#yukiestaban

The windows are thrown wide open at Esteban’s place—an airy, modern home tucked away in a quiet neighborhood by the lake, the kind of house with just enough charm and too many mugs. Somewhere in the background, a French playlist hums on low, blending into the chirping birds and the soft scrape of a knife against a cutting board.

Yuki hums as he dices garlic.

He’s barefoot, wearing Pierre’s old AlphaTauri shirt that’s far too big for him and shorts that hang low on his hips. There’s flour on his cheek and a pan heating on the stove. He isn’t rushing. There’s no schedule, no race weekend looming, no media day waiting. Just a slow August morning, his boyfriends sleeping upstairs—probably tangled up together like always, stealing his spot.

This break couldn’t have come sooner. The season so far had been rough—especially for him and Pierre. The pressure, the crashes, the headlines. They'd barely had time to breathe between flights and interviews, their quiet moments snatched in the backs of team motorhomes or through whispered phone calls at midnight. There were even online rumors suggesting they weren’t close anymore, speculation flaring every time a camera caught them standing apart in the paddock. But it was all noise. All surfaces.

Now, finally, they had a full month. No suits. No cameras. No cold looks from pit walls. Just soft sunrises in Esteban's Geneva home, warm hands, and the quiet promise of peace. Here, in this house, everything slowed down. Here, they were whole again.

From behind, claws click against the kitchen tiles.

“Good morning, Simba,” Yuki says, without turning around. The little toy poodle gives a soft bark and sits at his feet like a loyal sous-chef. “You want egg or chicken today?”

And then, from the stairs, comes Esteban’s voice, still hoarse with sleep.

“Don’t spoil him, Yu. He already thinks he owns the place.”

“I do too,” Yuki replies sweetly, without looking up.

He hears the grin in Esteban's voice even before the tall Frenchman pads over and wraps his arms around Yuki's waist from behind, warm chest pressed to his back. Yuki hums, tilting his head slightly as Esteban kisses the crown of his hair.

Despite the chaos of the season, Esteban seemed to be the one of the three having a relatively decent year with Haas. It wasn’t perfect—no season ever was—but compared to the tension that weighed heavy on Yuki and especially Pierre, Esteban’s path felt more steady. He'd managed a few strong weekends and seemed more at ease lately.

Yuki and Pierre were genuinely proud of him. Pierre, in particular, couldn’t help but beam every time Esteban made it into Q3 or finished in the points. Even if he was still stuck in the devil team—Yuki's exact words for Alpine—the affection and relief in his eyes for Esteban's little wins were undeniable.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” Yuki replies. “Go brush your teeth. You smell like sleep.”

Esteban laughs and pinches his side. Yuki swats at him with a wooden spoon. Simba barks like he wants to help, tail wagging furiously. The sudden sharp yap makes all two of them burst into giggles, the kitchen momentarily filled with the sound of joy echoing off tiled walls. Yuki shakes his head fondly.

---

Pierre appears next, freshly showered, smelling like Yuki's favorite shampoo. He’s in Esteban’s hoodie, sleeves too long, hair still damp. For someone who’s always late to everything, showing up barely twenty minutes after Esteban is practically early. He doesn’t say anything, just sneaks up behind Yuki and kisses the back of his neck. Yuki startles, almost drops the egg in his hand.

“Pierre!”

“Couldn’t help it,” Pierre mumbles into his skin. “You smell like heaven.”

Esteban raises a brow from the dining table. “That’s my hoodie, by the way.”

“I know.” Pierre smirks, clearly not sorry.

Yuki sighs but doesn’t push them away. He leans into both of them, letting Esteban nuzzle into one cheek while Pierre kisses the other. Simba jumps and whines until Yuki picks him up with one arm.

“You two are needy today.”

“Summer break. No media. No engineers. Just us,” Pierre says. He pouts dramatically, inching closer to Esteban and rubbing his face against his shoulder like a needy cat. “After the hellish season I’ve had, at least let me be clingy.”

Esteban giggles, startled by the unexpected gesture, but leans into it fondly. “You’re like a big golden retriever.”

Pierre beams. “Your golden retriever.”

