French Grand Prix #8
“Müller is just over six behind. He and the Mercenaries haven’t stopped, but Campbell and Dubois pitted for hards. Pace is good, can you push these tires a little further?”
“Yeah.” Whatever helps Julien win the fucking race. “I can hold this pace for a few more laps. Tell me when the exit is clear.”
The clean air makes his grip notably better, and Julien manages to add an extra three seconds between himself and the Red Boar by the time he pits. When he exits, he cuts in front of a DRS train.
“Position?”
“Fourth, but Halligan and Müller have yet to pit.”
So, Julien is virtually second. “Is the third car my brother?”
“Affirm.”
Oh great. Julien gets to try and pass him again.
The new hards don’t fully warm until turn ten, but when they do, the fresh rubber comes alive beneath him. Julien grips the tarmac and propels faster as he chases down his first win.
The other Ferraro is a red spot that teases him, flitting in and out of view between turns. Even with the tire advantage, Julien can’t claw his way back up into DRS range until there are only five laps left.
Julien has the pace, but if it wasn’t easy to pass his brother before, it’s impossible now.
Thomas uses every single inch of the road, throwing himself from turn to turn. He cuts across the straight Julien had passed him in with extra aggression, as if claiming the road for himself.
That’s fine. Julien can find another way. He inches closer and waits for another opening.
The one time Thomas doesn’t cut over at the end of a long straight, Julien is there. They’re wheel to wheel at the apex before Thomas sends a late, desperate, lunging defense.
The stewards would’ve called that reckless move in Julien’s favor, but he’d rather settle the score once and for all on the track. He barrels forward into the too-narrow space, keeping two tires in line as he powers through the turn.
He’s probably destroying his right tires and losing pace, but when the chicane switches back again, Julien keeps the inside line and pushes Thomas wide, claiming the lead again.
Thomas tries to fight back through the straight, but his tires are older, and he can’t do much more than leave the race line and try to joust.
Power through ten, brake late to hit eleven, defense through twelve, thirteen, and fourteen, hit fifteen and fling out down the long straight. Even though Julien finishes the lap ahead of his brother, he can’t ease up just yet.
Thomas keeps a punishing pace, and Julien has to apply everything he’s ever learned to stay ahead.
Disrupt the tow, cover your apex, use the road, watch your tires—every shred of advice swirls in his mind alongside every frustrating move Thomas pulled on him over the course of the race.
How does he like this jolt? Or this late-braking maneuver? Hard to overtake on, isn’t it?
“Last lap.”
Julien can feel the desperation in Thomas’s driving. It’s devolving—his perfect consistent laps becoming clunkier with every turn. He’s all four wheels off at both three and nine, nearly begging for a penalty with how sharp he cuts through the road.
It’d be faster, but Julien doesn’t dare run the sim line through twelve and fourteen. He can’t afford to open any doors or allow any opportunities for overtakes. This last lap has to be the cleanest lesson in defense anyone has ever seen.
Julien swings a little wide and cuts the apex in turn fifteen, but as soon as he spots the finish line, he floors it.
He doesn’t look ahead—the road is straight from here. Instead, his attention is fixed on the car behind as he prays Thomas won’t pull some miraculous late maneuver.
He can’t. The other Ferraro stays trapped in Julien’s mirrors as they roll over the line together.
“P1, Julien,” Davide says. He sounds close to tears. “That’s first place.”
Julien exhales a shaky breath. He’s so hyped up on adrenaline that his body trembles with it. The race doesn’t feel over yet—it floats on the surface of his consciousness without fully sinking in.
“I won the Grand Prix de France?” he asks, just to be sure. “I won it?”
Maybe he meant a different Julien. There are two Dubois drivers, maybe there’s another Julien too.
“You are the first reserve driver to ever win a Grand Prix.” Yeah, Davide’s crying. “The first Frenchman to win his home race in over thirty years.”
Jesus fucking shit fuck cock fucking dick shit fuck.
Julien gets all of his cursing out of the way before pressing the button again. “I can’t believe it. Thank you, Ferraro, for giving me the chance to prove I’ve still got it. Thank you Davide, Rafael, Thomas—though he didn’t make it easy today.”
Julien laughs, but it sounds like he’s crying too. Maybe he is. Maybe his garage is full of crybabies.
“Forza Ferraro!!!” he yells up at the stands coated in red. The crowd roars back loud enough to cut through the engine and the padding of his helmet.
He waves, though the tens of thousands of people packed into the stands probably can’t see it.
