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Pierre's apartment was bathed in the kind of low, golden light that made everything feel softer at the edges. The tall windows showed the Milan outside doing its usual nighttime shimmer, but inside it was all warmth, scattered takeout containers still smelling faintly of basil and garlic, three empty wine bottles standing like trophies on the coffee table, a half-eaten tiramisu plate with two spoons abandoned in it, and Simba is currently using both their laps as his personal mattress.
Pierre Gasly was thirty years old today and Pierre Gasly was catastrophically, spectacularly, life ruiningly drunk.
He was lying mostly horizontal on the enormous sectional sofa, head pillowed in Yuki's lap, long legs sprawled in every direction. One foot kept absently nudging Simba's fluffy side every time he shifted, earning him a sleepy grumble from the dog but no actual movement. Pierre’s cheeks were flushed a vivid pink that matched the wine stains on his lips, his hair looked like he’d been dragged through a wind tunnel backwards, and his eyes-when they managed to focus-were glassy with pure, unfiltered delight.
Yuki sat cross-legged, back against the armrest, one hand idly carding through Pierre’s soft, messy strands while the other held a water glass he’d been trying to press to Pierre’s mouth for the last twenty minutes with zero success.
Pierre suddenly lifted his head like someone had flipped a switch in his brain.
“Yuki”
The word came out thick, syrupy, and far too serious for someone whose pupils were currently the size of dinner plates.
Yuki raised one eyebrow. “Yeah?”
But, Pierre didn’t answer with words. Instead he very solemnly, very carefully, placed both palms flat on Yuki’s stomach right over the soft grey hoodie he'd stolen from Pierre’s closet three months ago and never returned.
He stared at the spot like it was about to start glowing or singing or revealing the secrets of the universe.
Yuki blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“...What exactly are you doing?”
Pierre inhaled so sharply it sounded like he was trying to suck all the oxygen out of the room. Then, in a voice so reverent it bordered on religious:
“I got you pregnant...”
Yuki’s brain did a full system reboot.
Three full seconds of dead silence.
Then his shoulders twitched.
The corner of Yuki’s little mouth spasmed. Pierre didn’t notice. He was already spiraling.
“It was Singapore” he announced, eyes huge and shining. “The hotel. That stupid fancy shower with like... forty different jets. We turned it into performance art. Multiple acts. Encore included. And now-” He gave Yuki's stomach the gentlest, most delicate little pat-pat-pat, like he was greeting a baby bird. “Boom!!! Life, our life. Tiny Gasly-Tsunoda. Already breaking lap records there. Vroom”
Yuki pressed his lips together so hard they vanished. Pierre kept going, gaining momentum like a runaway simulator session.
“I felt it. Earlier. When we were kissing on the kitchen counter. Little flutter. Like... like a butterfly doing karting. Or maybe a very small fish learning to drift. But definitely our child. He's saying hello. "Hi Papa Pierre, hi Papa Yuki, I'm gonna be faster than both of you combined”
A strangled noise escaped Yuki’s throat, half snort, half choke. Pierre's head snapped up. “You felt it too?!”
Yuki's whole body started vibrating. He bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. While Pierre sat bolt upright so fast Simba yelped and slid off both their laps in slow motion betrayal.
“Mon dieu” Pierre breathed, clutching his own chest like he was about to faint. “This is huge. This is historic. This is all we need to tell people. No, wait, privacy first. We need a doctor. No, wait, we need a pregnancy test. Do they make those for men? They should. We're pioneers. We're breaking science.”
Yuki doubled over, shoulders shaking so violently the couch creaked.
Pierre misinterpreted immediately.
“Don’t cry!” he cried ironically. He lunged forward, cupping Yuki's face in both hands like he was made of glass. “It's okay! We're going to be amazing dads! I'll learn how to braid hair! Or... or not braid hair if it's a boy! I'll buy tiny racing boots! I'll baby-proof the sim rig! I'll-”
Yuki broke. "You're drunk!!!"
A high, wheezing cackle exploded out of him-sharp and helpless and completely unstoppable. “NOOO!, I swear!”
Pierre froze, hands still framing Yuki’s face. “You’re...laughing?”
Yuki couldn’t speak. Just more cackling. Tears streaming. Body convulsing. He clutched his own stomach the same stomach Pierre was still half cradling, like it might split open from the force.
Pierre's face crumpled into the most dramatic, wounded expression imaginable. “You're laughing at our child?!”
That only made it worse.
Yuki collapsed sideways against the back of the couch, face buried in a throw pillow, howling so hard no actual words came out just pure, unfiltered, abdominal-pain-level hysteria.
Pierre flopped backward like he'd been shot, one arm flung over his eyes.
“This is betrayal” he declared to the ceiling. “Our baby can sense your cruel mockery. He's probably in there doing sad little spins. Tiny baby donuts of despair”
Yuki pounded the cushion with his fist, gasping between laughs. Pierre rolled onto his side, pointing an accusing finger. “You're supposed to be glowing! Hormonal! Craving bread with mayonnaise and grapes like I saw on the internet! Or maybe pickles with peanut butter! Not cackling like a hyena on nitrous!”
