Julien looks up at his determined face and sighs. “It’s nothing. Really.”
“I’m gonna grab some food and you can tell me all about it.”
He’s going to be disappointed. That’s what’s going to happen.
Julien hides at a peaceful table in the corner—the kind he’s gotten used to over the past few races. He thought he successfully evaded Rafael, but the Brazilian driver still falls into the seat next to him.
Despite the amount of free space at the table, Rafael scoots closer until their legs are touching. “Okay, what is it?”
Julien takes a deep breath through his nose. “I don’t know where we stand. What am I allowed to comment on? What will you be offended by? I don’t want Monaco to happen again.”
“That depends on what you want.”
“What I want?” Julien’s thigh burns where they are connected.
“Yeah. Do you want my car? My driver’s room? My job?”
“No, yes, no.”
Rafael grins. “I wouldn’t have believed you before Austria. I never take advice from anyone who’d benefit from me losing. Not even— Not even while we were?—”
Not even from a fuck buddy.
“So you trust me now?” Julien summarizes. “Even though I can still benefit from you losing?”
Rafael lifts a shoulder, shrugging. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve made an exception for you.”
Julien flushes and pulls his leg away, breaking the contact. “You’d have an easier time on Sunday if you worked on your one-lap pace.”
“Qualify better?” Rafael repeats, his face falling. “That’s your stare-at-me advice? ‘Be better’?”
Julien elbows his upper arm. When he pulls away, the other body rocks with him and they’re connected again. “I know a couple of line adjustments you could try. They'd destroy your tires over the course of a race, but might give you a small advantage in Qualifying.”
“I’ll take it,” Rafael replies. “I know my one-lap pace isn’t great. I’ll try anything.”
Notanything, but that’s a different conversation.
Julien pointedly scoots his chair further away, breaking the contact again. This could be good—this partnership. At least Rafael respects him in racing, even if?—
Julien stabs a piece of waffle and brings it up to his mouth.
Rafael tracks the movement, his gaze glued to the reserve driver’s lips. The tip of his tongue pokes out and wets his own lips before he turns back to his plate.
—Even if they aren’t compatible in other areas.
Rafael qualifies third and finishes second. He grabs third in Silverstone and wins Hungary.
Though Julien still doesn’t speak during meetings, Rafael calls him over to the car as soon as the screens are in place between sessions.
There’s a lot the driver can’t see from his cockpit, but Julien tries to relay as much information as he can garner from the aerial cameras and telemetry.
It’s hard to tell how Rafael takes the feedback, since his helmet conceals most of his face, but his eyes crinkle whenever Julien suggests an adjustment he hadn’t considered.
When the next lap is quicker, it almost feels like Julien crosses the line alongside him.
After a full day of being locked in the sim room and racing for Ferraro, it’s nice when Julien gets to kick back, lock himself in his own room, and sim race for fun.
His apartment set-up is obviously not as intense as the one at the factory, but it does the job well enough.
