okay apart from damaged happiness. He keeps his helemt on, he doesn't want fans or media taking photos or pushing interviews. There's a camera pointing at him, and he tries a smile, waves and gives it a thumbs up. "Some birthday present, huh?" He mutters under his helmet. He pushes through the few members of staff in the motorhome, people giving him pats on the back and sympathetic look. He kind of wishes it was empty. So he wouldn't have to deal with all this.
He only takes his helmet off when he's in his driver room, putting it on the little stand for it. He stares at himself in the mirror, red-faced and sweaty. He kinda wants to punch the mirror, then instantly regrets the thought. He's 26- 27 now. 27 years old. And he's acting like a child. He scrubs his hands down his face, then screams into his palms. It's short but rough, his throat hurts after that. The material of his fireproofs are starting to itch his skin and he wants to tear his own hair out
He all but rips them off, suit and fireproofs, the whole outfit, until he's just in his boxers. The aircon against his sweat-soaked skin makes him shiver. But he doesn't want to move. He stands there, staring at his reflection, replaying the moment over in his head. It wasn't even like a crash, the car just gave up on him. Stupid piece of shit. Stupid, stupid, stup-
A sharp knock startles him. It's probably some eager intern trying to make him feel better. Or worse, some birthday thing. He might throw himself out the window if it is. The person knocks again. "Va te faire foutre." It's harsh but honest. Esteban doesn't want anything right now. Or anyone. The door opens and he's about to scream when he sees who it is.
"Non." Lance replies, sliding in and shutting the door. Esteban's anger and tension melt and he feels himself physically soften when he sees the Canadian. "Lance." He breathes out. Yes. That's who he wanted. Who he needs. He always needs Lance. But now especially. Lance takes a step forward, arms open, but Esteban takes a half-step back. "I'm all sweaty." Lance chuckles and shrugs. "We all are in this weather." Esteban's still skeptical but Lance has already flung his arms around the Frenchman's neck and it's essentially muscle memory when Esteban's hands wrap around Lance's back.
Esteban feels himself sag under Lance's touch and Lance lightly pushes him until he's sat on the very small couch in the room. He feels Lance gets up and lets out a very pathetic whine. "Let me wipe you down a bit. You're gross." Esteban sniggers. "Je te l'avais dis." Lance rolled his eyes but took a small cloth from the shelf and ran it under a tap, before wringing it. He brings it over to Esteban, smiling before pressing it under his eyes. The cold is nice and Esteban sinks further into the coach.
He sits there with his eyes shut as Lance drags the cloth over his skin. His face, chest, arms, even his legs. He only opens his eyes when something soft hits his chest. A bright blue t-shirt and pair of shorts. Lance is standing by his little dresser. "Get dressed. Then we'll cuddle." Esteban rolls his eyes. "But it's hotttt." Lance quirks an eyebrow. "I can leave if you want." They both snigger at that, but Esteban pulls his clothes on. His glad the t-shirt is made of some coolish material.
Lance sits next to him, sort of at an angle, and lifts an arm up for an invitation. Esteban takes it, slotting himself next to the Canadian so his head his half on Lance's shoulder, half on his chest. Lance kisses his forehead, long and lingering. "I'm sorry about your race." Esteban shrugs, he doesn't want to talk about it. Not really. "Not the best birthday present." He replies. He doesn't feel like he's going to cry anymore. Or be angry. He just feels empty. Which is worse. "I'm sorry, mon amour. It's very cruel of the universe to do." Esteban hums, closing his eyes again.
"Is there anything I can do?" Dear sweet darling Lance. Always trying to help cheer someone up. Always wanting to help. The world didn't deserve him. "Just this. This is nice. Maybe something a bit later too." Lance breathes a laugh. "I have something for you, up at the hotel room." Esteban raises an eyebrow suggestively. Lance swats his chest. "An actual present, Este. But if you're in the mood for it, we can do that as well." Esteban smiles. "I'd like that."
They sit in silence for a bit. Esteban thinks he's about to fall asleep but his neck hurts a bit. "Do you want to move to the massage table?" Lance suggests, running his hand through Esteban's hair. He suggests it because of course he knows. Esteban's convinced Lance's knows him better than he knows himself. Esteban hums and pushes himself up. Lance winces a bit and Esteban nearly got whiplash with how quickly he turned. "Are you okay?" Lance nods, but is breathing hard. "It's fine, just…still sore."
Esteban immediately forgets about everything in the world ever. He grabs Lance's hands. "Lancey, why didn't you tell me." Lance goes a bit pink, looking away. "You were sad and I didn't want to make it about me. I'll survive." Esteban wasn't convinced. He brushes Lance's ribs lightly, looking at the boy. "Este, I'm fine. Really." Esteban stood up, pulling Lance up gently. "Let's get a drink. We're a French team, bound to have some wine somewhere." Lance stays put when Esteban tugs him. "Esteban, please, I'm okay." Esteban takes a step closer and pulls Lance into a slow long kiss. It's the first time they've properly kissed in a good couple hours and it still feels like the first time.
They kiss for a few minutes, hands wondering before they break away for breath. "I know, but I want to get drunk. Or tipsy at least." Lance raises an eyebrow. "You sure you want to be off your face when you do your interviews later." Esteban tightens his grip on Lance's hand. "Yep, I'll be honest. Besides, it's my birthday. I'm allowed to whatever I want." Lance rolls his eyes. "Not sure that's how it works." Esteban nods earnestly. "Oh no, it most definitely is. Definitely definitely is. Ask anyone. Apart from the FIA. And all that group." He makes a vague gesture which sends Lance into giggles. "Okay, I'll take your word for it."
He leans up to kiss Esteban on the cheek but the Frenchman tilts his head at the last second, pressing their lips together. "Good. Now lets get drunk and have nasty sex at the hotel." Lance splutters, going bright red and Esteban howls with laughter. "You're the worst. I hate you." Esteban slips his arms around Lance's waist. "You can't hate me, it's my birthday." Lance rolls his eyes but gazes up at Esteban so fondly the older man feels like he might collapse. "I can't hate you anyway, chéri." And Esteban kisses him again because even though his car exploded on his birthday and he lost his shot at points, he has Lance.
And that's all he needs.