He guessed croissant #4
“It feels so good. You are so good! So—ahhhh!”
Sam only barely manages to wrap a hand around Thomas before he comes in ropes all over his own stomach.
“So, as I was saying—” Sam slowly pulls out to the tip and pushes back in, rocking against Thomas who whines.
“And absolutely no consorting with the enemy,” Adam says in full seriousness.
Their strategy meetings have devolved into Ferraro witch hunts earlier than usual. Traditionally, the red scare started in the last quarter of the season, but everything sped up after the photos were released.
Sam can’t help it, his lips twitch every time he remembers the sleeves of the Ferraro race suit splayed out on the ground of his driver’s room. Thomas gulping down his cum, his own dick trapped in Nomex.
Adam doesn’t think it’s funny. “Do you have something you'd like to say, Samuel?”
Oof, the full name. “No, sir.”
“I don’t ever want to see a red suit in my garage again, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
They’ve already done this whole song and dance in Adam’s office—the last thing Sam wants to do is rehash that awkward conversation in front of everybody.
Man, if Adam had just seen him, he’d understand. The golden boy of Ferraro fell to his knees and slurped Sam’s cock—of course he’s smiling.
Then again, maybe it’s for the best that he keeps the memory to himself.
They’re dismissed, and Lucas hangs back, walking with Sam to hospitality. “I hear Thomas will be stealing my seat next year?”
“Have you signed the contract yet?”
Lucas pauses, like he always does when Sam brings up next season. “No.”
“Then maybe he will.”
Thomas says he doesn’t want to change teams, but Sam can be very persuasive. Not that it’ll take much convincing—it’s no secret what a powerhouse Red Boar has become and how comedically terrible Ferraro's strategy is.
Plus, Sam saw an edited photo of Thomas in a Red Boar suit, and he looks good in navy.
Lucas stifles a laugh. “Do not count on it.”
“Oh yeah? Who else are we considering?” Sam scoffs as they turn a corner. “One of the VFIbr kids? I’m not going to teach some child to drive a big boy car.”
“One of them is doing well this year.” That sounds dangerously close to Lucas considering it. “He is twenty-two, I think.”
That’s basically twelve. “An infant. A small, incompetent, little baby.”
“Only six years younger than you.”
A jolt of electricity strikes his heart. Only seven years. Sam never expected their age difference to be thrown in his face like this. “It’s not the same thing.”
“It could be.”
No, it can’t. It’s completely different.
They stroll down the hallway, quieting as they pass through the garage. The drivers smile, nod, and wave at various team members, but Sam is still fuming.
“You need to be careful with him,” Lucas says when they’re alone again. “Don’t get too close to your enemy.”
“You sound like Adam.”
“He is not wrong. Relationships across teams never work—you need to let him go.”
What does Lucas even know? He knows nothing about Thomas—or Sam, for that matter. Sam doesn’t need to be lectured by some guy who thinks he likes kangaroos. He hates kangaroos.
“It’s not a relationship.”
Lucas grunts with frustration. “Whatever you are doing that involves your penis—it needs to stop!”
Sam’s pissed off enough to stride a little faster and ignore his teammate. He’s not in a relationship, he’s just blowing off steam. They’re both consenting adults. They’re allowed to do whatever they want with their penises.
He can stop at any time, he just doesn’t want to.
Sam wins the Austrian Grand Prix by ten seconds. The clock doesn’t show how hard he had to push or how difficult it was to fight through the grid after his slow pit stop.
He scrambles up to the top of the car for his victory pose as Lucas and Finn pull up to either side of him. Jakob is the last car to park, taking the final Home Race spot.
Not a red car in sight.
“No Ferraros!” Lucas says, catching Sam when he hops down off his car. They embrace before turning and congratulating the Mercenary driver.
The team is extra animated when Sam throws himself against them. It’s the first time all year that their biggest rivals aren’t sharing the stage.
“That’s how you do it!” Adam yells, sending Sam flying with a thunderous clap to his back.
Sam had nothing to do with Finn making podium, but after the Thomas-in-the-garage fiasco, he’s willing to take credit for anything that makes Adam happy.
The Red Boar boys concentrate all of their champagne spraying efforts on Finn, but Sam is still soaked to the bone by the time he’s back in his driver’s room and thumbing through his texts.
Owain
club tonite for sam win?
Rafael
Why do you bother to ask when he always says no?
