For @powerful-owl's f1rpf race roll - I rolled 13 and 16, which nets me Esteban and Gabriel. In the words of Tom Lehrer, this I know from nothing. But we roll.
Five sentence (ish) fic below the cut.
A bedraggled palm tree in an ugly pot hides the inches-wide slice of space down the side of the Sauber motorhome; no one has looked past it for at least fifteen minutes. Why would they? Nico just outscored Ferrari.
Gabriel's mama jokes sometimes that when he turns sideways, he disappears. Here, in eight inches of room, if he bends his neck, his knees, he can press his forehead against cold plastic. Let the gap squeeze him into nothing.
He watched the people passing by for a while. Every old man looked like Helmut Marko. Now he watches the wall.
The rain is drumming loud against the thin roofs, but an overhang keeps this not-quite-alley almost covered. There's water squelching up through the astroturf and a steady drip at the other opening where grey light filters in, but he's dry. His face is dry.
His fingers are damp, out of the gloves. Pink at the knuckles where the cold is dipping into his blood. He makes a fist. It's satisfying when it thuds against the wall of Haas's hospitality; again, and again, and the sheeting seems to buckle, just a bit.
"Ah, careful with those."
Gabriel snaps upright, smacks his head against the wall behind him with a curse. Ocon's stoop looks apologetic as he shuffles into the gap, slides along the wet wall to wedge himself alongside Gabriel, facing him. Of course; if Gabi could fit, so could he. He has thought about it sometimes, how they are the same shape. How that means nothing.
Gabriel darts a look. The peak of Ocon's cap hides his eyes, but his mouth is folded. Wry.
"Sorry," he offers. Thumbs over the spot. There isn't even a dimple, not really. Not visible.
Ocon's catches his wrist. "No, angel. Hands. Be careful with them." Both of his hands come up to cup Gabriel's fist; warm, dry. For a moment, he's encompassed.
Esteban's thumb runs softly over one of his red knuckles, just once. Then the touch is gone and Esteban is straightening up, rubbing an imaginary crick out of his back. When Gabriel dares look again, his face is entirely rearranged, sheepish and grinning. A clown. "I'm not as young as I was." The smile softens. "Next time you want to talk, knock the door, not the wall, mm?"
"I didn't-"
That warm palm is back across his knuckles for a flash, a squeeze. Too fast to measure; twitchy with experience.
"Next time, maybe you do."
