#estebance

I have not picked up a clip editing app since iMovie but I’ve been craving to make an edit surrounding formula 1 for months. Seeing Esteban pull Lance into conversation after noticing him standing alone was my tipping point.

Esteban wanted nothing more than to sleep.

He'd spent hours on patrol. And NYC was an unforgiving place, never a quiet night in his time as spider-man.

Finally making the final swing to his building, sticking carefully with tired hands as he fumbled to push his window open with a grunt, letting his arms go lax as he more or less just tumbled into his dorm room.

He ripped off his mask, tossing it with an inhuman precision onto the hook. It always held its own special place beside his hats.

New York City lived on below—cars honking, people walking through the streets, talked loud enough for it to reach his uncomfortably sensitive ears, and the bright lights continued to sting his sore eyes.

He slowly stood, grabbing his sweater that had been draped over his chair since this morning, before pausing.

Right. The window. I'll have to close that so nobody gets a free show.

He shut the blinds quickly. Slamming the ever-reluctant window shut as he finally unzipped his suit that had been practically glued to his skin by sweat alone.

Gross. He'd have to shower before bed.<br />

The cold chill that had been let in from the previously open window met his bare shoulders first as they slumped slightly, dropping the sweater back on the chair as there was really no reason to put it on quite yet.

Trudging to the bathroom as he clicked the first song he could find on his phone, setting it on the counter, and dropping a towel overtop it before he turned the water on.

He hadn't even checked the time yet. Assuming somewhere between the broad 11PM to 1AM.

Slipping under the water, the warmth finally providing him a moment of relaxation, a heavy breath escaping his lips almost involuntarily as he ran a hand through his now-soaked hair.

The music played idly in the background as he reached for the cheap shampoo that he'd made Pierre buy him.

He didn't notice how long he'd spent in there. Probably far too long than the student next door would mind, considering he'd been humming the whole time—that realization making him grimace slightly as he stepped out, finally slipping into his hoodie and pulling on a pair of sweatpants now that the sweat and... various other mysterious New York substances that had soaked into his suit and skin, as he flopped down on his bed. The small twin that usually felt a bit too small for him suddenly couldn't have been more comfortable.

Quickly scrolling through his phone to turn on a few early alarms to get to his lectures, glancing at the time before he turned it off.

12:56AM. Christ.

He sat up, leaning over just enough to slide it onto his desk before falling back down into the warm mattress.

It only took him a matter of minutes to be completely out, face buried in the pillow, neck turned in a way that was sure to leave him sore in the morning, tall body stretched over the bed.

But sleep didn't quite bring peace like he'd expected.

It brought him to that first big fight again.

Fifteen year old Esteban, bit just a year prior and finding himself facing a threat much larger than him.

Standing in the middle of the street with shaking hands as he watched people run past him for cover.

His legs wouldn't budge. Why wouldn't they move? He's fought before, he knew how to save people—so why was he still standing there?

Eyes wide under his mask, air not quite filling his lungs.

Something came flying at him. A road sign, nothing impossible to handle but still, he ducked behind a car, gaze snapping to the direction of where it'd come from.

A flash of movement through smoke as Esteban scrambled to his unsteady feet.

This wasn't how it'd gone—he'd been fighting around this time in reality, he'd lived this before, years ago. It was his first encounter.

He tried to shoot a web towards a building to get up to higher ground.

Nothing.

His heart slammed against his chest. The beating loud in his ears as he tried again to no avail.

"Shit, shit— come on, please—"

His voice felt too small, the words feeling painful coming out of his mouth.

It was getting closer. Watching him like prey, and Esteban was a sitting duck, or a robot that was actively powering down.

And then it sped up. Sprinting, Esteban turned to run—cowardly, he knew, but what else could he have done?

He couldn't move fast enough, though. As he felt something dig into his skin as he was tackled down to the ground, a gasp escaping him as he wrestled for power, only catching a glimpse of it's face before it's clawed hand wrapped around his throat.

But just as it squeezed, just as he choked on a breath—

He woke, shooting up from the bed as he tried to pull air into his lungs.

"Jesus—" Esteban whispered, looking around his room, "Jesus fucking Christ."

This wasn't the first time he'd been back there. Wasn't the first times the events had been twisted, but it was the first time he'd truly felt like it was real.

First time he'd been grabbed, first time he could feel the claws digging into his neck.

Glancing out the window and taking note of the brighter sky. It must've been at least 6:30. His alarm would be going off in fifteen minutes anyway.

