It’s like an actual slap to his face.
Sam’s a good guy. He’s fun, charismatic, handsome. He’s the best of everything. He’s a well-liked person.
Sure, there are trolls online who say shit, but he’s never had someone say they didn’t like him to his face.
Thomas hands the microphone off to Rafael, and the Brazilian leaves without another word.
“Are you okay?” Thomas asks.
“Yeah, I—” There’s no cool way for Sam to admit Rafael got to him, so he doesn’t. “Yeah, no, yeah, I’m good. Um, how are you?"
“You look like you are the one who lost his home race.” Thomas reaches a hesitant hand out and squeezes his shoulder. They don’t usually touch each other while they’re wearing clothes. “You are supposed to cheer me up.”
“Cheer up,” Sam says. It sounds a little morose.
“Now I am less cheery.” Thomas accentuates a frown, the edges of his mouth nearly falling off his face. “Seriously—what did Rafael say to you? I am not being that upset, I promise. I will win next year.”
“It wasn’t about you.” Sam says so with confidence, though he’s not exactly sure if it's true.
After all, he held no negative feelings towards Rafael beforehe started sleeping with Thomas. Maybe that street flows in both directions.
The three of them walk together through the hallways to the cool down room, Sam and Rafael on either side of Thomas. There’s a notable tension in the air, but the drivers remain silent.
Sam can’t let this weird, negative energy ruin his win. This will be the first time since Australia he’ll sit in the middle?—
Wait.
He didn’t sit in the middle chair in Australia.
Win in France and see how much you care.
I am already planning to. You may sit in my seat then.
The trio turns the corner and Sam only barely registers the middle chair before Thomas takes off towards it.
Sam runs for fun, so he knows he’s fast, but Thomas has a split-second head start and the room isn’t exactly large. They reach the chair at the same time, dragging it off the wall in their attempts to claim it.
“You said I could have it!” Sam yelps, trying to shoulder Thomas out of the way and planting a knee up on the seat.
For someone so small, Thomas is surprisingly aggressive. “The person who is not winning the French Grand Prix is the one sitting in the chair!” His elbow is a dagger into Sam’s ribs.
“That doesn’t make any sense!”
Thomas manages to scramble up to the chair with his stupid willowy body even though Sam still has a stronghold on the wooden poles keeping the seat’s fabric in place. It’s amazing that the wobbling thing is still intact at all.
Sam pants, his breaths warm and moist. Their squabble wasn’tthat rough, but the race was hot and he hasn’t fully recovered yet. He leans heavier against the chair, but that only brings Thomas’s face closer.
“I win.”
Thomas isn’t wearing his usual mocking grin. This expression is more secretive—the smile more intimate. A tease, maybe? A flirt? Either way, it’s something dangerous.
Something that shouldn’t be broadcasted.
“Fine, fine,” Sam says, as casually as he can manage. He heaves himself upright and over to the stands.
He’s a good sport, so he bunches up the second-place towel, hat, and water bottle and hands the bundle over to a red-faced Thomas who nods his thanks through gulps of air.
“What the fuck was that?” Rafael mumbles. He exchanges his Ferraro hat for the podium one and politely sits in his assigned chair.