Yuki shakes his head, watching them with that small, knowing smile. He often wonders how they manage it—how they’re able to switch so seamlessly into neutral expressions in the paddock, burying everything tender and real beneath layers of professionalism and PR smiles. He’s not sure how they've kept this hidden from the world, from the media that always watches too closely. Maybe it’s years of practice. Maybe it’s the fear of losing something fragile. Or maybe, it's because moments like this—Pierre pouting against Esteban’s shoulder, Esteban giggling like a schoolboy—are too precious to share with anyone else.

---

By noon, they’re out on the back patio, under a striped umbrella, eating brunch off mismatched plates. Yuki made tamagoyaki and rice, grilled some salmon, and roasted tomatoes. Pierre tried to help and was banned from the kitchen after putting cinnamon in the wrong bowl. Esteban washed the dishes without being asked.

At some point, Pierre starts tossing bits of leftover salmon to Simba, pretending it's a game of fetch—even though Simba clearly has no idea what's happening and just runs in circles yipping with joy. Esteban joins in, grabbing a napkin and tying it around Simba's neck like a cape, declaring him “Captain Bark.” The two burst into laughter, rolling on the grass as Simba barks excitedly, chasing after Pierre's fingers.

Yuki watches from the table, barley tea in hand, head shaking slowly but eyes fond. “You two are absolute menaces,” he says, voice dry.

Iris, Esteban’s sleek black cat, slinks through Yuki’s legs before leaping up onto the table like a queen. No one tells her off. She settles in Yuki's lap and purrs.

Eventually, the French duo settle down, breathless from laughter, and finally make their way to the table to eat. Pierre dramatically flops into the chair next to Yuki, while Esteban leans down to press a kiss to Yuki’s cheek before sitting on the other side.

They eat slowly, talking about everything and nothing. Pierre flicks a grain of rice at Esteban and gets a tomato back in retaliation. Yuki watches them with fond eyes, sipping cold barley tea.

“This is nice,” Esteban says, leaning back in his chair, one arm lazily draped over Yuki’s shoulders. “We should do this every break.”

“We should move here,” Pierre adds, brushing his lips against Yuki’s temple. "It’s calmer than Milan. Less paparazzi. We could breathe more."

“You just want lake views,” Yuki teases.

“I want you.”

Esteban leans in to kiss Yuki slow, while Pierre takes his turn pressing kisses to Yuki’s neck. It’s a warm, soft tangle of affection that doesn’t rush anywhere. Just being together is enough.

---

Afternoons are lazy. Esteban and Pierre curl up on the couch with matching controllers, yelling at each other over some co-op game. Yuki nestles between them, stretched out like a cat, head in Pierre’s lap and legs tangled with Esteban’s.

“Stop stealing my kills,” Esteban groans.

“Stop dying so much,” Pierre shoots back.

“Children,” Yuki mutters, yawning.

Simba snoozes next to him, belly-up. Iris is curled like a loaf on the windowsill, tail twitching.

When the game ends, Yuki shifts up and kisses both their cheeks, then their mouths. Pierre melts under it; Esteban pulls Yuki into his lap and kisses him like he missed him, even though he hasn’t gone anywhere all day. Yuki giggles between kisses, squirming slightly as their affection gets playful. “Stopppp,” he laughs, cheeks flushed and bright. But he doesn’t really mean it—not when he's smiling like that, buried between the two people who know how to hold him just right.

---

By evening, they’re a warm, sleepy pile on the sofa. Yuki’s wedged in the middle, head resting against Esteban’s collarbone, one of Pierre’s arms thrown over his waist. Iris is sprawled across Esteban’s chest; Simba is pressed up against Pierre’s side.

Someone put on a movie, but no one’s watching. The subtitles play quietly. Yuki lets out a happy sigh and murmurs, “I don’t want to go back.”

Pierre presses a kiss to his forehead. “Then let’s stay.”

Esteban threads his fingers through Yuki’s. “At least until the leaves turn.”

And Yuki smiles, eyelids fluttering shut, surrounded by love and pets and peace.

Summer is theirs. The season is still going, short and precious, but in this house—with its soft rugs, open windows, and too many mugs—time stretches just enough. Here, there's no work, no paddock tension, no rivalries creeping in between them. Only soft laughter, the occasional kiss, and the comfort of knowing they are safe and wanted. And for a little while, the world is just this—warm skin, soft breathing, and the quiet rhythm of hearts at rest.

