Chinese Grand Prix
SHANGHAI, CHINA
Yeah, well Julien would’ve qualified on pole if he had set himself up better before turn six. “Looking forward to the sprint tomorrow.”
Julien hops out of the car and lines up for the scale. After accepting the receipt, he shucks his helmet and balaclava before wandering over to the top three circle.
The other Ferraro is parked in second, its driver huddled closely with the broader of the Red Boars while Friedrich stands in front of the camera for his interview.
“Hey,” Julien says, tapping his brother on the shoulder.
Thomas turns, his face lighting up. “How did you do?”
“Lost time on six. Could’ve used more of the apex at ten. Probably lost three-tenths or so, so I’m glad it’s just the sprint.”
Sam leans in, weirdly close to Thomas for such a long-time bitter rival. “So where are you starting?”
“P4.”
“P—?” Sam turns to look, though the rest of the cars are tossed about in whatever order they finished their lap in. “Fuck, Little Toe. With just one practice?”
Little Toe? Is that an Australian thing?
“Uh, yeah?”
Thomas hugs Julien from the side, clapping his shoulder before he’s summoned to do his interview. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
Friedrich wanders off, back to the line where his team is waiting to greet him, so it’s just Sam and Julien.
“So… You’re a reserve driver?”
“Yeah.” Julien isn’t the best at small talk either, but this feels even more awkward than it should. “This is my fourth year with Ferraro.”
Sam whistles like he can’t believe it. “Are you Ferraro-or-nothing like Thomas?”
“Nope. Would’ve taken any car.” Even a Sobber. “But racing has a short memory and I got forgotten.”
“Shit, and I thought I was happy when I heard about Rafael." Sam laughs with his big plastic smile. He’s very… toothy. “Six races in a Ferraro? That’s lucky.”
Rafael only broke his collarbone, but it could’ve been so much worse. Why is Sam’s first instinct to laugh about it? Why would he assume Julien will join in?
Something about him is just so fake and off-putting—it’s easy to see why Thomas hates him so much.
“We are all finished?” Friedrich asks, joining them. He’s so much taller and lankier than Julien remembers, and the strength of his German accent is almost distracting.
At least Sam can understand him. “I gotta do my interview, then we can head out.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“Well, I reckon it’d be rude to snatch the mic from Thomas.”
Friedrich looks over to the interview area, where Thomas is wrapping up, and back to Julien. Then again. Then one more time. “Am I made a fool? Who are you?”
What?
What?!
How could Friedrich miss that Julien has been substituting for Rafael? It was all over the news! Every news! How could any driver not notice that one of the biggest contenders for the championship has a broken collarbone?!
“Why are you wearing du-boys?” Friedrich points at the label on Julien’s suit.
“It’s my name! And it’s du-bwah.”
“What is going on?” Thomas returns and hands the microphone off to a still-laughing Sam.
Turning his attention to the older Dubois, Friedrich demands, “Where is the bigger one?”
“Bigger what?”
“He means Rafael,” Julien translates.
“Oh!” For some reason, Thomas isn’t nearly as concerned about Friedrich’s complacency. “He broke his—” Again, he gestures to his collarbone. “So my brother is filling in while he heals.”
Friedrich nods slowly, like he still doesn’t understand. “And Ferraro cannot afford reserve drivers? You use your brother instead?”
Julien doesn’t need to be here. He definitely doesn’t need to listen to this shit. “Y’know what? Good job, Thomas. I’ll catch you after media.”
Julien won the Formation 2 Championship the same year Friedrich won Formation 3. They attended the same end of the year gala. They sat next to each other before walking up to the stage and receiving their awards.
Julien remembers, but obviously it was stupid to expect the same of the German driver.
Even the reporters who accuse Julien of having a sibling advantage at least know he raced. They don’t assume the F1A hands out super licenses to anyone who asks for one. They know Julien earned his way to the top of the Formation series—even if they don’t think he belongs here anymore.
“Good run today,” Rafael says, welcoming Julien back to their shared driver’s room. “Just watch out for—”
“Six and ten. Yeah, I know.” Julien strips off his Nomex shirt with a grunt. “I want to beat Friedrich tomorrow.”
“Most drivers want to win.”
“Of course I want to win,” Julien says, punctuating the word by flinging his shirt at the ground. “But I want to race Friedrich so hard he doesn’t forget me. He needs to know I’m a threat, not just some random guy warming your seat.”
“Won’t be easy, since he’s starting on pole.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Julien almost got pole too.
“Both Sam and Thomas are starting between you and him.”
Julien hesitates, but recovers. “Have to beat everyone in order to win.”
