Australian Grand Prix
MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA
“Let’s see if we can catch—Julien!” A reporter stalks after him, her microphone poised at the ready. “Can we have a word?”
“Sure.” Julien slows to a stop outside the Ferraro garage. At least if this one goes poorly he can make a run for it.
The reporter pats her hair and stands next to Julien, facing the camera. After a quick glance behind and up at the wall they’re parked in front of, she grins. “Perfect. Count me in?”
While the cameraman counts down, Julien looks up. They’re standing in front of a giant poster of Rafael. Ah. That’s not ominous or anything.
“We’re here with Julien, Thomas’s younger brother. Julien, how are you feeling this weekend?”
He’s feeling like he’d kill to be called anything other than Thomas’s younger brother. “I’m excited to be here and eager to show the world what I can do with the car.”
The reporter looks taken aback, though her eyebrows barely move. “You sound English.”
“I’m speaking English.”
“No, I—” She laughs and Julien can’t tell if it’s at his expense or not. “You don’t sound like your brother, even though you look so much like him.”
“Yeah, well, we’re still two completely different people.”
It’s been the same thing all fucking day. Everything falls back to Thomas.
Thomas is such a good driver. Thomas is such a good brother. How could you ever live up to your perfect brother? How do you wipe your ass if he’s not around?
As soon as he spots an opening, Julien excuses himself and bolts down the long hallway.
A vinyl decal of Rafael, large and triumphant, spans the wall at the end of the tunnel, judging him with every step. Julien keeps his head down, avoiding the Brazilian’s dark stare.
Even in the garage, Julien can’t escape the pointed looks or the sudden breaks in conversation. He nods when he catches a mechanic’s eye, but the man quickly turns away.
Julien has traveled with the team for three years. He’s not some stranger nobody knows—he’s the same reserve driver he’s always been.
Solitude has to be better than this.
Once he’s safely inside his driver’s room, Julien slumps back against the door and exhales.
To be a full-time driver is to attract attention. Of course people stare at him. It’ll only get worse if he manages to earn a seat at the end of his six-race run. He better get used to it now.
Julien slowly slides against the hard surface until his ass hits the ground and he can bury his face in his hands. Even behind his eyelids, he sees hundreds of eyes staring at him, watching his every move, waiting for him to fuck up.
It’s been a while since anyone looked twice at Julien around the paddock. Most people probably forgot he still has his super license.
The fans all think he’s some nepo-sibling, the reporters only want to see carnage, and the mechanics are probably worried about their end of year bonuses, since their livelihoods ride on his performance in the Constructors’ Championship.
It's fine. Everyone is just curious because he’s new. The attention will fade.
Eventually.
“That bad, huh?”
Julien’s face snaps up. He hadn’t realized anyone else was in the room.
Rafael looks unimpressed as he lounges, his long legs spanning the length of the massage table. A black sling cradles his right arm to his chest. One strap reaches up, over his left shoulder, and another across, trapping the limb in place.
He raises a single dark eyebrow until it disappears behind his curly black hair.
“I didn’t think you’d be in here,” Julien replies.
What’s the etiquette for asking a driver to leave the only quiet room in the entire paddock? A room that used to be his safe space?
Is “Leave me the fuck alone” too harsh?
“They haven’t taken my name off the door yet. Figured I’d hide for a bit since everyone keeps asking me about my fucking collarbone.” Rafael shifts and grunts. Despite his struggle, his arm stays immobilized, trapped to his sternum.
“At least they care about you. I’m just an extension of my stupid brother.”
“Hmm.” With some effort, Rafael swings both of his legs over the edge of the table and pats the cleared space. “Sit up here. The floor is gross.”
When Julien pushes himself off the ground, a film of something sticks to the pads of his fingers. He haphazardly wipes his hands on his jeans, but they act as lint rollers, collecting fibers in the divots.
Gross.
Julien falls back onto the massage table with a heavy exhale. He doesn’t want to share the space, but it’s fine as long as they both agree to stay quiet. If he stares straight at the door, he can almost forget the other driver is there.
“So…” It’s harder to ignore Rafael when he talks. “Do you have any siblings?”
Julien snorts. “Two brothers. One of them’s a Michelin-starred chef, if you can believe it. Great guy—he’d give you the shirt off his back before you even asked.”
“The other?”
“He’s just an average guy. He can’t cook, can’t clean, sucks at paddle.”
“Surely there’s a redeeming factor in there somewhere.”
“He’s a millionaire, so his Christmas presents are usually pretty good.” Though Julien would prefer cash. “What about you? Why’s your arm all fucked up?”