A few more breaths, trying to fill his lungs again to prove to himself that it wasn't real, as he finally slid out of bed.

His legs finally moved like normal. Not without some mild soreness, but that was probably as normal as he could get.

The sound of his phone's alarm filled the room, as expected. 6:45. At least he wasn't up at some ungodly hour. His mind had spared him some sleep, thankfully.

He turned off the alarm, but paused, noticing a message had popped up.

6 minutes ago.

"Lance." Esteban spoke aloud, clicking on it.

Lance: Esteban

Lance: Frenchman

Lance: Respectable man from France

Lance: I'm actively losing respect

Lance: Esteban Ocon will you wake up

Esteban: It is 6:45, Lance.

Lance: Breakfast?

Esteban: Is... the first meal of the day? What about it?

Lance: Do u wanna come get some with me?

He could definitely go for breakfast. Especially with his best friend who would insist on paying for it. But unfortunately, he didn't have long for breakfast.

Lance: The new place

Lance: We have two hours

Esteban: You have two hours*. I start at 8:00, mate.

Lance: Oh.

Lance: I'll bring some to you in class. I'll get you a coffee too, I have your order written down.

Esteban: You'll what? You what?

Lance: 👍

Esteban: Lance, no?

Esteban: Lance?

Esteban: Lanncceeeee?

Radio silence. Esteban was left sitting in pure silence now, slowly realizing that Lance, in fact, was dead serious about bringing him breakfast.

In class.

In the middle of a lecture.

Stubborn bastard.

He slowly put his phone down and stood again, walking to his closet as he pulled out the first warm things he could find. A t-shirt, a random racing jacket, and... another pair of sweatpants.

Esteban did not remember getting this pair.

Maybe Lance had left them last time he stayed over.

Whatever. If he did, he'd see them when he came to drop off food.

He got to Professor Briatore's room at 7:45, slipping into his seat beside Pierre, who was hunched over the desk, head on his arms, and very clearly asleep.

"Mate." He whispered, nudging the shorter man, "Pierre, mate."

Pierre opened one eye, looking at him like he was supposed to just let him sleep and get scolded.

"Quoi ? Qu'est-ce que tu veux ?" He questioned. (What? What do you want?)

Esteban scoffed.

"Flavio va te tuer." (Flavio is going to kill you.)

"Oh, allez. Un petit coup de vent et il est six pieds sous terre. Je vais bien." (Oh, come on. A little gust of wind and he's six feet under. I'm fine.)

Just then, the devil himself—Professor Briatore walked in, dressed like a general in the military. Everyone in the room visibly straightened up just a little bit more, Pierre sitting up straight. Even Alex and Luke stopped talking.

"You were saying?" Esteban whispered as Pierre smacked his leg, making him bite back a laugh.

Both suddenly went serious when Flavio looked directly at them, ducking their heads to look down at their pencil, blank papers, the desk itself—anything to avoid eye contact.

Disaster averted.

He began talking almost immediately, delving deep into detail about whatever-the-fuck. Esteban didn't hear two words of it, lost and caught up in his own head.

8:10AM...

8:20...

At 8:22, a knock was heard at the door, Flavio walking over to open it.

A moment of silence.

"Stroll." He spoke, surprised. "We're in the middle of a lecture."

Esteban's jaw dropped, just slightly at the realization.

"Crazy fuck." He breathed out.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt, I'll only be a minute if I could come in." The Canadian responded.

A beat passed—reluctance from the professor before he finally stepped away from the door to let Lance in.

He kept his head down, not wanting to meet the gazes of the group of students, walking up to Esteban and dropping a container in front of him, giving an anxious smile before he turned and walked out.

"The hell?" Pierre questioned, "He's doing food delivery now?"

All eyes were on Esteban, who sunk back in his chair slightly.

"Okay. Enough about the kid having food delivered, eyes up front." 

A few snickers were heard around the class, Lando having a hand over his mouth as Oscar just shook his head at the Brit beside him.

The rest of the lecture passed faster than expected for forty-five minutes, occasionally shoving food into his mouth as he hadn't quite realized how hungry he actually was (as well as Pierre stealing a piece of toast claiming it helped him focus), and by the time it was over? Esteban had practically sprinted out.

He slipped into a side hallway and pulled out his phone, texting Lance.

Esteban: Mate.

Esteban: What was THAT.

Lance: Ur welcome

Esteban: Thank you, you're amazing, my saviour, but I think Flavio wanted me dead

Lance: Jealousy

Esteban: I don't think that's an emotion he's capable of.

