French Grand Prix #7
“You should be careful who you associate with.” That’s rich, coming from a guy who fucks Sam Campbell. “They are not strong drivers. They will not help you succeed.”
“And you will?” Julien can see it now. Every word out of Thomas’s mouth is perfectly chosen to keep him isolated and dependent on his brother. “Have you noticed anything weird about my racing line?”
“Your racing line?” Thomas scoffs. “I do not have time to watch your runs. I have my own race to worry about.”
“Right.”
It’d be less obvious if Thomas admitted he noticed. If he played the Perfect Older Brother role and tried to convince Julien to keep his shorter racing line for the faster lap times.
And if he didn’t know? Thomas is far too nosey to let something like that slide. To not ask any follow-up questions when Julien admitted a potential weakness. To not exploit him.
So, Thomas knows about twelve and fourteen. Great.
“I would not trust the advice of bad drivers, but that is just how I race.” Who said anything about advice? “It would be nice to see you on the podium again.”
Just not on the top step. “I’m starting third. You don’t think I can keep it?”
“I think you should be more worried about Friedrich starting behind you than the cars at the back. Once they are shown the blue flag, they have to let you through, whether you are friends or not.”
“Of course.”
It’s a low blow to exaggerate the performance of the Kaas, but Julien can’t even feign surprise.
If Thomas wants to invalidate Matt’s advice, then it must be worth taking.
Julien takes a sip from his branded water bottle and tries to run through the track in his head. He has two hours to change the racing line he has used for years on the off chance that he can get ahead of his brother.
It’s a lot to process, but if Julien wants to win, that’s what it’ll take.
When they return to their respective sides of the garage, Rafael immediately asks, “What did he say?”
“Not enough.” But the real threat is buried in what he didn’t say. “Can we pull up a video of my racing line from eleven to fifteen? Let’s overlay it with Thomas. There’s something I have to see.”
During the formation lap, Julien trips over the cars ahead of him.
Sam slows as they round the final corners, braking too roughly like he’s trying to force Thomas past him for a penalty. Thomas catches it though, carving heat into his tires as he weaves back and forth.
Julien isn’t as graceful when he suddenly brakes. Hopefully he didn’t wear a flat spot into his tires before the fucking race start.
The front row dances towards the start-stop line together. It feels like flirting, somehow, and Julien gags in his helmet.
Sam and Thomas are obsessed with each other. Yeah, that’s an understatement.
When they finally approach their boxes, they both angle their cars towards each other and rev their engines.
So Matt was right.
Julien wants to radio him somehow. Maybe stand up in his car, turn, and wave at the American starting ten places back who knew exactly what would happen at the front of the grid.
Instead, Julien remembers how he lost Japan on the first turn and grips his wheel tighter.
Green flag, and the lights illuminate somehow both too quickly and too slow. Beep, beep, beep, beep. Each red light thuds in Julien’s chest, echoing alongside his heartbeat.
After they’re all lit, time freezes—taunting the drivers. Forcing them to reconsider their strategy. One last chance to change their minds.
When the lights finally blink off, Julien punches the throttle and aims straight into Sam’s car.
The Red Boar narrowly dodges, distracted by covering off the older Ferraro, and their fight is a blur through the first turn.
In the first moments of a race, instinct takes the wheel. There’s someone to the side of Julien, someone in front, but he only barely registers their presence as he pushes forward.
There’s space, so Julien sends it—squeezing through an opening that might be smaller than his car. The gap widens, his adversary backing off, and Julien falls in line behind the other Ferraro before the next series of turns.
He blinks, reevaluating. Julien is second now.
Sam nips at his heels, but he struggles to keep the other Red Boar back—to attack without leaving an opening for Fritz. He falls away until he’s almost half a second back when they cross the line and start the second lap.
Circuit Paul Richard is good for the long game, so Julien focuses on maintaining his position, widening the gap back to over a second, and studying Thomas ahead.
The older Dubois is perfectly textbook, and Julien follows his line over twelve and fourteen. It’s strange not to cut the corner sharper—to take a longer way around, even by a mere meter or so—but Matt hasn’t been wrong yet.
After more laps, the Red Boars fall several seconds behind, but Julien stays in step with Thomas. He should probably back off, keep a comfortable distance, save his tires and attack later, but Julien powers forward, matching his brother’s swift pace.
