He guessed croissant #9
“Lucas gave me your room number.” Thomas strains to fit his face through the opening while his arm and leg push against the door. “He said we should talk.”
Lucas. Of course. That traitor.
“Fine.”
Thomas stumbles inside when Sam suddenly releases the door.
“Well? Talk.”
“I—” Thomas stretches himself up to his full height and stares up at Sam. “Hello.”
Sam doesn’t have time for this. “Is that it?”
“No, I am trying to think about where to start. I did not expect you would let me inside.”
“Well, I did. So—” Sam motions for him to continue.
“Right.” Thomas clears his throat and announces, “I only want to drive for Ferraro.”
Again? “We’ve been through this.”
“Yes, but you need to understand that for me, racing comes first. It always will.”
“I get it, Ferraro comes first. You choose red. That’s fine.” It’s a moot point anyways, now that the kid’s contract has been signed.
“Will you shut up? I am trying to say I still want you.”
Sam doesn’t answer, but he freezes in place, his body stock-still.
“I only want to race for Ferraro, but I am only wanting you as well. When I said no that day, I was saying no to Red Boar, not to you. This is what I have been trying to tell you—I want you, Samuel.”
Sam tries to keep his face composed, but he can’t pretend to be unaffected. “You said I didn’t love you.”
“I still do not think so.” Oh great. At least he hasn’t changed. “But that is okay for now.”
“It’s not okay for you to tell me how I feel.”
“A man who truly loved me would not ask me to leave Ferraro.” It’s a bold statement, but Thomas keeps his eyes trained on Sam. “Would you leave Red Boar for me? Move to Italy and learn Italian? Would you uproot your entire life for me?”
Sam clenches his jaw instead of answering. He wouldn’t, and they both already know it.
“But I miss you,” Thomas pleads. “I am now half the man I was when we were together. It could become love one day—I see that happening with you.”
“What about Rafael? What do you see with him?”
“Rafael?” Thomas has the gall to look confused. “What about him?”
Sam scoffs. “You can’t expect me to ignore that you want him! When he finally admits he loves you, what then? Where does that leave me?”
Something like recognition crosses Thomas’s face. “You said something to him. To Rafael.”
“Have you been fucking this whole time?” It’s embarrassing how close to tears Sam is. “Did he finally get tired of you? Is that why you’re here?”
“Non! No, we did not. I do not want Rafael.”
Sam can still remember hearing the Brazilian's name fall from his lips in the throes of ecstasy. “Sure you don’t.”
“I cannot believe I am having this conversation two times.” Thomas grabs Sam’s forearms and it sends a spark of electricity through him. “I will not settle. Not on Ferraro, and not on you. Please, Samuel, it is only you.”
Only you.
Sam’s stomach tightens as he swallows. “So you’re… you’re choosing me?”
Thomas nods quickly, almost violently. “But are you choosing me? I will not forget it was Lucas who gave me your room number.”
Carefully, so carefully, Sam steps closer. The movement causes Thomas to shift his grip, for his dainty fingers to trail up Sam’s forearms, over his biceps, and land on his shoulders.
Sam’s hands settle on Thomas’s narrow hips and he releases a shaky exhale. “I chose you a long time ago.”
Even before the club night in France. Sam chose Thomas when he decided to give his stupid replacement plan a try. When he looked him in the eyes as he came and still wanted more.
It was always Thomas.
“Things change.” The Frenchman licks his lips and asks, “Do you still choose me?”
Sam’s hand is trembling when he cups Thomas’s cheek and breathes, “I still choose you.”
Thomas sighs into his hand, melting against Sam’s palm. His eyelashes splay out, over the tops of his cheeks. “I missed you.”
Missing Thomas is an understatement. Lately, Sam has been a shell of the person he used to be. Cutting off Thomas drained his happiness, his spark for life.
Still, he needs to say something, so Sam replies, “I missed you, too.”
Thomas’s cheek burns in his hand. Sam is so grateful for the touch that he feels greedy with it. The confessions embolden him, make him brave enough to ask for something new.
In all of their time together, there was a line they never crossed.
“Can I kiss you?”
Thomas’s breath hitches and his eyes flutter open when he nods.
Sam leans in slowly, in case Thomas changes his mind.
He doesn’t. The smaller driver eagerly stretches up, onto his toes, and closes the gap.
His lips are softer than Sam expected, and much more active. Their mouths are only connected for a moment before Thomas’s tongue runs along the seam, asking for permission.
Who was Sam to deny him anything? He sways with the movement, his hand slipping back, into fluffy hair, as he opens his mouth and explores Thomas’s curious tongue with his own.
He tastes sweet. Nutty, almost, like peanut butter. It’s crazy that, of everywhere Sam’s tongue has been, he never knew what Thomas’s mouth tasted like.
Thomas is vocal, moaning low and sweet as he rocks with the motion of his lips. His tongue dips in shallowly, chasing Sam’s only to pull out and close his lips with a smile.
