Australian Grand Prix #10
Julien kicks the wardrobe half-heartedly before climbing up onto the massage table and falling face first into the padded surface. He prides himself on his self-control, but Thomas gets under his skin like no one else can.
And the only person Julien can talk to—the only person who might understand what he’s going through—took Thomas’s side.
That sucks.
When Julien gets himself onto that podium, he’ll tell the Brazilian driver exactly where to stick it.
“That’s the checkered flag and P7. Good drive today.”
It wasn’t a good drive. It was long and grueling and, despite his adrenaline, Julien is so exhausted he might not be able to stand after he parks. He definitely won’t be able to move his neck for a week.
“Thanks, but it’s a good car.” As many people pointed out on his stream. “Learned a lot for next week, so let’s keep at it.”
Julien doesn’t need to ask how his brother finished. When he pulls into parc ferme, the other red car is parked dead-center, in the winner’s spot.
Ferraro made a winning car.
Julien placed seventh with it.
“Don’t forget to reattach the steering wheel.”
“Thanks.”
It takes some convincing, but Julien eventually pulls himself upright. He remembers the steering wheel, but his legs are jelly as he tries to navigate around the halo.
Once he’s finally on stable ground, he lines up for the scales behind the McLeans. Owain notices him and turns, smacking his shoulder.
“How’d your first Form 1 race go?”
“Fine.” Now Julien’s shoulder also hurts. “Frustrated I couldn’t do more out there.”
“Yeah, that’s usually the vibe for the drivers in this line.” Owain taps the helmet of the driver ahead of him. “Hey, Hugo, didja meet Julien yet?”
Hugo turns, popping his visor up. “Hey, Juliet.”
“Humungo.”
Owain looks between the two drivers, his head bouncing back and forth. “You already know each other?”
“Yeah. Hey, go first.” Hugo doesn’t wait for Owain to move, he just manhandles the Welsh driver out of his way. “How’ve you been?”
Julien's too tired to lie. “Y’know, same as ever.”
“Got back in the race, though. Never thought I’d see it.”
“Gee, thanks.” And whose fault is that? Which driver took the final open seat of the season? “So… First race as a fancy full-time driver. How’d you do?”
Hugo shrugs, blasé as ever. “Neck hurts like a bitch.”
“Tell me about it.”
Owain leaves the scale and Hugo steps on. That should be it, their pleasantries fulfilled, but Hugo hangs back and waits for Julien before heading to the press pit.
“Got a notification you streamed last night,” the Canadian driver says. “Bold to go live the night before a race.”
Julien forgot he followed his account. He wouldn’t have expected him to hang around all these years, though. “I already got shit from Thomas, no need to pile it on.”
“I caught a bit on Friday. Brutal stuff. I’m guessing they still don’t know you’re you?”
“Defeats the point if everyone knows. Can’t make a name for myself if I’m Thomas’s brother.”
Hugo flicks Julien on the hip, and the Ferraro driver yelps.
“It’s your name too, you dolt.”
Julien rubs at the sting blooming beneath the “DUBOIS” printed on his suit. “Hey, that hurt.”
“You’ve never complained before.”
Julien knocks into him with a laugh. “Shut up! Jesus fuck. There’s like, a million cameras and shit!”
Hugo only smirks.
Once they’re both collected by their respective press officers, they’re guided into the lions’ den.
The broadcasters quickly spot the rookies, and most of their hands fly into the air as they clamor for attention.
Is it better for Julien to silently watch his own chat tear him apart without realizing he’s there? Or for reporters to look him in the eye and say the same cutting remarks with a peppy demeanor?
It’s like choosing between a splinter in his dick or his eyeball.
He loves to race. He loves to race. He loves to race.
Julien returns to the garage relatively unscathed. While everyone is busy packing up the car and corralling the tires, he manages to slip by unnoticed and duck into his driver’s room.
“Thought you’d be longer.” Rafael groans as he pushes himself up to sitting, his arm still tightly bound to his chest.
Despite Julien’s lingering annoyance from breakfast, he can’t help but ask, “You sleep in your sling?”
“Have to keep it immobilized, even while sleeping.” Rafael stretches his neck, reaching from side to side. The movement emphasizes how thick it is, how muscular. “Is it picture time?”
“Thomas is still at the press conference.”
Julien has very little shame, especially in front of someone already so familiar with his dick.
He ignores Rafael’s presence as he rolls his sweat-soaked fireproof shirt up and over his head, dropping it in with a plop to the ground.
He steps out of his pooled race suit next, kicking it over to the growing pile.