Dirty air pushes Julien back through the curves, but the tow makes up for it, especially with DRS. Forwards, backwards, closer, further. His tires remain strong, so there’s no reason to let up the pressure just yet.
One mistake. If Thomas makes one mistake, Julien will be there.
Unfortunately, Thomas is a consistency machine. He pumps out perfect lap after perfect lap, and Julien feels his frustration growing in every twitch of his fingers.
After lap sixteen, he radios in with, “Should we undercut Thomas?”
“How are your tires?”
Julien’s gaze flicks over the screen. “They’re fine. I can keep going.”
“There’s traffic where you’d exit. If you can hold out another five to eight laps, that’d be best.”
Julien curses before hitting the mic button. “Copy.” He passes the pit entry with a grumble, but keeps riding Thomas’s ass.
Through sector two, Julien can tell he’s finally inching up on him. It’s subtle, but after so many laps of the same view, it’s easy to see Thomas is finally slowing.
Maybe his tires are worn. Maybe he’s conserving energy. Whatever it is, it’s an opening.
Julien lunges on the inside through turn ten, but Thomas covers him off. Another bite at thirteen, but he’s denied again. DRS fully open, Julien follows the tow through the straight, but when he jumps the line to attempt the pass, Thomas is there again.
Julien grunts in frustration but keeps his head down and follows his brother through turn one.
It was never going to be easy. Thomas has over a decade of experience in Formation 1. What has Julien done in comparison? Played pretend?
But Julien knows this track. He has run this same lap, these exact turns, thousands of times. He has won it across series—both in person and on his computer.
This is his home.
Every time Julien tried something risky on the sim and failed, he just restarted the lap. His stupid computer game gave him infinite chances to figure out how to win this specific race.
Julien’s experience as a sim driver has to be his strength—even if anyone else would write it off as a weakness.
If Thomas ever failed, he wrecked the car. He doesn’t have enough data to get creative, so his laps are rigid. Though his consistency is commendable, it makes him an easy mark.
Julien activates his DRS through the mistral straight, and Thomas pops off the line again to cover him off.
Julien ignores the invitation and stays on the race line.
The area where rubber has already been laid has better traction, and he’s nearly even with Thomas’s back tires when they fall back in line.
Left, right, the brothers take the chicane wheel-to-wheel faster than they should, but Julien grinds his teeth and holds on.
They’re spit out onto the rest of the straight—the bit of road which sets up the high-speed turn ten. In a fraction of a second, Julien remembers every single time he’s ever passed here.
Once when an opponent dipped off the track after nine. Once during a blue flag. Once during a rain-ladened session, and again when winds were bad.
Then there was that one time—once when he was wheel-to-wheel with a competitor and needed the surprise. Why would anyone pass on the straight without DRS? Wouldn’t it be better just to accept the tow and attack later?
Julien leaves the line.
Thomas is still slowing, he’s faltering, but his eyes must be glued to his mirrors the way he jolts right in an attempt to cut Julien off before the high-speed turn.
Julien drifts left and powers all the way around the outside as both cars take turn ten at maximum speed. They’re flat-out, and it’s a game of chicken now.
Neck and neck they approach the apex of eleven, but Thomas stumbles to correct an oversteer, and Julien just barely completes the turn ahead of him.
Don’t leave yourself open, don’t leave it open.
Thomas said he hadn’t noticed Julien’s line, but he’s exactly where Matt predicted he’d be as he attacks at both twelve and fourteen. He doesn’t back off when Julien defends against him—Thomas stays wheel to wheel and both brothers take the slow turn together, two cars wide.
Thomas opens his DRS and the two trade jabs on the straight through the start-finish line. He showed his cards too early, though, and it’s all too easy for Julien to pull the same defense maneuvers he suffered for so long.
When he comes out in front, sudden radio static fills Julien with dread. He doesn’t want to switch positions—he earned the lead.
“Dubois’s tires are degrading fast,” Davide says. “Sorry, I mean Thomas.”
That doesn’t sound like team orders.
“Copy.”
“He’s point seven behind. You are the new race leader, Julien.”
Fuck, that’s so good to hear.
Julien focuses on maintaining absolute perfection as Thomas falls further and further behind. Before they can finish a full lap with Julien in the lead, Thomas ducks into the pits.
“Coward,” Julien mumbles to himself. He presses the mic button and asks, “Who is how far behind?”