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.
EPILOGUE 2
THE F1A AWARDS
A weekafter the season ends, Julien fusses with his bow tie in front of the hotel mirror. He wanted to use the clip-on, but Maman had said it would be too obvious.
The most obvious thing about it is the fact that Julien can’t tie a fucking bow tie.
“Let me.” Rafael steps in and straightens it as well as he can, but the stubborn thing still leans to the left. His own bow tie hangs perfectly in front of Julien, mocking him.
After a few more tugs, Rafael decides, “Let’s start over.”
“Are we sure I even need one?” Julien rubs his throat while he isn’t being choked. His neck is notably thicker than it was at the beginning of the season, and every collared shirt is torturous. “I have a regular tie as a back-up. I know how to do that one.”
“Unfortunately, they’re real sticklers for the rules around here.” Rafael turns Julien around and reaches over him, tying the stupid thing from his point of view. “You’re representing Ferraro—you should look your best.”
“You and Thomas did all the work. I don’t think I need to be there at all.”
“Do the math real quick and tell me if we would’ve won the Constructors’ Championship without your ninety-four points.”
It’s not a lot of math considering they only won by thirty-something points.
“Fine. But I’m not getting on the stage.”
“You sure are.”
Yeah, he probably will.
A stylist in the SUV futzes with their hair and bow ties as they navigate the winding streets of London and stop every twenty feet.
She’s nit-picky, but it makes Julien feel a little more confident that he won’t look like acompleteidiot by the time they reach the venue.
“There’s no need to be nervous.” Rafael’s hand finds Julien’s leg. His reassuring squeeze fucks up the pleat that runs down the front of his trousers.
