Epilogue 1
THE brAZILIAN GRAND PRIX
When the rain starts up again, Julien is hovering over Davide’s shoulder at pit wall. The canopy isn’t built for extra people, so Julien presses closer and tries to avoid the water soaking the back of his shirt.
Thankfully, the race has side-stepped the expected Brazilian downpour, but it hasn’t stopped the sky from spitting on them the entire weekend.
The band that hovers over the track on the radar isn’t a violent color, but it’s all-encompassing and slow-moving.
Most of the drivers haven’t pitted yet, but they’re squarely within the expected window for mediums. The entire pit lane crew turns their eyes skyward, towards the large, nearly-white cloud that covers the circuit.
It’s only sprinkling, but a centimeter of water could be the difference between slicks and inters.
Davide radios in with, “It looks like the rain will stay like this, steady to the end.”
“Affirm,” is Rafael’s static-filled reply. “Still with Plan A?”
“Affirm.”
As the strategists discuss whether the time loss is too much to sacrifice for the grip of inters, Julien watches a nearby puddle gather water. This isn’t like practice where moisture hit the ground and immediately wicked up into the balmy air—it’s sticking.
“They need inters.”
“What?” Davide asks, pulling back one of the ears of his headphones.
“The standing water is too much for slicks. They’re gonna slide off the track.”
“It’s barely sprinkling out there.”
“That’s fine for visibility, but we’ll see a real problem with grip in five or six laps.”
Davide doesn’t look convinced, but he dutifully relays the information to the strategists. After the team takes one final look between ground and sky, they ultimately decide to leave the choice up to the drivers.
“Would you prefer slicks or inters?”
Rafael responds, “It’s not bad out here—I can keep with slicks.”
But that’s because he doesn’t know that water is collecting this time. Julien waves at Davide and points to himself.
“It’s Julien’s opinion that you should switch to inters.”
Julien gives him a thumbs up. Nothing against the strategists who do this for a living, but he’s the only one on the wall who knows what it’s like to be out on track while rain is collecting.
There’s a long pause before Rafael replies, “Alright. Let’s do inters.”
Fuck, that feels good. For better or for worse, Julien’s expertise has contributed to changing the outcome of the race.
Hopefully it’s for the better.
Julien hops over to Thomas’s side and relays the same information to Hector.
“Julien thinks you should consider inters.”
Thomas’s reply is much quicker. “Maybe that is the reason Julien is not driving the car.”
That feels less good.
Despite the growing risk of a safety car, Rafael is called into the pits to cover off a Mercenary. The stop is just over two seconds, and he pops out seventh on the grid with a fresh set of inters.
The surrounding teams react immediately, and on the next lap, the Mercenary, a McLean, and one of the Red Boars all pit. Every single one of them leaves with hard tires.
Shit.
Every team has expert strategists, and they all agree the time lost in each lap isn’t worth the better grip of the inters.
What if Julien is just… bad at racing in wet weather? Could Rafael have navigated the standing water in slicks?
Did Julien just ruin his boyfriend’s home race?
The trio who pitted together pass Rafael easily, their grip still strong along the dry racing line. Even after Owain slips by him, the Brazilian doesn’t mutter a single word over the radio.
The rest of the field watches the massacre, and every other driver in the next four laps leaves with slicks.
Julien turns to watch his brother peel out of the pits. Thomas wobbles with oversteer, his cold tires not able to catch on the slicked pavement. He might not think it’s a problem yet, but Julien’s puddle has already doubled in size.
Rafael is the only driver in the points on inters when the first car spins out.
Sam wrestles the Red Boar back onto the road with brute force and hobbles his way into the pits to switch tires.
Rafael passes Santiago when he fails to make turn twelve. After contact between both McLeans, Rafael slides up to third.
Fritz slows his pace and doesn’t even budge from the dry race line to defend as the Brazilian driver slips by.
While Rafael pushes, chasing the other Ferraro for first, Thomas’s rear left catches a patch of standing water. In an instant, he’s flung out into the middle of the grassy field.
The car looks pathetic, its wheels desperately searching for grip as Thomas tries to push forwards, then backwards. When he finally emerges from the car, he kicks his back tire before retreating behind the safety barrier.
Thomas only needed four points to secure the Drivers’ Championship. His win was so assured that he designed a special “I won the championship” helmet to wear for the last race.
Maybe that is the reason Julien is not driving the car.
Now neither of them is.
The resulting safety car drives everyone into the pits. Everyone fights in the pitlane except the hometown hero and a few other mid-field and back-field cars who took a chance with the inters and get to slide up to the front.
Davide wraps an arm around Julien and pulls him in for a side hug. “Good call, kid.”
Julien could do this for the rest of his life.
When the Brazilian driver finally parks at that number one sign, Julien ushers Rafael’s parents and sisters forward. The first thing he should see is his family—the rest of the team is at all of the other races.
A few photographers follow them, working their way through to the receiving line and pushing Julien further and further away.
It’s a little disappointing, but Julien will have the man all to himself later.
Though it’s still sprinkling, Rafael climbs on top of his car. He doesn’t even slip on the rain-soaked body as he sends his signature kiss to the heavens. Soon after, he throws himself into the crowd of red shirts who toss him up with wild cheers.
When he’s back on stable ground, Rafael pulls his helmet and balaclava off. He searches the area, though his family is right in front of him. “Where is he?”
The guys in the garage are far too comfortable manhandling Julien. When they spot him, they hoist the Frenchman up, passing him from hand to hand until he reaches the front of the line.
Julien almost falls forward, over the flimsy barrier, but a strong, familiar hand catches his face in a cradle. Before he can register it, Rafael pulls him up into a kiss.
Cameras snap at a frenzied pace, the team whoops, and Rafael’s mother says something in stern Portuguese, but all of the noise melts away as Julien returns the kiss, bracing his hand on Rafael’s soaked race suit.
“Thank you,” Rafael breathes when he pulls back.
“I thought I ruined your race.”
“I thought so too.” Rafael huffs with disbelief. “I would’ve forgiven you, of course. Eventually.”
Julien laughs as he steps back, letting the driver go. Rafael gives him one last too-charming smile before sweeping over and greeting his family.
In Vegas, Julien is back on the pit wall. The nighttime race is fucking freezing, and he curls in on himself as another breeze cuts through his many layers.
After the call in Brazil, he has a broadcast camera trained on his face the entire time, ready to capture some other miraculous race-winning advice that never comes.
Julien only catches himself once during the broadcast, but his lip quirks up when he reads his new title card.
Julien Dubois
Reserve driver, Rafael’s partner
They still could’ve fit his race win somewhere in there.
Though Thomas is frustrating at the best of times, he’s still his brother. Julien celebrates with sincerity when the Ferraro finally crosses the line and cements a Dubois in the records as a world champion.
If Julien fills Thomas’s unused special helmet with champagne and dumps it on him during the team’s celebratory picture, it was done purely out of brotherly love.