Sam wants to be gentle, but Thomas continues his frustrating ministrations—keeps teasing him just to retreat. A little bit of tongue, a small rock forward, then darting away again with a smirk.
Sam bites at that infuriating lower lip—pulling it back, reclaiming it—and Thomas melts with a deep groan.
“Oh, Samuel.”
Hands tear at Sam’s arms and shoulders, scrambling for purchase. No more teasing, Thomas dives fully into him, clawing at him, devouring him.
Sam draws Thomas in by the waist as they bite and suck and moan. Their mouths are hot and wet as they undulate against each other, rolling their hips and urging themselves impossibly closer.
Sam pushes a leg forward and Thomas whines as he thrusts his thickening cock against the hard muscle of his thigh. His mouth drops open and his eyebrows draw up as he humps against Sam’s leg, chasing his high.
It’s so fucking hot.
On a misstep they stumble back, knocking against the wall of the entrance of the room. The blow is a surprise, and Sam reluctantly breaks away, gasping. He rests his forehead down, against Thomas’s, and breathes in his warm exhales.
“What would you like?” Thomas’s accent is heavier, slurred. His face is bright red as he gulps in air. “Anything—anything you want, I am yours.”
“I haven’t eaten yet.”
“Quoi?” Thomas’s eyelashes flutter for a moment before his eyes focus on him.
“Wanna get dinner with me?”
“Right now?” Thomas thrusts forward, drilling his hard cock against Sam’s hip. “I thought we were going to fuck!”
Sam’s raw lips pull up into a smile. “Yeah, that’d be great. I’d like to eat dinner with you first, though. If that’s okay?”
They’ve never eaten together. Ever.
They should fix that.
Thomas studies him before letting out a frustrated grunt. “Fine. But I want room service! I am not leaving this hotel and waiting for a table.”
Sam’s smile grows. “Room service works.”
“And we should head up to my suite.” Thomas cranes his neck, looking around at the room they’re in. “This one is too small and depressing. Red Boar should treat you better than this.”
“Your room it is.” Sam will never say no to Ferraro footing his dinner tab.
Thomas turns to the door and grabs the handle. “Well? What are you waiting for? You are a racing driver, hurry up.”
Sam laughs as he’s dragged away from his own hotel room.
Thomas is still Thomas.
It’s the only person Sam has ever wanted him to be.
In Brazil, Sam finishes second. It’s a hard race right up until the very end, so he’ll concede the win this one time.
For the first time in months, he throws himself against his team. They aren’t expecting it, so he laughs as everyone crashes into each other and tries not to drop him.
Sam pats backs, rubs hair, and smiles big for the cameras, turning so his whole team can get in the frame.
“I’m glad you’re back.” Adam gazes up at him with a proud smile. It doesn’t even falter when his eyes flick over Sam’s shoulder to where Thomas stands on his car.
“Happy to be back.”
The race organizers try to corral him into the interview area, but Sam hangs back, waiting for Thomas to finish celebrating with his team before congratulating him.
“I’ll win the next one.”
Thomas’s face lights up when he sees him. That’ll never get old. “Do not count on it.”
Sam ends the season how he starts it—on the middle step.
He stands between his two favorite people as the speakers pump his favorite song out to the crowd. He accepts the biggest trophy, raising it high for the audience, then exchanges it for a bottle of sparkling wine.
Thomas has the same idea, and both of them jump the start, ganging up and spraying Lucas down before the sound engineer has the chance to play “Carmen”.
After they’re all drenched and sticky, Sam pulls Lucas in for a tight hug. He’s avoided thinking too hard about it, but this is it—their last ever podium together.
“Don’t cry,” Lucas scolds when they pull back.
Sam dabs at his eyes with his wrist. “It’s the sparkling wine.”
“Samuel is crying.”
“Nobody asked you, Big Toe!”
Thomas sticks out his tongue, but he still holds his arm out so Sam can slide into the middle for the top step photo.
Sam squeezes in, pulling both Lucas and Thomas closer to his sides, leaving Gary to lean in by himself. When Sam smiles for the photo, a drop of sparkling wine leaks out of his eye.
Whatever, he’s allowed to be emotional.
They gather their trophies, and all three drivers hesitate before they leave the stage.
“My last ever Formation 1 trophy, huh?” Lucas turns it over in his hands, studying it. “It could be bigger.”
“Should’ve thought of that before losing.” Sam makes a point to show off how heavy his first-place trophy is.
“It is not the last,” Thomas corrects, softly. “Do not forget the Drivers Championship.”
Lucas’s face lights up. “The biggest one! How did I forget? You two should not have been the losers.”
Sam doesn’t think for one moment that the Drivers Championship slipped Lucas’s mind. “Don’t worry, I’ll get one of those myself next year.”
Thomas scoffs. “Not if I am to say anything about it.”
Racing will always come first. Their teams will always come first.
Still, coming second is not too bad.