Emilia-Romagna Grand Prix
IMOLA, ITALY
On Thursday morning in Imola, Julien silences his alarm with a feeling of imminent dread.
Only four days ago he won the French Grand Prix, but it doesn’t matter this weekend. Clean slate. Fresh start.
Fucking hell.
His schedule for today? Media. Hours of it. Tomorrow, he’ll run laps and sit in meetings and wade through fans and still have to suffer through even more media.
It’s unending.
Didn’t Julien do enough already? He out-raced his brother and won his home grand prix.
Why does he have to start the entire weekend over from square one again?
He groans as he kicks the stiff hotel blanket off. The next step would’ve been to try to win the championship, but this is Julien’s last race with Ferraro. The only thing he can do is win this weekend, but even that seems a little lame when the last race he won was his home race.
The team kit shirt has extra green in it—a little bit of spice for Ferraro’s return to Italy. The race suit does too, but Julien doesn’t have high hopes for the photos he and Thomas were forced to take for the special livery announcement.
If the team wanted good photos after last weekend, they should’ve done two separate shoots. Common sense, really.
Julien checks himself in the mirror and tries to hype himself up. It’s just one more weekend. He needs to enjoy it. Needs to be grateful he got a chance with the car at all. Needs to—
He deflates with a sigh.
At the beginning of the year, Julien thought every moment would be thrilling. As time finally winds down, he finds himself eager to pass the responsibility back to Rafael.
Let Rafael do the media duties and the photoshoots and the fan stages and the social media posts. Julien kinda misses his dark room at the factory.
He takes the service elevator to the lobby. His fluffy hair is tucked into his hat, but he still has to duck and hide his face to avoid the fans that stalk the back hallways, hoping for a chance to meet a driver.
Julien quickly navigates through to the secret side entrance and nearly sprints out the door when he spots the awaiting SUV.
“You ready for the last one?” Rafael asks as Julien slams the door behind himself. There’s a nervous undertone to his voice, like he’s afraid of what the answer might be.
“Definitely. Absolutely.” Julien won’t leave any room for doubt. “Are you ready? Monaco’s a hard first race back.”
“I’m more than ready.” Rafael rolls his shoulder and lifts his elbow towards the car’s ceiling, further up than he’s been able to do all year. “I’m tired of waiting—I wanna get back out there. I only have sixteen races left to try to steal the championship from your brother.”
He can’t be serious.
“Have you done the math?”
“If I win all sixteen races and both sprints and Thomas comes second from this weekend to the end of the year, I’ll beat him by three points.”
Win every race? Julien would laugh at the absurdity, but Rafael’s face is set with honest determination.
But that’s crazy. He can’t possibly think he has a serious chance to win every single race until the end of the year, right? He only just learned how to raise his arm again.
“You really think you can?”
“Why not? Lucas won almost every race for his first championship title. Now Ferraro is actually competitive. I mean, we have a car fast enough for a reserve driver to win in.”
“Right.”
Julien sinks back against his seat. A reserve driver. Some random reserve driver. Not the Formation 2 champion or anything.
Rafael probably didn’t mean it like that.
“P4, Julien. That’s P4.”
Julien only just missed the podium, but he still battled Sam right up to the checkered flag. It was a good fight, even if he won’t receive a trophy for it.
“Grazie, Davide. It’s been an honor and a dream to drive with you for these last six races. Forza Ferraro.”
“You are an incredible driver, Julien. Any team would be lucky to have you.”
A gruff voice that sounds a lot like Lorenzo cuts in. “Your seventy-nine points have helped us maintain the lead in the Constructors’ for the first time in five long years. You’ve made Ferraro proud, Julien. Thank you for stepping up.”
Nevermind. That doesn’t sound anything like Lorenzo.
“Don’t make me cry before I face the press.” Julien downshifts and pops his visor open just enough to get some air flowing, drying his eyeballs. They’re probably still red, but that’s to be expected on a day like today.
He’s the best of the rest, so when Julien stops the car, he gets a good view of Thomas parked dead center in the winner’s circle. The Ferraro is flanked on either side by the Red Boars, and Thomas stands on top of it, posing for the crowd.
Julien watches the excitement and tries to soak it all in.
He did a good job. Not just today—for all six races. Two podiums, a win, a crash. He had the entire experience. If every team snuffs him again, at least Julien can look back on this season and be proud of what he accomplished in such a short time.
The sharks in the media pen ask the same “what’s next?”-type questions in every language, but Julien still has no response for them.
It’s his fault for saying he’d answer after the six races are up. Procrastination has never been his friend.
While he’s trapped in front of the cameras, other drivers drop in and offer their respects, hugging him tight like Julien’s about to die.
Maybe he will. If one more reporter asks him which teams he’s considering, Julien will combust on the spot.
It’s pretty late when he finally escapes media duties and drags himself back to the garage. After all this, he still has the post-race meeting to suffer through.
Julien sighs. He doesn’t need a lap-by-lap breakdown of the entire race. It doesn’t matter anymore.
Can’t they just call it a day? What would it look like to skip the meetings, eat some pasta, and finally go to sleep?
A man can dream.
Julien steps into a confusingly darkened garage. There’s no way the team loaded out so quickly, right? Media took a long time, but not that long.
He’s still wearing his race suit. They’re supposed to pack that.