---

Later that night, they find themselves sprawled across Esteban’s absurdly large Alaskan king bed, limbs tangled beneath soft sheets and loose pajamas. The moonlight pools across the duvet, catching the curve of Pierre’s grin as he gossips animatedly about another driver’s ridiculous Instagram post.

“He really posted that with no shame,” Pierre says, laughing. “The caption was worse than the picture.”

Esteban snorts. “I still can’t believe you follow him.”

“I need the content,” Pierre says with mock-seriousness, then immediately yelps as Yuki throws a pillow at him.

“Shut up and come cuddle,” Yuki demands, pulling the covers up to his chin.

Pierre flops dramatically into the middle, arms reaching to drag both Esteban and Yuki close. Esteban obliges with a smile, pressing a kiss to Yuki’s temple before settling behind Pierre, looping an arm around his waist.

They fall into quiet talk again, voices lowered with the comfort of night and closeness. The air is still, and for a moment, the only sound is the rustle of sheets as Yuki stretches a little and murmurs, "Maybe I’ll bake something tomorrow. Melonpan, maybe. If I can find the right flour."

Esteban perks up instantly, eyes flicking open. "I’ll help," he offers, earnest and eager, even though everyone knows he’s better at eating than baking.

Pierre shifts beside them, his head propped up on a pillow, and smirks. "I’ll supervise," he announces with faux importance.

"You’ll what?" Yuki scoffs.

"Supervise," Pierre says again, stretching the word like it’s noble labor. "I’m a crucial part of morale."

Esteban snorts. "You’re banned from the kitchen after the cinnamon incident."

"It was an accident!" Pierre defends himself with a dramatic groan, throwing an arm across his eyes. "A vision, misunderstood in its time."

Yuki rolls his eyes and chucks a pillow at him, nailing him right in the face. "Stay out of my flour."

"Rude," Pierre mumbles from beneath the pillow, but the smile tugging at his lips is fond and soft.

Esteban chuckles, leaning over to steal a kiss from Yuki’s cheek. "We'll find you the right flour," he promises.

"And cinnamon-free supervision," Yuki adds pointedly, laughing when Pierre dramatically groans again.

Their chatter drifts off into hums and lingering touches, the room wrapped in affection and laughter low enough to feel like a lullaby. In the quiet that follows, their hands find each other again—fingers brushing, interlacing like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like they’ve done this a thousand times in dreams before ever daring to believe it was real.

There’s a beat of silence, heavy with gratitude. Yuki exhales slowly, his voice barely above a whisper, "We’re so lucky."

Esteban presses a kiss to his shoulder. "I think about that every day."

Pierre’s hand settles over both of theirs. "We were a mess. Remember?" he murmurs, soft with a laugh. "God, poor Liam and Charles. Witnessing the melodrama."

Yuki snorts. "We made them suffer."

"All the pining. The jealousy. The months of miscommunication," Esteban adds, mock groaning. "Pierre sulking after every race like you betrayed him personally."

Pierre rolls his eyes, but there’s warmth in his voice. "You ghosted me after Monaco!"

"Because you kissed me in a hotel hallway and then vanished for two weeks!"

"Because I thought you were in love with Yuki!"

Yuki muffles a laugh against the pillow. "You were both idiots. And so was I. I thought neither of you wanted me."

They fall into a moment of shared, breathless laughter—equal parts embarrassment and disbelief.

"Well," Pierre says, shifting to press a kiss to Esteban’s knuckles, then to Yuki’s temple. "At the very least, we can promise this now: to never take it for granted."

"Not a second of it," Esteban agrees, voice rough with emotion.

"We made it," Yuki murmurs. "And now we get to have this. To just... be happy."

Eventually, the teasing dissolves into long kisses and warm skin under cool sheets, into fingers brushing through hair and whispered I love you’s passed from one mouth to the next—each one a prayer of thanks, of knowing how close they came to missing it all. But they didn’t. They chose each other. Again and again.

And in the silence that follows, full of breath and peace and limbs wrapped close, they sleep in the comfort of their greatest blessing—this love, hard-won and utterly theirs.

When the silence finally settles, it’s full of contentment. Three hearts, beating in sync.

The summer is short, but it’s theirs.