Yuki managed to wheeze out: “Pickles with peanut butter- oh my god-”
Pierre gasped theatrically. “You're already having cravings?! I knew it! What else? Tell Papa. Do you want carbonara at three in the morning? I'll make it. I'll learn. I'll become Italian”
Yuki slid further down the couch until he was practically lying flat, clutching his sides, tears running into his hair. Pierre crawled over him like an over eager golden retriever, hovering above, hair falling into his eyes.
“Say it” he demanded, voice cracking with drunken sincerity. “Say you're carrying my baby”
Yuki peeked up through wet lashes, cheeks flaming, still giggling helplessly. “I'm…carrying...your baby” he choked out, each word punctuated by another snort.
Pierre’s entire face illuminated.
“YES!” He fist pumped so hard he almost fell off the couch. “I knew it! I felt the evidence! It wasn't the burrata! It was love! Concentrated love! Super concentrated Formula 1 love!”
Yuki howled louder.
Pierre flopped down beside him, pulling Yuki half on top of him, wrapping both arms around like he was shielding the most precious cargo in existence. “We need names” he declared immediately. “Strong names. Champion names. Something that says ‘destined for pole position and emotional damage”
Yuki, still wheezing into Pierre’s neck: “Like?”
“Enzo Pierre Gasly-Tsunoda” Pierre answered without hesitation. “Or Yuki Junior. Or...Vif. Little Vif. French for quick. Or Rapide. Or...Blittz. Blitz Gasly-Tsunoda. Sounds like a video game boss. Perfect”
Yuki snorted so violently that the snot came out. He wiped it on Pierre's hoodie sleeve without shame. Pierre didn’t even blink.
“We'll get him a custom baby helmet'” he continued, eyes sparkling. “With our logo combined! Tiny HANS device. For neck safety. And we’ll start him on sim at…six months? Seven? Is eight too late?”
Yuki was basically crying from laughter now-silent, shaking, occasional high-pitched wheezes escaping. Pierre suddenly went rigid. “Wait”
Yuki cracked one eye open. “What now, dumbass?”
Pierre's voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “What if it's twins”
Yuki made a noise that sounded like a tea kettle dying. “Twins?!” Pierre clutched Yuki tighter, eyes bugging out. “Oh no. Oh no no no. Double podiums. Double tantrums. Double mid-race radio yelling in two languages. They'll fight over the WDC before they're ten. We’ll need two trophy rooms. We'll need a compound. We’ll need therapists on payroll. We'll need-”
Yuki lost the ability to breathe entirely. He flailed weakly, slapping Pierre's chest, trying to communicate through pure oxygen-deprived hysteria.
Pierre rolled them so he was big-spooning Yuki from behind, chin hooked over his shoulder, one hand still religiously splayed over the imaginary bump.
“Don’t panic, mon coeur,” he murmured to Yuki's hoodie. “Papa Pierre has a plan. We'll buy the apartment next door. Convert it into a nursery. Two cribs. Race-car shaped. With LED underglow. And a baby monitor that streams telemetry data. Heart rate. Breathing. Lap times inside the womb”
Yuki reached back, found Pierre’s hair, and tugged with zero strength left. “You-are-clinically-insane”
“You're clinically insane” Pierre mumbled, pressing a wet, sloppy kiss to the shell of Yuki's ear. “And I love you And I love this couch. And I love that you came all this way just to watch me lose my mind on my birthday”
Yuki finally managed to twist around in Pierre's arms until they were face to face-noses brushing, breaths mingling with wine and laughter and something unbearably tender underneath all the absurdity.
Pierre's eyes were still glassy, still ridiculous, still overflowing with that stupid, overwhelming adoration that always made Yuki's chest hurt in the best possible way.
Yuki leaned in, kissed him once slow but steady, lingering, tasting like Barolo and promises.
Then pulled back just enough to whisper against Pierre’s lips:
“Happy birthday bundles of chaos in human form. I wouldn't want anyone else but you”
Pierre's grin was blinding-even drunk, even tear-streaked from second-hand laughter, even mid-pregnancy delusion.
“Best one yet” he slurred happily. “Got the love of my life. Got imaginary twins. Got tiramisu leftovers. What more could a man want?”
Yuki snorted, soft this time, fond.
He tucked his face into the warm crook of Pierre's neck, arms wrapping tight around his back.
“Love you” he murmured, so quiet it was almost lost in Simba's snores. “Even when you're convinced I’m gestating your fictional podium heirs”
Pierre hummed, already drifting, hand still protectively cupping the nothing-bump in Yuki's stomach. “Love you more” he whispered back, voice fading into sleep. “Love you...love our babies...love...forever...”
Yuki smiled against skin, fingers tracing slow, soothing circles between Pierre's shoulder blades.
The dog snored louder.
The city lights kept twinkling outside.
And in the warm, ridiculous bubble of that couch, two men. One blackout drunk, one laughing himself breathless held each other like nothing else in the world mattered.
Because nothing else did.
P.S. to anyone reading this ridiculous fever dream: if your boyfriend ever gets this drunk and decides you’re magically pregnant with his babies…JUST LET HIM. Laugh until you can’t breathe, kiss him stupid. And keep him forever. Because that kind of absurd over the top love is the real podium finish.