A light flips on, and Julien jumps when a sea of red shirts shout exclamations in different languages. Over his side of the garage hangs a banner that spells out “Grazie, Julien!” and a few of his mechanics step forward with something that looks like a chocolate cake.
“No fires in the garage!” Julien yelps as a candle sparks over the dessert. Is it supposed to do that? They have like, petrol and shit all over the place.
“Blow it out!”
Julien does, but as he pulls away, the back of his head meets resistance. He has enough neck strength to fight against whoever is trying to shove him towards the dessert, but he’s powerless to avoid the guys in front who move the cake forward.
Julien pulls away laughing. He has a candle dent in his cheek, and cake in his nose and his hair, but he scoops frosting off his cheek and slaps it on whoever is closest to him.
It takes effort to clear his eyes enough to see again, but Julien pops his chocolate-covered thumb into his mouth and groans.
“Taste good?” Rafael asks, his voice close by.
“I’ve missed cake.” Julien wipes a bit off his forehead and turns, offering his finger. “Try it.”
“Can’t. I’m racing next week.” Rafael’s smile is radiant, even through the lingering globs of chocolate hanging from Julien’s eyelashes.
After group pictures, the team gathers at a small, local restaurant for dinner. Despite everyone’s hesitance to eat any part of it, Pit drags the chocolate cake along, face indent and all.
It stares back up at Julien while he orders, and he can’t resist the urge to take another forkful of the edge under his chin.
The atmosphere is electric with everyone speaking at once and gesturing to each other in excited Italian. Julien hangs close to Rafael and tries to tempt him with some of his tagliatelle al ragù.
“I’m good, babe. Enjoy it for me.” Rafael dutifully picks his trainer-provided microwaved fish filet with rice and vegetables. It looks terrible and boring, but he looks happier than he has in weeks.
They sneak back into their hotel through the side entrance and fall into Rafael’s bed with laughter and languid touches.
“You're sure you’re completely healed?” Julien asks, his lips against Rafael’s.
“Not hoping to steal my car again in Monaco, are you?”
Julien grins and shakes his head. The motion bumps the tip of his cold nose back and forth over Rafael’s. “I was hoping you would put your arms to good use.”
“You were?”
Slowly, so slowly, Rafael pushes himself up until he hovers over Julien. His shoulder muscles bulge under the weight. “I thought you liked to be in control.”
His words fall as warm air against Julien’s neck, and he punctuates it with a wet kiss, his tongue lavishing the sensitive area as he waits for a reply.
Julien turns his head away, extending his neck and urging the older man to continue his ministrations. “I might be willing to relinquish some control to you.”
“You might?” Rafael grumbles against his throat. He rolls his hips forward as his cock begins to fill out.
Julien rocks up to meet him on the next thrust. “I trust you.”
It’s easier to say when it’s the truth.
Julien groans as he’s shaken awake by his shoulder. He pushes back against the warm limb and flips his pillow to the colder side.
Still, the limb persists. “Your alarm.”
Huh. Yeah, there’s a soft vibration coming from somewhere.
Julien pats around and tries to find his phone without opening his eyes. Once he feels the device, he taps the screen until it shuts up.
“That just snoozes it,” Rafael mumbles. “Turn it off. It’s like, two a.m.”
Two a.m.—Julien’s new normal. “Fuck.” He pushes himself upright and presses his palms into his eyeballs. Still, his head throbs. “I’m fuckin’ hung over.”
“No shit. You drank a bottle of wine with dinner. Go back to sleep. Plane won’t leave ‘til noon.”
Rafael’s plane doesn’t leave until noon.
Julien moans again and slips out of the warm bed. He can’t see shit, but he can tell he’s still completely naked. “Where’re my clothes?”
“If this is you sneaking out, you suck at it.” Rafael turns the bedside lamp on and Julien hisses at the sudden light. “What’s the hurry?”
“I gotta be on the team bus by three.” Julien grabs his shirt and shrugs it back on. “It’d be cool to shower first.”
Especially since his ass is still slick with lube. As he searches the room, Rafael’s cum slowly leaks out of him, trailing between his cheeks. He’s also sore, but a shower can only fix so much.
“Why would you take the team bus?”
“I’m a reserve driver again.” Jeans located, but no underwear. It’s probably in the sheets somewhere. “I fly commercial with the rest of the team now.”
“Just fly with us. We’re all going to the same place.” Rafael’s exposed chest is extra tan and brawny compared to the thin white covers pooled around his waist. It’s hard to say no to all of that and a warm bed.
“I’m actually going back to the factory. I gotta run the sim, finalize the set-up, and do whatever else I can to get us prepared for next weekend.”
Julien can suffer without his underwear, he’s just going downstairs. He zips himself up carefully, much more awake now that his bits are in danger of getting caught.
“Oh. Right.”
“Besides, it’s a hierarchy thing. If a reserve driver gets to take the private plane, the engineers and strategists should too.” Plus nearly everyone else. Most of the team does more at the track than Julien does as a reserve. “It’s fine, I know what I signed up for.”
With socks and shoes on, Julien’s finally ready to go. He pops back over to the bed and gives Rafael a quick peck on the lips. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you in Monaco.”
Rafael still looks confused, but he nods. “Yeah, okay. See you.”
Julien slips out of the door and closes it as quietly as he can.
Private flights—definitely up there on the list of things Julien will miss.