The air is sharp against Julien’s uncovered skin, and it finally feels like he can breathe again.
“You should take it easy on Thomas.”
“Weird time to bring up my brother—my ass is out and everything.” Julien turns in his fireproof long johns, but the point still stands. “What’d you think of the race?”
“He’s trying his best, just like you are.”
Great, they’re still talking about Thomas. Guess Rafael never wants that blowjob.
Julien crosses his arms, putting a barrier between the injured driver and his naked flesh. “Respectfully, you don’t know anything about us or our history.”
“I understand more than you think. I know my father retired before I started racing, but—”
Not this again. “Then you agree. Your situation is different, so your opinion about my life doesn’t matter.”
Disrespectfully.
Rafael stands with a huff. It’d be more dramatic if the injury didn’t make him so graceless.
“I’m trying to help you out.” The stance is still intimidating. It’s hard to feel powerful when Rafael uses his full height to his advantage. “Family is the most important—”
But Julien doesn’t need to be talked down to. Literally or figuratively. “Y’know what? Get out of my fucking driver’s room. I’m changing.” Julien throws open the door and gestures for the older driver to leave.
“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Before he actually exits, Rafael freezes in place.
“Rafael?” Thomas’s voice rings out from the hallway. His wide eyes glide over Rafael’s face and land on Julien’s mostly undressed body. “What are you doing with my naked baby brother?”
Julien scoffs. “I’m not a baby, Thomas.”
But Rafael is stark still. His face is pale as he quickly says, “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Is it not? Then what am I looking at?”
Julien is too exhausted to deal with his brother’s stupid tough guy act. “Rafael only woke up to defend you, so lay off him.” Speaking of defending Thomas, Julien points to the door again. “And now he’s leaving.”
After Rafael shuffles out, Thomas turns his anger to Julien. “He was here and you took off your clothes?!”
“I needed to change!” This is so fucking stupid. Everything is always Julien’s fault. “You can’t seriously think I’d fuck someone in my driver’s room. There’s no ceiling—everyone would hear it! Close the door, I’m in my underwear.”
He meant for Thomas to stay on the outside, but the older Dubois lets himself in and shuts the door behind him.
Julien finally rolls the long johns off and drops them with the rest of his racing gear. “Congrats on the win, by the way.”
“Merci.” Thomas plants himself on the vacated massage table. He’s still in his full race suit, the podium cap snug around his head. He smells sweet, like old champagne. “How was your race? Watched Santiago’s overtake during the cool down room.”
“Brutal, right?” Once his trousers are up, Julien looks for where he flung the team shirt this morning. “Can’t be mad about it when he pulled such a cool move.”
“I thought I would see you after the race.”
“Yeah.” Julien was going to wander over to the winner’s circle to congratulate him, but the lingering emotions from their fight probably would’ve brought down the mood. Thomas deserved to celebrate his win. “Oh, I talked to Hugo. Owain tried to introduce us.”
“Was that—?” Thomas hesitates. “How was that?”
“Fine. Good.” Julien finally snags the sleeve of his shirt out from under a pile of hats he signed earlier. “I mean, it’s not his fault McLean chose him, right? He still follows my stream, so that was a surprise.”
Thomas hums, obviously holding himself back from saying something about the stream. With how exhausted Julien is from limb to limb, he might’ve had a point this morning.
He didn’t have to be such a demanding asshole about it, though.
“I’m gonna cut back on streaming during race weekends.”
Thomas’s eyes light up. “Yes?”
“But you can’t treat me like a child anymore. You aren’t Maman or Papa—you need to stop trying to control me. I have feelings and I’m allowed to make mistakes and grow from them.”
“I also have feelings,” Thomas says, quietly. “I also make mistakes.”
“I know.” If anyone knows, it’s Julien.
“But I have been doing this for years and I want to help you. You say you need to figure it out on your own, but then you are with Rafael and asking for his help. I am leading the championship now. Why is my help worth less than his?”
Because accepting help from Thomas is the same as admitting Julien is just a worse version of him—a byproduct. If Julien learns from Thomas, how will he ever prove he’s better than him?
“I can’t ask you for help,” Julien replies. “Everybody already compares me to you. I can’t drive like you too.”
“Driving like me wins races.”
“Driving like me will too.”
Thomas is good at silently staring, but so is Julien. They glare at each other, neither of them willing to back down.
Finally, Thomas exhales. “Fine. I understand.”
“Really?”
“Ouais. I still want to help, so tell me if you change your mind.”
“Yeah, definitely.” Absolutely not. “I didn’t get to watch the podium. Was Sam pissed?”