He guessed croissant #8
Sam only stops when he’s air-lifted off of Rafael by several pairs of arms that hold him back. Rafael is being man-handled by security, so Sam probably has his own security on him. He struggles against the hold, his heart thudding out of his chest.
Owain steps in the middle and looks between the two. “What the fuck, guys?!”
“Leave him alone!” Rafael yells one last time as he struggles against his restraints.
“Him?” Owain repeats.
“If you want him so bad, take him!” Sam’s close to tears as he screams. “Jesus fuck, just take him! He’s already yours!”
No amount of money can stop the duo from getting kicked out. Once they’re out on the sidewalk, security tells Sam in broken English that he’s banned for life.
What did it even matter? Where does this nameless Italian nightclub fall on the list of things and people who have been taken from him today?
Rafael’s on his phone. He's probably ordering a hooker since he hasn’t gotten his dick wet yet.
Sam’s own phone is full of missed calls from Thomas. He pockets it instead of answering. The trip out wasn’t that far of a drive—he can walk back to the hotel. At least he’ll have some time to clear his head.
A frustratingly familiar hand lands on his shoulder, stopping Sam before he can sneak away.
Fuck, he’s tired. He’s bruised and sore and he’s probably going to cry himself to sleep. The last thing he needs is another altercation.
“I’m not fucking Thomas,” Sam says without turning. “Not anymore. He called it off tonight.”
Rafael’s hand falls. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Sam huffs. “That’s why I was here getting drunk, instead of there getting laid.”
Why else would he choose this hellhole instead of a nice warm bed with the man he loves?
“Okay.” Like Rafael has any say in their relationship. “Good.”
“If you care this much, you should tell him.” Sam exhales, but it sounds like a cry. “I was just a replacement for you anyways.”
He doesn’t want to turn around. He doesn’t want to see whatever hopeful reaction he might have sparked in Rafael.
Sam starts out on the sidewalk, towards the direction he thinks he came from. He leaves before any of his tears fall.
Sam takes Adam’s advice. He puts his head down and focuses on racing.
Lucas is retiring, which is what he wanted. Adam has a replacement, which is what he wanted. Thomas is probably fucking Rafael, which is what they both wanted. Sam is on the podium, which is what he wanted.
Everybody is happy.
Sam pulls up to the second-place marker in Bangkok and heads straight for his team, avoiding the red car as well as he can. He can’t force a smile, so he keeps his helmet on as he rushes through congratulations.
Lucas wanders over to the crowd after his on-car poses, but Sam thinks now is a pretty good time to get weighed. He manages to sneak away before the older driver can stop him.
The cameramen are more interested in the drivers who are celebrating with their teams, so Sam shucks off his helmet and balaclava in relative peace. He pops on his team cap and sponsor watch before drinking his water.
“Can we talk?” Thomas’s voice grates at his ears.
“No.”
“I just—” His accent is so thick. I jus’zink zat we—
How did Sam suffer it for so long?
Oh yeah, because they weren’t supposed to talk during sex. It ruined the illusion of him being Rafael. Of his dick’s glorified dildo duties.
Sam leaves, retreating to his team to wait for his interview. He passes Lucas on the way, and the German driver does a double-take. There’s no rule about where he’s allowed to stand and—judging by the look on Thomas’s face—it looks like Sam found the best seat in the house.
If Adam tracks the exchange, he doesn’t say anything.
Later, after the podium, pictures, and press, Sam receives a room number in his texts. He ignores it.
He finishes first in India.
The race is a hot one, and Sam’s dripping sweat and swaying when he finally exits his car.
His exhaustion is a good enough excuse not to climb up and celebrate, but the truth is Sam just doesn’t want to. He doesn’t feel anything except a sense he has completed his job for the day. Still, stumbles over to the team and congratulates them.
This win is the one that cements the Constructors Championship for Red Boar—a fact Adam yells loud enough to ring in Sam’s ears, even through his helmet.
Everyone on the team is absolutely elated that they’ve doubled their bonus checks for the year, but Sam can only watch their happiness through a window.
In the cool down room, Thomas steals the middle chair.
Sam can’t bring himself to care. He stands as far away as possible to watch the highlights.
Despite his desire to be alone, Lucas stands next to him in solidarity. Thankfully, he doesn’t try to force a conversation.
Sam is no longer affected by anything Thomas says or does, but he feels the smallest prickle of satisfaction when the Frenchman turns his big-eyed stare to glare at him.
He must be frustrated if he’s resorting to such juvenile tactics. Maybe they’d be able to work on Rafael.