Lance: I'm in class

Esteban: Get off your phone? What??

Esteban shook his head, leaning against the wall as he checked his schedule once again.

He'd likely meet Lance for lunch, and then they would be together for the last bit of their day, and then he'd have to be back in his dorm by 7:30PM, ready to go out by 8:00, and hopefully on patrol by 8:30.

God. He hated hiding it, Lance had asked the night prior if he wanted to hang out again, how did he explain why he couldn't?

He’s already starting to tent, half hard by the time Lance pulls his freshly worn jeans down and lets it pool at his ankles. Lance grips Esteban’s thighs, his hands hot against Esteban’s skin. Esteban typically runs cold.

Lance eyes Esteban’s bare cock with some inscrutable emotion in his eyes, face carefully blank. It does nothing to deter Esteban, however, being studied like he’s being watched under a microscope.

Lance finally breaks the stalemate, leaning in to lave his tongue along Esteban’s shaft, one broad swipe of his tongue that’s too dry and rough and sends electricity zipping down Esteban’s spine. Esteban’s hands fly out to Lance’s head, slipping into his hair and gripping lightly as a way to ground himself.

Lance gives an approving hum as he gets to work, tongue wetter with each lick and working Esteban to full hardness. The walls are far too thin, and Esteban is highly conscious of it as he stifles as much of his noises by biting down on his bottom lip as he can.

Lance finally takes Esteban’s cock fully into his mouth in one obscenely smooth motion, almost down to the fucking hilt. Esteban’s not a cocky man, but he’s certainly not small, but Lance takes it like a fucking professional and Esteban throws his head back with a muffled groan, the sting in his skull from hitting the wall overshadowed by the slick sound of his cock in Lance’s sinful mouth and the pleasure building rapidly down south.

Esteban forces himself to keep his eyes open despite his body resisting the motion. He looks down, chest heaving, at Lance—his face flushed a pretty red, lips stretched obscenely around Esteban’s cock, fingers digging into Esteban’s thighs.

Lance isn’t loud in bed, his pleasure evident in the way he picks up his pace, bobbing his head faster, saliva pooling in his mouth and his movements getting sloppier.

Esteban’s the opposite; he struggles to keep quiet, fear of the paper thin walls of his driver’s room completely forgotten as a mismatch of French and English curses and praises fall out his lips, fingers tightening in Lance’s hair, tugging in time with Lance’s movements.

He comes to the sight of Lance looking up at him, eyes glazed over and pupils blown wide, cheeks ruddy red and a thin trail of drool sliding down to his chin from the corner of his lips.

Lance drinks it all in with a quiet groan, eyelashes fluttering as his eyes fall shut.

Later, when Esteban has tucked himself back into his pants and helped Lance stand up, they share a quiet kiss, close-lipped and far too chaste for what they had just done.

But Lance smiles afterward, a gentle curve of his lips that lets Esteban know that he’s alright. That this will pass and they’ll be back to talking as they usually do, and that nothing has changed.

“Lance I—” Esteban stutters. “I didn’t mean like… Sorry.”

Lance scrubs a hand over his eyes, shaking his head.

“It’s fine, Este. I know you didn’t. Sorry.” When Lance looks back at him, Esteban is chewing his lip. Lance sits on the chair in an attempt to calm him. Esteban’s shoulder relax fractionally and Lance takes it as a win. He lets his head fall back and closes his eyes. Sometimes he really wishes he didn’t have to do media. 

He feels Esteban move away from his side and tries not to be bitter about it. He knows he’s not good company right now. He never is when he’s in one of these moods. But Esteban is supposed to be there for him. He’s supposed to stick with him through thick and thin. 

Lance can’t really blame him for leaving though. He squeezes his eyes closed even harder. A feeble attempt to block out the rest of the world. 

He hears the scrape of a chair beside him and pries an eye open. Esteban shuffles the chair he’s found into place, pressed against Lance’s. 

Lance lets his eye fall closed again, but it’s no longer a tight scrunch. Just gently closed, enjoying a moment of peace. 

Fingers worm their way into the space between his chest and where his arms are folded across it. They snake along his forearm until they can slip between his own fingers. Lance squeezes Esteban’s hand.

Slowly, he feels Esteban curl his larger frame into Lance’s side, head softly pillowed on Lance’s shoulder. The tension starts to drain from Lance. He’s so lucky to have Esteban in his life.