French Grand Prix #5
Rafael turns to the SUV. “Sam, my shoulder’s still fucked up.”
“Got it.”
Julien takes off down the driveway as the car door clicks open. Right before he reaches the end of the path, he’s heaved into the air.
“Let go of me!” Julien scrambles, his legs kicking out, but he still can’t reach the ground. “Samuel Campbell, put me down!”
“Nah.” Sam holds him steady as the SUV pulls up next to them. “It’ll be a real hassle for me if you don’t get in that car.”
The door opens and Sam nearly tosses the smaller man into the middle seats before climbing in after him.
There’s still a glimmer of hope that Julien can escape, but that dies once the car takes off. It’s way faster than the piece of shit he drives.
Julien could probably jump out of his own car without issue, but now?
“Please sit down.” Rafael pats the seat next to himself as Sam climbs over the center row and gracelessly stumbles into the back.
Julien does, but only because sitting in a chair is more comfortable than in the footwell. He falls into the seat with a huff, crossing his arms and watching the world pass by.
Sure, they kidnapped him, but he doesn’t have to talk.
“Do not be so dramatic,” Thomas chides from the back row. “I already told you—I never had sex with Rafael.”
That’s not the point, but of course Thomas doesn’t understand. He’ll never know what it’s like to be looked over or used for his proximity to his perfect, famous brother.
“Could you fuck Sam knowing he might be thinking of someone else? Someone he loved more than you? That you were just some… easy rebound?!”
Thomas purses his lips and turns, facing out of the window. He probably can’t even imagine a world where everyone didn’t fall to his feet.
Sam reaches over and squeezes his leg.
It’s so domestic, Julien wants to hurl.
“I don’t think of Thomas when we—” Rafael grunts. He can’t even say it. They fuck. “Our thing has nothing to do with him, okay?”
“You loved Thomas, got rejected, then fucked his brother.” Julien huffs. “But sure, it's totally unrelated.”
“I didn’t love him, though. I knew I cared about Thomas more than the girls I slept with, and I was stupid enough to think it meant I loved him.”
It’s somehow just as devastating to have it said directly to Julien’s face. “I get it. You care about him more than everyone else.”
“Not like—ugh! You’re being purposely difficult.” Of course. Rafael is the reasonable one here. Sure. “I mean, I love Owain, but I don’t want to be with him.”
Owain isn’t Julien’s flesh and blood. Owain isn’t the one Julien has to spend his entire life in the shadow of. If Owain Beddoe was the man Rafael had confessed to, this would be a very different conversation.
But it’s not Owain, it’s Thomas.
Julien finally turns, finally looks up into those deep brown eyes. It’s heartbreaking, but he won't force something to work when it clearly doesn’t. “I can’t trust you.”
Rafael's shoulders droop when he finally says, “Yeah, I understand.”
They sit in silence, studying each other’s faces in the dim light. They weren’t anything real, but there were moments it felt real. Moments where it felt like tonight wouldn’t be the last night Rafael ate family dinner at the Dubois household.
When Julien looks back on today, it’ll be to mourn what could’ve been.
Then Thomas pointedly clears his throat, ruining the moment.
“What, Thomas?” Julien asks, whipping around to face the back seat. “What could you possibly add to this conversation? How can we make our relationship even more about you?!”
Thomas glares back before saying, “I have won at this circuit before.”
“What?!”
“I have won. Stood on the top step of the Circuit Paul Richard. Proudly represented France for both Formation 4 and Formation 2.” If this is his idea of changing the subject, Thomas really sucks at it.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that,” Rafael says with exhaustion. “Did you want me to call your parents? Tell them I was wrong? What do you want from me?”
Thomas shakes his head in defiance. “I know you do not know where I have won. You did not read my wiki. You think I eat croissants.”
“Oh, shit,” Sam says. His eyebrows shoot up as he studies Rafael. “Huh.”
Huh.
“What?” Rafael looks between Julien and Thomas. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Rafael doesn’t know Thomas’s racing stats. Out of everyone on the grid—everyone he’s up against—Rafael is most often directly compared to his own teammate.
It would make sense to do research, to see where his rival struggles. Track history. Weather history. Does his biggest rival drive better on straights in the rain or turns in the sun?
Why wouldn’t Rafael know Thomas has won his home race before?
A lover would know that.
Even if someone had loved him and the love faded. A competitor of Rafael’s caliber wouldn’t just forget information that might give him an edge.
He doesn’t love Thomas. He never did.
Rafael is telling the truth.
“Merci, Thomas.” Julien slowly reaches across the center console and fiddles with Rafael’s hand. “I'm sorry. I believe you.”
He won’t forget the Thomas thing, but there’s something between them he can’t let die just yet.
Whatever it takes, Rafael is worth it. Julien is willing to put in the work.
