Japanese Grand Prix
SUZUKA, JAPAN
Media day in Suzuka, and Julien's eyes wander over crowds of red as he searches for Rafael. He can’t spot the Brazilian in hospitality, in the garage, or in their shared driver’s room. Not a single arm sling in the entire paddock.
It isn’t until everyone is gathering for the meeting that he hears, “Hey, Julien.”
Julien turns in the hallway and jumps, startled. “You’re not wearing your brace?”
Team members pass the duo, filing into the cramped meeting room as Rafael shows off both of his palms.
“I don’t have to anymore.”
Julien had been with the team for years, but he’s only ever interacted with Rafael since the accident. It’s uncanny, almost, to see his Rafael unencumbered.
It almost feels like the man will go right back to ignoring him. That he’ll stare down at Julien from his pedestal again.
Disappointing.
“Relax, I can’t drive yet. You’re still racing this weekend.”
“Right.”
Rafael might not be able to drive, but his unburdened arm is a reminder that they’re another step closer to the day they won’t have this weird bond anymore. Also—
“Your arm looks weird. Skinnier.”
“Skinnier?!” Rafael lifts his arm, muscle memory snapping the limb back into place. At this angle, his bicep bulges, pressed tightly against the meat of his pec. “I thought you’d be excited. I can do more with two arms.”
Julien trails his finger lightly down the muscle usually covered in straps of fabric. “But you look good tied up.”
“Careful, you’ve got to earn it.” Rafael drops his arm back to the side and the illusion is broken. “Did you practice for the race?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Good.” Rafael reaches out, closing the space between them with his newly released hand. His finger hooks around Julien’s belt loop and tugs him closer. “I’ve got a good feeling about this weekend.”
Julien nods slowly as he swallows. His overtakes could use some work, but his one-lap pace is indisputable. On a track like Japan? Julien’s staring straight at a podium finish.
And a podium finish—
“Why are you two still in the hallway?” Lorenzo’s gruff voice barks out. “Get inside! Stop fuckin’ around.”
Julien and Rafael share a secret smile before ducking through the door.
Q1 goes down easy, but throughout Q2, it’s so windy, Julien can’t keep his car within the lines. Two of his times are deleted for track limits. It would be frustrating enough on an average track, but it’s absolutely infuriating on a track won in Qualifying.
Julien holds his breath when he sees the finish line, and radios in as soon as he crosses it. “Is the time going to stick?”
Even if it is, there’s a good chance Julien will be out in Q2 anyway. He lost his confidence in some of the corners and barely tipped a single tire over the line the entire time. Without using the full road, it might not be enough.
“We don’t see a potential issue.”
Julien meanders through three and four as he exhales. “Thank fuck. Is it—”
A peach-colored car screams around the outside before turn five, and Julien startles, nearly driving off the road. What the fuck was that?! Where did that McLean even come from?
Oh no.
Julien was squatting on the racing line. Why wouldn’t he be? He had no idea someone was starting a push lap right behind him.
Fuck.
“Now we see a potential issue.”
“That was stupid.” Rafael says, again.
“I know,” is Julien’s tired response. He barely squeezed through to Q3, but he also earned a trip to the stewards after Qualifying.
“Stupid and reckless.”
“I get it! Can you drop it?!” It’s easier to stay buckled inside the car between sessions, but it makes Julien a sitting duck for anyone who wants to take a shot at him.
Where is that stupid-ass reserve driver who made one honest mistake? Oh there he is! Strapped into the car with no way to escape! Perfect.
“Impeding is one of the easiest penalties to avoid, and this is one of the worst tracks to earn it at. You’ll be lucky to start in the top six after a three-place grid penalty.”
Berating Julien doesn’t help when he already knows he fucked up. He mashes the mic button and calls out, “Can someone take Rafael away from the car? I need to focus.”
“I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” Rafael grumbles, dragging his feet. “I’m just disappointed.”
“You don’t think I am?!”
When Julien lines up for the start of Q3, he’s second behind a Red Boar. He always needs a good lap, but with the impending investigation and probable penalty, he needs to set the fastest, cleanest lap anyone has ever seen at this track. Record-breaking shit.
The light at the end of the pitlane shines green, and Julien waits a few seconds before following the Red Boar out.
He knows this track. He ran it nonstop for two weeks—both by himself and with his team. He ran it in all ten cars, in all weather types. Julien knows Suzuka better than anyone possibly could.