“I can’t ski as well as I thought I could. Correction—I can ski just fine, it’s the stopping I overestimated.” Rafael wiggles the fingers of his entrapped arm. “So tell me, are you any good at driving? Or is Ferraro screwed this season?”
Julien prickles with irritation. “I won the Formation 2 Championship. Placed second in Form 3. I’m good at driving.”
“Still? Haven’t you sat on the sidelines for three years?”
“That sure as hell wasn’t my fault! You can’t race in a series after winning it, and there weren’t any open seats when I won. I haven’t been able to show anybody I can still fight, so every year I get passed over for the younger guys.”
Rafael tries to turn his neck, but he has to shift his entire torso to do so. He grunts under the strain. “Bet you’re happy to have six races now.”
“Yeah, sorry.” Julien exhales and slouches against the wall. It’s cold and stiff against the bumps of his spine. “Thanks for giving me my chance. Looks like it hurts, though.”
“It does.”
Rafael leans back as well, and his uninjured arm brushes against Julien’s. Warmth radiates off of the hard muscle and sinks under Julien’s skin. It’s a strange intimacy to share with a star of the sport. Makes him appear almost human.
“It’s inconvenient too,” Rafael continues. “Hate that I can’t race, of course, but there’s a lot of other shit I need two hands for. Zippers, laces, everything needs two fucking hands.”
“Are you left-handed at least?”
“No!” Rafael lifts his uninjured hand, shaking it with frustration. Julien misses the warmth of it. “How can there be such a big difference? Even brushing my teeth is ten times harder now.”
“But you can still jerk off, right?”
Oops. That’s probably not an appropriate thing to ask a coworker. Julien should really learn to think before he speaks—especially if he’s going to be in front of cameras for six races.
Luckily, Rafael laughs, but he grimaces as he grasps his shoulder, bracing it. “Honestly, I’ve had more important things to deal with. I haven’t even tried yet.”
“Well, let me know.”
Let me know?! What the fuck would Julien do about it? He’s not here to give handjobs to injured drivers—he’s here to race.
Rafael doesn’t reply, so there’s a sliver of hope he didn’t hear him. Maybe they can go back to talking shit about Julien’s driving and save everyone the embarrassment.
Julien peeks at the Brazilian, only to meet his intense stare.
It’s more intimidating in person than on the billboard-sized posters.
His signature dark eyes are darker now—tinted with something secretive, something alluring.
He seems to be studying Julien, maybe judging how serious the suggestion was.
It wasn’t an actual offer, but hey, it could be.
Rafael is by far the most attractive driver on the grid. His thick eyelashes, plump lips, and strong jawline make heads turn even before he jumps into the car and destroys everyone on track.
Julien would do it just for the story. I touched Rafael’s cock until he came. Who wouldn’t be impressed?
But it doesn’t matter. Julien is just projecting. He isn’t anything to Rafael but his replacement. His seat warmer. His teammate’s stupid, unsuccessful little brother.
Julien swallows his disappointment, and Rafael’s eyes dart down, tracking the movement before slowly creeping back up.
Huh.
Or maybe—
“Julien?” Thomas knocks on the door, but only after he’s already halfway inside. “Marketing wants us to—oh!” After a long, strange look at the Brazilian driver, Thomas smiles and switches to English. “Hello Rafael, how are you?”
“Fine.”
“How is your—?” Thomas points to his own collarbone instead of finishing his sentence.
“It’s fine.” Despite his teammate’s bubbly tone, Rafael sounds curt, almost dismissive. “It’s all fine.”
“I sent you a text when I found out. I do not know if you received it?”
“I got a bunch of texts. Didn’t answer anyone.”
“Well, I am sorry to hear about—” Again with the gesturing. If Thomas was going to act all weird and concerned, he should’ve at least looked up the English word for collarbone. “If there is anything—anything at all—that you need. I am here.”
Yeah, this is already fucking annoying. A whole day of it is probably insufferable.
Julien stands, sliding in between his fawning brother and Rafael. “You said Marketing is looking for us? We should probably head out.”
Thomas finally raises his eyes from the injured driver and blinks. “Ouais. They want to film some videos before the weekend starts.”
“Yeah, okay.” Julien checks his pockets, but he never took anything out of them. His hands are still sticky. Gross. “You really shouldn’t barge into the room. I could’ve been changing.”
He tries to crowd his brother back out the door, but Thomas stands his ground. “There is no part of you I have not seen.”
Face flaming, Julien snaps, “Why would you say that?!”