In Imola, Sam finishes second place behind Lucas and leaves dark hickies over Thomas’s hip bones as souvenirs.
In Monaco, Sam finishes second place behind Thomas and gets revenge by edging him until he cries out for cock.
In Spain, Sam finishes second place behind Lucas and sixty-nines Thomas, pinning his hips down and fucking into his mouth.
Some drivers never see a podium in their entire Form 1 career—much less the amount that Sam has accrued—but it’s frustrating to always finish second. To only ever bealmostgood enough.
Sam slides up next to Thomas before the national anthem. Instead of the Frenchman’s usual calm pre-race demeanor, Thomas is practically bouncing in place.
“You seem excited,” Sam teases.
“But, of course! It is my home race.”
Sam covers his mouth with a mocking gasp. “Is it?!”
Every single sign around the paddock is aggressively French with a small English translation at the bottom. He and Lucas had gotten lost after the fan stage and had to call Janice to rescue them.
Sam appreciates the croissants, though.
Thomas huffs and jostles him with his shoulder, causing Sam to laugh harder.
The grid kids turn to stare at them with their beady little French eyes and Sam just waves them off. “You’re setting a bad example for them.”
“You are the one who is the bad example.”
Thomas leans over to their height and speaks in rapid French to the delight of the children. Their little faces light up and soon they’re sneaking glances at Sam and giggling.
“What?” Sam hates children. “What are you saying to them?”
Thomas hits him with one of his mischievous looks as he stands back upright. “The anthem is starting soon, shush.”
Sam checks his too-complicated sponsor watch and looks around. They’re still several minutes from showtime, but they’re missing quite a few people.
Rafael is notably absent. Guess he doesn’t care about his teammate’s national anthem.
“So what’s your anthem called?” Sam cares. Look how much he cares.
Thomas raises a single eyebrow before answering, “La Marseillaise.”
“You gonna sing along?”
Thomas laughs as he replies, “No, no, that is better left to the professionals.”
“C’mon, I reckon you should march up there and help her.” Sam nods over to the woman in an evening gown waiting patiently in front of a microphone stand. “You can sing the high parts.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Rafael forces himself in between Sam and Thomas. There was plenty of space on either side of them, but okay. “What’s so funny?”
Thomas sobers quickly and stands straighter. “Ah, nothing.”
Sam doesn’t have anything against Rafael. He barely knows the guy, really. They’ve partied together, but that’s only because Owain invites both of them out.
Between Thomas and Owain, maybe Sam just hasn’t seen whatever makes Rafael someone worth caring about.
“Hey Rafael, can you sing?”
Rafael’s eyebrows draw together. He's probably confused about why someone would deign to speak to him, but Sam's whole schtick is that he’s a friendly dude. A happy guy. Sammy Smiles.
“Ah… no.” Rafael looks over at the woman. “And definitely not in French.”