Owain
not alwaysssssss
Sam exits the thread and checks his other messages, finding Thomas’s room number amongst them. He sends a thumbs up to Thomas before popping back to the group chat
Not tonight, guys
Do a toast for me, tho
Sam bucks himself up and starts the grueling process of removing tight, wet clothes. It’s better than trying to peel them off when they’re already dried and stuck to his skin, so he sucks it up and gets it over with. While Sam struggles, his phone continues to buzz.
Owain
ydu always say no?
Rafael
See?
Owain
u got better friends now or sumthin?
Rafael
Maybe he is too cool for us
He’s partying with Matthew and Laurent instead.
Owain
fuk, did u get a gf?
ud only bail if ur getting laid
bring ur gf, we wont bite
No girlfriend, I’m just busy
Owain
o ya, i believe that
if u arnt getting laid come out
Team dinner tonight
Owain
til 3am??? nahhhh thats no excuse come out
bring ur gf i wanna meet her
Still no girlfriend
But Owain won’t stop until he gets the answer he wants. Sam loves him, but he’s a total asshole.
I am getting laid
You’re never gonna meet so don’t ask
Owain
!!!!! u have a fb???
wdym i cant meet her?
is she one of my fans???????
You wish.
Rafael
What’s a fb?
Owain
fuck buddy
u fuck but you dont have to take them places n date n everything else girls usually want
Rafael
And this person is at every race?
Owain
oshit is she staying in your room or like?
cuz u missed alot of clubs this year
Just have fun without me
Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do
Sam would be more concerned about people poking around in his personal life if they weren’t such morons. Also, if he wasn’t already looking forward to spending the night with Thomas.
He found a box of cold wine he just knows the Frenchman will despise, and he’s bringing his laptop so they can watch Creatures From Space together.
Thomas will definitely complain, but sometimes it’s fun to tease him a little bit.
In Spa, the Ferraros dominate, both in the practices and during qualifying.
Sam puts up a good fight in the first stint of his race, but the Red Boar isn’t as competitive on the hards. He’s the slowest of the top four, and he trails Thomas by a whopping ten seconds even after Frank assures him the Frenchman has brake issues.
Maybe his brake pedal is going so long that Thomas has decided not to brake ever again. Fastest lap to the guy who literally can’t slow down.
A yellow flag notification lights up Sam's dash for a split second before switching to red. Frank is on the mic before he even asks.
“Crash at turn seventeen.”
That’s a strange one to go off at. “Driver okay?”
“Checking.”
No immediate radio in? That’s never good. Sam slows even further, watching for a driver that might be standing near the road, but he only sees marshals running along the wall.
He turns the corner and there’s a Ferraro in the barrier. Thick, dark smoke surrounds the vehicle, and the back half is engulfed in flame.
“Whose car is that?!”
Sam can’t look away, though he needs to. Through the plumes he tries to spot a helmet or a T-cam, but he can’t see anything. Did they get out? Was it Thomas?! Is he—?
“Is it Thomas?!” Sam tries to wait for a response but his head is spinning. Should he park? Could he rescue him? Sam’s clothes are fireproof. “Is he okay?! Fucking tell me!”
Thomas had brake issues—he probably took the high-speed turn faster than he could handle. Careening into the wall at 200 kph. Burning alive.
“It’s Rafael’s car, Sam,” Frank finally says. “He escaped before the fire started and he is fine. Return to the pits. Restart has been delayed to fix the barrier.”
Sam heaves. Thomas is okay. He is okay.
His heart can’t be convinced—it thuds painfully in his chest, pumping harder than it ever has before.
Accidents happen. They happen all the time, in almost every single race. Sam knows this. He willingly takes the risk. He has long accepted the fact that any day now he might die in his car.
But not Thomas.
Thomas isn’t the one who should be toying with death. The one eager to sacrifice himself to the sport that hungers for blood, pushing himself to the edge of reason for the thrill of the win.
The one stepping outside of what Sam can control.
Sam follows the track through to the pit lane, parking his car behind the working Ferraro.
The Frenchman climbs out, pulling off his helmet and balaclava. He musses up his hair as he looks around. He always has a sense of worry about him, but the emotion is amplified now, his big, round eyes searching for answers.
They’re parked at the furthest end of the pit lane, far away from their garages, but a mechanic in red is there in a second, scooping Thomas up and providing a physical comfort that Sam can’t give him.
He’s okay. It’s okay.
He’s fine. It’s fine.
Sam pushes himself up and out of the car right as his own mechanics reach him. They may have run the length of the pit lane, but they lose all urgency as they pause to watch him.
No hugs in Red Boar, just judgmental looks that flit between their driver and the one in red parked ahead of him.
Fuck, Sam’s so stupid. Losing it on the radio? Calling out for Thomas by name? Such an idiotic mistake.