“I don’t wanna state the obvious, but it’s hard to tell since the car is still parked. They were just working on them, though.”
Sam’s eyes trail from the back of the car to Thomas’s race boots. His gaze slides up, up, mapping the body he knows so well, until he meets Thomas’s return stare.
He wants to turn away, but he can’t. Thomas looks wrecked, like he’s just returned from war. His eyes are tinged with red, his face blotchy.
Sam only thought he lost Thomas. Thomas almost actually lost Rafael.
“Sam?”
His attention snaps back to Frank. Sam has a job to do—that’s it. It’s his job to take advantage of an opponent’s weakness. It’s his job to race, and it’s his job to win, and when he gets in the car he will do both of those things.
At the end of the race, Sam pulls up to the third-place sign. He considers, for a moment, just staying in the car. The mechanics can pack him up and ship him directly to the British GP, just like that.
No need to face any reporters, no need to look at any other drivers. Just Sam and his car, prepped and ready for the next track. Eager to write over a weekend that used to be Sam’s favorite race.
A couple of thunks to his helmet drag him back to reality.
“It is still a podium,” Lucas says, his voice muffled by the barrier of both helmets.
“Tell that to Adam.”
“I will.” More thunks to the helmet. “Come on. We should celebrate.”
Sam exhales before pulling himself out of the car. Lucas dragshim over to the gathered crew where Adam looks surprisingly pleased to see them.
Sam will have to thank his assistant later. He walks the line, patting and congratulating Lucas’s mechanics when cheers make him turn towards the team in red.
Everyone has their cameras up and their phones out to capture Thomas and Rafael embracing over the security line.
The Brazilian looks fine, sans the light gauze wrapped around his wrists. Thomas stretches himself up onto his toes, making himself taller and wrapping himself around the larger driver.
They look like lovers.
Someone turns Sam’s helmet away, and his body follows on command.
“Go get weighed,” Adam says, cursing. “Help him, Lucas.”
Lucas takes the lead again, dragging him towards the scales while rattling on about something his mother said.
Sam can’t turn back around, he can’t go looking for Thomas again.
He’s already fallen way too deep.
In Britain, Sam finishes sixth. He should be disappointed, but he’s just hollow. He replies to Thomas’s room number text with “I’m busy tonight” even though he isn’t. He falls asleep, but only after tossing and turning for several hours.
In Hungary, Sam finishes third and convinces himself he can have sex without feeling anything. He’s done it before, so he can do it again. He shows up to Thomas’s room and lets himself indulge. When he wakes up first, he keeps as still as possible to watch the smaller driver sleep.
Sam finishes third again in the Dutch Grand Prix, but he overtakes both Ferraros so he’s basically cured. When Thomas asks for “doggies” again, Sam spends the rest of the night wondering if he’s imagining Rafael.
“That’s P1, Sam. Congratulations.”
Sam whoops and waves at the Monza crowd. If France hated him, he can only imagine what Italy’s reaction will be. “Tell me when Thomas crosses.”
“Will do.”
He’s happy with first place, of course, but there’s another competition still at stake. Sam taps his steering wheel as he waits for the results. Every added second feels like there’s no way Thomas could be P2.
“Dubois, P3.”