Instead of stealing a tow, he slows before the final turns and extends the space between himself and the Red Boar. The last thing he needs is to choke on Friedrich’s dirty air.
Okay. Let’s do it.
Julien accelerates through turn eighteen and crosses the start-finish line at full speed.
This isn’t the time for uncertainty, and Julien confidently hits every corner exactly as he does on his sim. Two tires over the line, three tires. As long as he carves through the track sharp enough to make one tire stick, it still counts.
His arms scream at him, and it takes all of his upper body strength to steady the wheel as Julien absorbs the shock of every bump, every jolt, and every slip of the tire. His ass takes the brunt of it when his skid plank bottoms out over the convex line, but he still pushes harder, faster, forward.
“Good pace.”
It’s a welcome improvement over Davide’s famous “Push now” comments.
When Julien crosses the finish line, there’s no relief in it, only acceptance. He’ll be on the backstep no matter what, so whatever his lap time is, he needs to improve it.
“Mega lap, Julien. You’re provisional pole.”
Yeah, well, he’s the second car to set a time.
Julien keeps an eye on his mirrors as he slows for his cool down lap. “Where are my losses?”
“Checking.” Weird. Davide usually has a list ready to go.
After a few moments, Julien asks, “Davide?”
“Turn one.”
Alright, he might’ve braked a little early for such a high-speed turn. That’s easy to fix.
Julien waits for more notes, but the race engineer is silent. “Just turn one?”
“It was a mega lap, Julien.”
Not that mega. Davide’s too nice. He should fetch Rafael and ask him where Julien can improve. Rafael always has opinions about where Julien can improve.
Then again, Rafael was a total dick about the impending penalty, so maybe Julien will stay unimproved just to spite him.
The Brazilian driver is nowhere to be found when Julien is wheeled back into the garage. The crew covers his tires while he reads through the telemetry and purposely avoids the timing tower.
A good result will only give him hope. He can’t use hope right now.
The telemetry isn’t much help either. Julien can pick up a little time in turn one, but the most important thing he can do is go back out there and lay down the best possible lap while he's carrying the least amount of fuel.
Julien rolls out of the garage and joins the cars lined up in the pitlane for the final push. While he slowly creeps forward, he tries to shove everything out of his head other than the track itself.
No penalties, no fuck ups, just Julien and the track he knows better than his own hand.
The warm-up lap passes in a blur, and, before he knows it, he accelerates through the final turn again.
Top speed, hold the pace through turn one, carry it through turn two. He carves through the switchbacks like an ice skater, hitting the rumble strips head-on while straddling the line.
Julien loses the car behind him by turn eleven and accidentally steals a tow on the straight after fourteen. He catches the dirty air of the Mercenary ahead and struggles with oversteer in seventeen, but still manages to cross the line without incident.
“Good job, Julien.” Davide’s voice sounds stilted for some reason. “Do you want me to keep you updated on placement?”
“Negative. Just tell me after everyone else crosses.”
“Copy.”
As the checkered flag waves on the session, there’s nothing more Julien can do. After a brief moment of relief, he's hit with all of the negativity he postponed stewing over.
Julien was so stupid for that penalty. He doesn’t even know who it was—just that it was a McLean.
Hopefully it’s Owain. It’s almost like payback for Australia if it’s Owain.
And what the fuck is Julien supposed to do tomorrow? With the amount of dirty air on the circuit, his only shot of making the podium is the long straight to turn one. Then what? Just suffer through the rest of the race searching for a place to pass that doesn’t exist?
Julien did a good job today—hopefully good enough to make the top two. He’ll be disappointed with anything less than third and devastated with anything lower than fifth. It’s impossible to fight in the midfield when—
Radio static gives Julien a split second of warning before Davide announces, “P1. That’s pole position, Julien. Fantastic job.”
Well, it’s not fifth.
Julien can’t tell if he’s about to laugh or cry, so he heaves a mix of both.
He’s the pole sitter of the Japanese Grand Prix. It’s the absolute best-case scenario, but his accomplishment is overshadowed by the looming penalty.
Fuck, he needs to reply—to say something for the broadcast.
“We’ll see where we line up tomorrow, but I’m happy we found the pace today. Thanks to the team, to the sponsors, to Rafael and Thomas. It may only be my third race, but this result was a long time in the making.”
Julien enters the pits and rolls past all of the cars huddled off to the side. Not today. He parks right up front—at the sign clearly labelled “1”.
After worrying over the penalty, it hasn't fully sunk in yet. Julien placed first in Qualifying. He drove faster than every other car on the track.