Chapter Text
That's the thing about the media, if you're loved, you're golden. If you're not, you're their entertainment. Many drivers have faced the terrible wrath of having a poor public image. Hell, even Max Verstappen had his run (and somewhat still does) with horrible nicknames fans still use to this day. Normally it isn't a big deal. It doesn't follow your whole career in a detrimental way.
However for Esteban, it implodes.
It gets heavy in Monaco. He makes a mistake. He's human. He crashes into Pierre going for a gap that doesn't exist. Thankfully it only takes him out. Immediately he feels shame flood his senses in an overwhelming burst. His body aches as his car comes crashing into the ground after being in the air for maybe a split second. He has this sneaking suspicion that ache isn't going to be the only thing to worry about today.
Esteban is proven right.
Famin is upset. Extremely so. He puts out a media statement that releases the flood gates of hate behind every media personelle and keyboard warrior on the internet. Horrible teammate. Horrible person. Why is this guy even in Formula One? It is overwhelming. He's crashed into every person he's ever paired with. Alpine should fire him. His apology is trampled on, both to Famin and the team as well as his public one. Pierre doesn't even look at him once after the race ends.
He is overwhelmed. The comfort of his hotel room is welcomed the minute he leaves the track. He's sweating. His hands are shaking. It brings him back to when everyone was laying into him when Alonso was his teammate. He's tired. Sometimes it feels a little bit like classism. Some just is general disdain for anyone french. He knows the vast majority of it is because he is not popular. He will never be popular. He isn't good at PR and he doesn't think he ever will be. He will only be known as Esteban Ocon, teammate hater and horrible driver, not for anything he's done or accomplished.
Esteban showers, but his movements are robotic. A shaking hand runs through his soaked black locks and push the strands off his forehead. He takes in a slow but deep breath through his lungs to try and relax. He has to admit that he's extremely upset with himself for letting the team down, especially when contract talks are still happening. He winces a little at that thought. Right, contract talks. He has a few options, he tells himself, he can find somewhere else if Alpine doesn't want him anymore.
The bathroom is filled with steam when he finishes his shower. The big mirror taking up the whole wall above the way too long counter is fogged up. He wipes a streak away with his hand so that he could finally look at himself for the first time since the race ended. Esteban can tell he looks exhausted. There is a sense of dread within his inky black eyes knowing that tomorrow when he leaves, there is going to be so much tension on the flight. He takes another deep breath and pulls his towel over his head. It's fine, after he sleeps, he knows the anxciety won't be as bad in the morning.
God, why is he so overwhelmed?
Esteban finishes drying himself, brushes his teeth, and then changes into a loose fitting grey t-shirt and similiarly colored plaid pyjama pants before padding out of the bathroom. His phone is blowing up, vibrating aggressively from where it sits on his nightstand, and just the sight of it makes him sigh. He makes his way over to pick it up to see who is calling him and he's not surprised when he sees it's Lance. He swipes to answer and brings the phone to his ear.
"ESTEBAN! Oh my god, you finally answered." The Canadian burts out before Esteban could even say hello. What? He furrows his brows and pulls the phone away from his ear for a second to see that Lance had called him 3 times in the last 2 hours. He puts it back to his ear and smiles a little in apology even though his friend can't see it. "Sorry, I was..." He trails off for a second, then clears his throat. "It doesn't matter, what's up?"
Lance laughs. It makes esteban wonder what he said that's so funny, but he doesn't have to wonder too long. "Jesus, Estie, are you SULKING in your hotel room?" Esteban immediately opens his mouth to protest. "Hey! I-" His canadian friend cuts him off however with a click of his tongue and Esteban can almost swear the other man is wagging his finger at him like he's a child. "Dude, come out. Don't sit there alone. We'll grab dinner or something." Esteban closes his mouth and pans his sight down to his sleep wear. He really just wanted to sleep, but he doesn't have the heart to turn down his friend who just wants to make him feel better.
It's not unusual for them to do this. It's more of a tradition at this point. If one of them has a terrible race or is just generally feeling off, the other would call and ask to grab dinner. Esteban had actually been the one to start it a few years back when he noticed Lance was really struggling with his mental health. When their other friend Mick was on the grid, he was also involved in their dinner sessions. He still is, whenever he gets the chance to slip away from Mercedes, but from what they know George is hard to slip past.
Esteban stares at his feet for a few seconds, bare and without socks, kind of like how he feels whenever he's in front of Lance. It would probably be for the best for him to go out. He thinks by this time tomorrow he'll feel better, especially if he sees his friend.
"Sure, give me 20 minutes."