The Brazilian man only hesitates for a moment before lacing their fingers together. “No, I'm sorry.”
His thumb rubs Julien’s where they connect, and it’s the same sensation as faceplanting into his bed after a long flight.
It feels like coming home.
“Sorry I’m late.” Julien fiddles with the camera on top of his sim rig until the image clears on his screen.
It shows much more than he expected, and he immediately regrets not testing it first. At the very least, he could’ve made his bed, maybe tidied up a little.
“Were you in a super-secret Ferraro meeting?”
“Tell us everything.”
Julien snorts. His life sounds so much more interesting from their point of view. “I wish. My car broke and I had to convince the tow guy to take it to a shop instead of a scrap yard.”
“How bad did it break?”
“Were you in an accident?!”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I didn’t crash—it’s just old.” The French GP is already selected, so Julien picks a Sobber and starts a Qualifying lap.
“You drive a classic car?”
“Lucky.”
“I don’t know when the cut-off is? Is thirty-five a classic car?”
“Classic is a vibe, not a number.”
“My mom’s car is old as shit, but it’s not a vibe.”
“Hang on.” Julien pauses the lap and digs out his phone. He never takes pictures of his car, but he snapped one right before leaving the shop. He picks the best angle and holds his phone up to the camera. “Can you see this?”
There’s a long pause—possibly a lag—then laughter rings out from his speakers.
Julien snatches his phone back. “Don’t make fun of her!”
“You’re a Formation 1 driver!”
“I’m a reserve driver—it’s a completely different tax bracket.” Julien’s salary can barely handle two apartments and a parking space—much less a car payment.
“Doesn’t Thomas have a whole collection of Ferraros?”
“They’re like, customized too.”
“Yeah.” But, again, Julien isn’t Thomas. “They’re probably at his house in Italy. Even if they were here, we’re not ‘borrow your Ferraro’ close.”
“Is—is that your apartment?”
“Why’s there a bed in your kitchen?”
“You’re like, hella messy, huh?”
“Jesus.” Julien angles the camera down until they can’t see so much of the background. “If you keep picking on me, I’m gonna turn the camera off again.”
“Nooooooooo!”
“We’re teasing, we’re teasing.”
“Chat doesn’t want you to go.”
Considering streaming pays his bills, Julien concedes. “Fine. For chat.”
The guys whoop with victory before Mick says, “Sweet. Our views double when you’re on.”
“Y’mean people don’t tune in for John’s sparkling personality?”
“Hey!”
“They sure don’t watch for his racing prowess.”
“HEY!”
The chat fills with talk of fake fans and compliments for John. A couple of people wish Julien good luck with his car, but most of them tell him to dump it.
“Yeah, the guys at the garage told me to count my losses and look for something else.” Not in such nice words, but that was the gist. “Anyway, every sub helps.”
“You heard the man, chat. If you’re a frequent lurker, consider subbing for five pounds a month to help a poor, struggling, Formation 1 driver.”
“Reserve.
“Reserve driver,” Mick amends. “We’re only two hundred subs away from reaching our goal. Don’t forget—when we pass four thousand, Julien will stream with his shirt off.”
“What?!” Julien balks. “I never agreed to that!”
“We took a vote on Sunday.”
“While I was racing?!”
“It was a chat suggestion.”
“You won by a landslide!”
“Congratulations.”
“Unbelievable.” Julien reclines in his chair as Kevin starts his lap in a Ferraro. “You wouldn’t have done this shit back when I was Romeo.”
“I thought Romeo was ugly.”
“Disfigured, for sure.”
“Thanks for the sub, glozzyblocks.”
“Maybe like, boils on his face.”
“Thanks for the sub, cheeky44uu.”
“A tooth that extended past his mouth like a narwhal.”
“No attractive dude would call himself Romeo.”
“Hey!” Julien sputters. “Fuck off!”
“Thanks for the—oh shit!” John’s excited voice cuts through the ribbing. “Rafael gifted us a thousand subs!”
“What?!” Julien scrolls back up, but the chat is flooded with viewers expressing their surprise. “You mean my—Rafael Souza?”
“Your Rafael?”
“I heard that too.”
“My teammate, you freaks.” After too much scrolling, Julien finally finds the gift.
RafaelSouza: Get a better car. (+1000 subs)
“Julien’s Rafael wants to see Julien naked on the stream.”
“He just hates my car, that’s all.”
RafaelSouza: Almost died in it.
“Don’t be a baby.” Julien blows a raspberry up at his camera. “The car works perfectly well once she’s moving. You know a sub is for every month, right?”
“Perks of being a full-time driver, not a reserve.”
“Shut up, Kevin.”
“Well, thank you to everyone who subbed! Happy to reach 4k.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Thanks, guys.”