French Grand Prix #9
The German driver mirrors the movement as they shuffle towards the scale. His silky blond hair is easier to manage, and it effortlessly flows back into shape after a single comb through. Lucky.
“So… What would you say is the weak area of your brother?”
Julien snorts as he steps up to the scale. “I’m not telling you that.” He might be upset, but he’s still an employee of Ferraro.
“It was worth the try.”
Other drivers wander into the area and offer their congratulations. It feels a little strange to be celebrated by so many people when Julien barely knows anyone, but he leans into every driver's embrace with enthusiasm.
When he finally spots Matt, Julien nearly tackles the American. “You were right! So fucking right!” They stumble together, but Julien finally gets a good grip on the man. “He attacked in twelve and fourteen, you were right!”
“Glad I could help,” Matt squeaks.
It was more than helpful—Julien needed every shred of intel and advice to overtake and defend against his brother on the track. Without Matt’s warning, he wouldn’t have made it out on top.
“Stream for Imola this week?”
The American driver nods quickly. “Just let me know when.”
Thomas is a sulky little bitch through the on-track interviews. In the cool-down room, he silently stands with the helmets and stares at his reflection in his tinted visor. While waiting backstage behind the podium, he sighs like some morose damsel.
Apparently, coming second is the single worst thing that has ever happened to Thomas Dubois.
What a good life.
It isn’t his job to do so, but Fritz overcompensates for the depressing atmosphere. He’s so animated, commenting on the race highlights, discussing ride heights during awkward silences, and clapping Julien on the back when he uses the third-place podium to step up into first.
The podium cap fits Julien like a glove. So does the medal.
When Julien hoists his trophy up, the crowd erupts in thunderous cheers. He is officially the first reserve driver to win a Formation 1 race. The first Frenchman to win in France since before he was born.
The first in his family to do so, too.
Julien shakes his champagne quickly and aims left, away from second place. He hits Fritz in the chest, but the German man retaliates with sniper-perfect aim for his eyes.
When Julien finally stumbles into the press room and takes his place in the middle of the white semicircular couch, he feels champagne-sticky and fucked out.
“Question for Julien?” a reporter asks. “Have you spoken with any teams regarding a possible seat for next year?”
“I haven’t,” Julien answers. It’s basically true. “I haven’t really thought about next year yet. I was given six races to prove myself and I intend to make all six races count.”
Hands fly before he can set down the microphone.
“Follow up for Julien—several team principals have been very vocal about your impressive performance this year. Have you given any thought about which of those teams you’d be most interested in?”
Luckily, there’s a PR-approved answer for everything. “If they’ve been vocal, it hasn’t been to me or my manager. I’d be open to meetings, but only after Imola.”
The sharks bob their heads in agreement as they raise their hands again.
“Question for Thomas—in the final three laps, you radioed in multiple times to demand that Julien—”
“No comment.” Thomas lays his microphone down on the couch and stares blankly at the crowd of reporters.
Demand that Julien… what?
“I would like to hear the rest of the question,” Julien says. He keeps a white-knuckled grip around his microphone as he leans forward.
The reporter continues to address Thomas. “Did you honestly believe you had a faster pace than your brother in the final laps? If so, why had the gap widened after his overtake? And, if not, why did you demand Ferraro to force Julien into giving up his position?”
A chill runs through his veins as Julien stares at his brother. He forgoes the microphone when he asks, “You wanted to take my win? After Japan?”
Thomas shifts, but only to pick the microphone back up. “No comment.” He still isn’t looking at Julien. He stares ahead at the press pool.
“That is fucked,” Fritz says. Though he announces it with full seriousness, the press pool laughs. “Do we maybe have any questions for me? Hallo?”
“Get out, Rafael.” Julien suffered through three long years of being a reserve driver without his own private room to retreat to. The Brazilian man can handle a single fucking day.
“Yeah? Um, okay.” Rafael takes his time gathering the shit he’s strewn about everywhere. “Thought you’d be happier, considering you won your home race and all.”
Julien scoffs and tosses his podium hat to the seat Rafael vacates, claiming it again. It’s his for one more race, then Rafael can have it back.
Julien is the driver, so this is his room.
“Seriously, what’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?!” Julien would like nothing more than to fling his champagne-soaked clothes at the imbecile, but Rafael would like that too much. “Oh, I don’t know. Did you watch the race?”
“Yes?” Rafael says, retreating. Coward. “You were fantastic out there. The broadcast was practically Ferraro the entire time.”
“So you heard Thomas’s radio?”