Odds are one of them is a little French kid in karting. Maybe someday he’ll out-race his older brother on the world stage. Stranger things have happened.
Julien parks his car dead center. He taps the first-place sign with his front wing and takes a moment to breathe it in.
His car is parked at the winner’s sign. Not just any winner’s sign—the French Grand Prix. Only after the sight is permanently affixed to the back of his eyelids does Julien finally stand up.
Shit, he needs to remove the steering wheel.
Okay, he wrestles the wheel off, then stands. Now the wheel goes back on. Why won’t it click back in? His hands are shaking far too much. He needs—oh, there it goes. Good.
He stumbles, stepping on the seat before climbing over the halo to the body of the car. From up here, he can see everything. The Ferraro garage is out in full force and falling into each other as they look up at Julien and cheer.
Even the Red Boar mechanics are cheering for him, though it’s so bizarre to see the sea of navy turned his way. They’re happy for him. Celebrating his win.
His win. Julien won the French Grand Prix.
He’s going to pass out.
Julien used to have a signature winning pose, back in Formation 2 when he and Hugo traded wins back and forth. Unfortunately, his muscle memory has deteriorated over time.
Instead, he pumps his fist as hard as he can without stumbling and tries to exert some of the energy bubbling up inside his chest, threatening to boil over.
He steps down on the front tire and launches himself over to his team. They welcome him with open arms, catching the driver when he jumps and hoisting him into the air.
Julien loses connection for a terrifying moment, but dozens of hands catch him and jump in place. When they’ve had enough, Julien vibrates right out of their grasp and back down to the stable ground.
He needs to thank people. God, there are so many people to thank. Lorenzo’s first, and the short, balding team principal is almost smiling when Julien pulls him into an embrace.
Some person in a suit is next, Davide, Ray, Pit—everyone Julien can reach is pulled forward in his excitement. He even manages to wrap an arm around a photographer, which he probably isn’t supposed to do.
Whatever, it’s a celebration!
Rafael pushes his way to the front, and Julien falls into him. His body is hard under the team kit, and Julien can’t help but squeeze, mapping out the planes of muscles that line his back. Claiming the man with a newfound hunger.
“Proud of you, kid.” Rafael taps the back of Julien’s helmet before releasing him.
“I want to celebrate tonight,” Julien says, before he’s pulled away. “Anything—everything. Whatever you want.”
Rafael’s mouth pulls up into a delicious little smirk. “Can’t wait.”
Julien is dragged down the line until he lands in front of his family. They look torn, their smiles nearly grimaces.
Maman’s eyes are red from crying. “Mon loulou.”
Not very celebratory. “Are you crying for me? Or for Thomas?”
“Both.”
Before Julien can look too deeply into that, he’s lifted into a hug from behind. His legs dangle in the air as he kicks out, laughing.
He thought Thomas would be upset, but this is a nice change of pace—good sportsmanship has never really been his strong suit.
“I didn’t know you were so strong!” When Julien is set down, he turns, expecting to see a red suit, but there’s only a wall of navy.
“I have little arms, but you are little all over,” Fritz says. “You have won your home race! Officially, you are no longer the brother.”
Julien laughs again, his delight overwhelming. Speaking of— “Have you seen my brother?”
Both drivers look around, searching the open area between the cars, the interview area, and the scales.
Thomas’s car is definitely there, so where else would he be?
With a jerk, Fritz hooks an arm around Julien’s shoulder and leads him towards the pedestals. “Come, come. You must put on your hat and sponsor watch now. Many pictures for the race winner.”
Weird. Fritz doesn’t seem like a touchy-feely kind of dude. He also doesn’t seem like some goody-two-shoes rule follower.
Something in Julien’s gut tells him to look around once more.
Oh.
Well, there’s Thomas. Found him. He isn’t lost, he’s just tucked into Rafael’s embrace.
No wonder they couldn’t find him. Rafael’s larger body leans over the flimsy barricade to wrap around the smaller man. His eyes are closed, like he’s savoring the moment.
That’s fine. That’s—that’s probably normal for teammates. Definitely fine.
Fritz lets his arm fall when Julien stops. So, he knows about Julien and Rafael, huh? It reached Red Boar?
The paddock is shit for secrets.
“You still won the race,” Fritz says.
Julien nods silently. His brother can’t take the win from him. Even if Julien has nothing and no one else, he will still be the winner of the French Grand Prix.
Finally, Julien pulls his helmet and balaclava off. He runs his hand through his hair and tries to tame it. It’s no use. “Thanks, Fritz.”