Room 1486
Sam finishes second in Austin.
Ferraro just barely misses the podium, but it’s enough for Sam to breathe a little easier.
On the stage, Sam celebrates with Owain, unloading his entire bottle of champagne on the McLean driver.
“Club tonight?” Sam asks after the press room.
Owain sucks a breath through his teeth when he grimaces. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Of course. Because everyone chooses Rafael in the end.
“I get it.”
Room 1733
P2 in Mexico and Sam and Lucas try to blind Matthew with champagne during the driver’s first ever Formation 1 podium finish.
The nerdy little guy is bug-eyed and awestruck, staring between the two Red Boar drivers and his podium hat.
It’s good to bask in someone else’s enjoyment for once. Sam hasn’t looked at the podium with fresh eyes in a long time.
After press, he hums as he peels off his fireproofs. His own podium hat is long gone, tossed amongst the crew for them to deal with.
Sam doesn’t know what he'll do later, but he should make some sort of plan. Solitary hotel rooms aren’t helping the whole depression thing—he needs to get back out there and live again.
He’s been officially booted from the club chat, even though the fight was Rafael’s fault. Whatever, clubs are boring anyway. Besides, he can make new friends—he’s a friendly dude.
Maybe Matthew has some space left at whatever tabletop gaming troupe he’s obviously a part of.
Sam could eat alone at some restaurant, but that sounded depressing. Maybe Adam—
No. That’s worse.
At this rate, he’ll just end up alone with his room service menu again.
When Sam had stormed out of Thomas’s suite in Monza, he hadn’t realized just how much of his life he was giving up. The sex, sure, but also their stupid race breakdowns, the late-night talks, the banter.
He misses the intimacy, misses having plans for the night, someone to sleep next to, someone to lean on, someone who is there with him to experience every weekend.
Sam misses Thomas and he hates himself for it.
A knock and Lucas enters his driver's room without waiting for permission.
“Yeah?” Sam is still only half-dressed, but the German driver never cares.
Lucas opens his mouth, but seems to rethink what he was about to say. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, no, I’m fine.”
“Is that a yes? Or a no?”
Both.
“I’m fine.”
Lucas studies him for a moment before asking, “Are you like this because I am leaving?”
“No.” Sam’s had enough time to get over the new kid. Even if he still doesn’t like him. “Well, maybe a little bit.”
“So you are sad because of Thomas.”
Sam huffs in frustration and turns away to struggle with the rest of his clothes. “If it is about Thomas, then I guess it doesn’t concern you.”
“Look, I do not want to see you like this.” Gee, thanks. “I only have a limited time before I leave. Is there something I can do to help?”
Sam’s still shirtless when he spins back to face the door. He doesn’t miss how Lucas’s eyes run over his body before popping back up to his face. For a split second Sam’s reminded of Thomas after their crash in Canada.
Is there anything I can do?
“Yeah.” It falls out of Sam’s mouth before he even realizes it.
“Yes?”
It’s unfamiliar territory for them, but there are only two races left in the season. If Sam doesn’t take the opportunity to ask now, he might never do so.
His brain whispers that Thomas and Lucas look so similar from behind. That it could work both ways. If he just closed his eyes—
He stops that thought before it even finishes.
“I-If I promised feelings wouldn’t be involved—if it was purely physical—would you be interested in sex with me?”
Lucas’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t reply.
“You’ve had casual sex before.” Sam stumbles to try to sell himself, and he can feel embarrassment heating his cheeks. “I was just wondering if you’d be—I mean, if that was something maybe—maybe you could see doing. With me, maybe.”
Sam is such a fucking idiot.
Lucas finally finds his voice. “I do not think that is a good idea.”
Sam deflates. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”
He shrugs his shirt on, but when he pops his head through the neck hole, Lucas still hasn’t left yet.
“Send me your room number.”
“What?”
“The number for your hotel room.” That wasn’t the confusing part. “I might change my mind.”
Sam nods eagerly. “Yeah, I can—I’ll do that right now.”
By the time he’s sent the text, Lucas is gone.
He said it would be a possibility, but Sam is honestly surprised when Lucas knocks on his door later that night. He checks the peephole, to be sure, but there’s Lucas’s head, turned away, watching down the hallway in case any fans spot him.
Sam opens the door but, before he realizes his mistake, Thomas sticks a leg and an arm through the opening.
“I just want to talk!” Thomas yelps.
“Go away.” Sam kicks at Thomas’s shoe, but it doesn’t budge. “How did you even find me, anyways? Did the front desk rat me out?” That has to be a security concern, surely.