Rafael freezes. Yeah. Thought so. “Listen, in the heat of the race, drivers sometimes—”
“He begged Ferraro to force me to give up my win.” Julien points an accusatory finger at his chest. “You heard that and you comforted him at the finish line. Poor Thomas! He couldn’t manipulate the race results! Boo-fucking-hoo!”
“He still lost his home race, Julien.”
“Well, it’s a good thing he gets to try again next year! You know who doesn’t?!” Julien turns his finger back around and jabs it into his own chest several times. “This could be my only shot to drive a car at the front of the grid.”
“But aren’t you—?”
“You know which teams are asking to meet with me? Sobber. Andes. Wilhelms. Teams where good drivers go to die.”
Rafael purses his lips. “Thomas races with his entire heart. He doesn't think about next year. I can’t fault him for wanting to win at any cost.”
“Even if the cost is snatching it away from his little brother?! The man who proved he was the best driver today?!”
Julien pants. His chest expands and contracts so hard it pushes the limits of his champagne-stiff Nomex shirt.
“Even if.”
Unbelievable.
“Then he should’ve fought me on the track.” Not on the radio, not with politics, and no stupid mind tricks. He should’ve raced better. “You still don’t get it, do you? Ferraro loves him. More than me, more than you. They love him, and he tried to use that leverage against his teammate.”
“With the Drivers’ Championship so close—”
“Isn’t that a dangerous precedent? What does that mean for you? You have zero points in the championship. Does Thomas deserve all of your wins for the rest of the season? Do I?!”
“Of course not,” Rafael grumbles. “Don’t be stupid.”
“Then why were you hugging him?!”
After Rafael’s stupid ‘Oh, I’ve never loved him’ speech, he continues to defend a man who is so clearly in the wrong. What is that if not love? How can Rafael be blind to how Thomas’s selfishness hurts everyone?!
“He still lost his home race, Julien.” Rafael turns away, towards the door. “I’m gonna go.”
“Yeah, you should do that.”
On his way out, he nearly bowls over Matthieu, who hovers just outside. The middle brother watches Rafael leave before turning back to Julien.
If it’s not one thing, it’s another. “What do you want?”
Matthieu lets himself into the crowded space and closes the door behind him. “Um, I’m supposed to invite you to dinner, but I just happened to overhear—”
“Yeah, there’s no ceiling.” Julien finally grasps the hem of his Nomex shirt and pulls the garment up and off. “I’m not going to dinner if Thomas is.”
“Maman just ripped him a new one for saying the same thing about you.”
There’s something really satisfying about that. Julien smirks as he unzips the bottom of his race suit and pushes it down. “What’d you think of the race?”
“Fucking terrifying, if I’m honest.” Matthieu exhales into a whistle. “Isn’t it a little hot out for all those layers?”
“They’re fireproof, so I don’t burn to death.”
“See? That’s crazy.”
“You use oven mitts. It’s basically the same thing.”
“Oh yes, ‘the same thing’ he says.” Matthieu scoffs, but he still looks soft. After a moment of silence, he asks, “Are you okay?”
Julien looks down, towards the race suit bunched up around his ankles. He works one leg free, then the other. “Thomas and I have never really gotten along.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“But today?” Once he’s free from the thick suit, Julien kicks it over to his wardrobe. “It’s like if someone asked a sommelier to spit on your dish so you wouldn’t get a Michelin star. It’s—it’s bad.”
“That’s Thomas, though. He plays dirty. He always scratches and bites to get ahead.”
“I know.” Julien rolls down his Nomex underwear and flings it as hard as he can at the pile of clothes. It doesn’t help. “I know.”
“I don’t think you’re mad at Thomas.”
“No?!” What a laugh.
Matthieu shakes his head. “You’ve always hated Thomas. You can’t get mad at him, because every bad thing he does helps justify your hate.”
“I definitely can get mad at him.”
“I think you’re secretly happy whenever he fucks up. You like having a reason to complain about him.”
“I don’t like complaining about Thomas,” Julien grumbles. “And I don’t hate him.”
“Well, you don’t like him either. That’s why you’re so upset at Rafael.”
“They were hugging.”
“Rafael’s a good friend.”
“After Thomas tried to take my win?”
“That’s not Rafael’s fault.”
Julien falls back onto his massage table with a thud. He’s only in his boxer briefs, but no amount of clothes would make him feel any less naked in front of someone who knows him so well.
He curls up and holds his legs tightly to himself. “I think Rafael loves Thomas,” he whispers to his knees.
Mattieu hesitantly perches next to him on the edge of the massage table. “That would suck.”