“That’s the spirit.” Rafael looks really smug for someone who isn’t actually affected by the outcome of the sprint race. “Don’t forget our deal, Mr. P4.”
Julien forgot their deal.
He’s P4.
Ugh.
“It’s just a sprint.” Julien pushes his long johns down and he feels extra-bare. “Do you want half a blowjob?”
“Depends which half. Lengthwise? Widthwise? I’d love to watch you suck only the left side of my cock. Could be fun.”
“I was thinking timewise, actually.” Julien stands, and Rafael’s eyes drift from his naked chest down to his black briefs. “Bail before you come. Could be fun.”
“After I made an effort to eat more fruit? You’re a cruel man.”
Rafael falls back with a huff, his lap open and welcoming. His sling clings on for dear life where it digs into the muscle of his good shoulder and around his chest.
Some men don’t wear bondage well—they either fight it too much or beg for it until they lose all self-respect.
Rafael falls into a secret third category of delectable men who are inconvenienced by the restriction but accept their fate anyway.
It shows flexibility, vulnerability, a willingness to follow.
Julien is drawn to it like a moth to the flame.
He likes a man who eats more fruit just in case he gets a chance to come. A man who whines so prettily when he’s edged, instead of lashing out. A man who makes a deal, and slinks back when Julien reneges on it.
He wants Rafael carnally, but that doesn’t change the fact that Julien still despises giving blowjobs.
Julien saunters over, and Rafael peaks an eye open. Slowly—slow enough to stop—Julien lifts a knee and plants it on one side of Rafael’s legs. The other follows, hugging the larger man’s thighs.
Despite Julien’s nearly naked form, Rafael’s silent stare remains fixated on his face.
Whatever works for him.
Julien lowers himself until he’s sitting on the older driver’s lap. After no reaction, he scoots until they’re pressed against each other, connected at their clothed groins.
From this angle, Rafael has to look up at him. His dark eyes catch the lights of the room and shine. His awe is beautiful, even in the harsh lighting of the driver’s room.
“I don’t like giving blowjobs,” Julien says, lowly.
“We made a deal,” Rafael whispers back.
“A blowjob is a small-cock activity.” Julien rocks forward and the Brazilian sucks in a breath. “Do you have a small cock?”
Rafael’s head sways from side to side.
“No. No, you don’t.” Julien hooks his thumb under Rafael’s jaw, keeping his face steady as he grinds his hardening member against him.
Rafael whimpers, wiggling with aborted movements under the weight of the smaller driver, trying to thrust up to meet him. He struggles, shifting his torso, but with one arm trapped, and the other at his side, he can’t find the purchase.
“You can touch.” Julien takes Rafael’s free hand in his own and trails it up his thigh.
Rafael’s fingers are so much thicker, so much coarser, and they tease Julien, catching on his leg hairs and sending shivers up his spine. He guides the man over his briefs and around, settling the large hand on the meat of his ass.
When he lets go, Rafael grasps him, pulling the smaller driver closer and drilling their centers together. Both men groan at the sudden sensation, their cocks trapped between their hard bodies. Still, the Brazilian doesn’t let up, his hand a vice around Julien’s round cheek.
“Why would you ever want to fuck a mouth full of teeth?” Julien trails soft kisses from the corner of Rafael’s jaw down to the sensitive spot behind his ear. “When my ass is begging for you. Tight for you. Doesn’t that sound so much better?”
Julien’s breath hitches when the older man finds enough purchase and thrusts up.
“Fine.” Rafael grunts, his hand falling to the side. “You’ll have to do all the work, though. I only have one arm.”
“Deal.” That’s what Julien prefers anyway. He shuffles backwards before dismounting. “After you help me win the sprint, of course.”
“Whaaat?!” It escapes as a whine. “After? The sprint isn’t until tomorrow.”
“You have to earn it, remember?” Julien slides a shirt on and steps into his trousers, adjusting his semi until it isn’t as noticeable. “Though I probably shouldn’t race after fucking, so Sunday night.”
“Sunday?!”
“Sounds good!” Julien pockets his wallet and checks the time on his phone. “The meeting’s in ten. See you there?”
He leaves without waiting for a response.
Julien finally catches up to Thomas on lap fifteen. There’s only four laps left of the sprint, but that's enough time to fight for second.
The older Dubois defends through eleven and twelve, but Julien holds steady. He's in the perfect position to overtake with DRS.
“Keep it clean,” Davide reminds him. Even over the radio, he can’t hide the excitement in his voice. “Sam is close to DRS behind—one point one. He’ll catch up if you can’t make the pass.”
“Copy.” Julien can make the pass.