Even if Julien didn’t walk away with pole position, he still fought for it. That’s better than he could’ve hoped for after leaving the track yesterday. Something he did worked, and he’ll get another chance to prove himself tomorrow.
At least his chances of giving Rafael a blowjob are decreasing exponentially with every car that crosses the finish line.
That helps ease the sting.
Gathered around the television, the mechanics pop their heads up and offer sympathetic looks when Julien enters the garage. Their attention snaps back to the broadcast as they wait with bated breath for the final result.
Rafael stands with them, near the back. His free hand stays wrapped around his pinched mouth as he glowers at the TV.
Julien pulls up next to him as another driver slides ahead on the tower, forcing his time further down. He’s fifth now, but there are still three more cars pushing.
Owain crosses the line in eighth. Great. Now any punishment he receives won’t even help Julien.
“It’s painful to watch.” Another car passes the finish line. Now Julien’s sixth.
Rafael’s hand falls to his side with a huff. “Owain owes me a fucking blowjob.”
It’s kind of funny how much Notorious Playboy Rafael Souza was looking forward to something as silly and meaningless as one blowjob. He said it himself—it’d be easy to find someone willing to drop to their knees for him. He didn’t have to put so much effort into actually helping Julien.
Cheers ring out in the garage when Thomas is announced pole sitter. There’s a flurry of activity as people run to parc ferme or get back to work. Throughout the chaos, Julien and Rafael continue watching the broadcast.
On one hand, Julien’s happy for his brother, on the other, it could’ve been him. Still, he wouldn’t have been part of the conversation at all if he had gone at it alone.
“You helped me a lot this weekend. I’d be worse off without you.”
Rafael huffs. “Don’t act like the job’s done. There’s still tomorrow.”
The race. That’s the part everyone will actually remember. Julien checks their area for curious ears before leaning closer. “Get me to the podium tomorrow and you can have my ass.”
Rafael finally turns from the screen as his eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?”
“If you helped me this much on my one-lap pace, I can only imagine how good your overtaking advice is.” It’s what he specializes in, after all.
This feels like a good circuit for Ferraro—good enough for a one-two.
Julien looks up for a confirmation, but Rafael is already deep in thought, mumbling to himself. “You’re only on the third row—it’s not a terrible position to start in. Bunch of opportunities through?—”
Julien groans as the fans who crowd the entrance of the paddock scream for his attention. Don’t they know how early it is? Can’t they come back later or something?
By the time Julien sets his food tray on the table and buries his face in his hands, he doesn’t even care that he forgot a drink again.
At least he avoided the melon this time.
“You doin’ alright?” Rafael asks, taking the seat next to him. “Want a coffee? Tea?”
“Do they keep energy drinks back there?” Julien could chug a red boar before anyone sees him.
“Careful, now. You’re not on the energy drink team.”
Rafael leaves, and Julien sinks deeper into his hands. His schedule is full of meetings and strategy briefs and stupid driver appearances. All he needs is a few minutes of sleep and he’ll be good as new. Just a few minutes.
The squeak of a styrofoam cup jolts Julien awake and it takes several moments before he remembers where he is.
“Here. Don’t tell anyone I got you this.”
The white cup emphasizes how unnaturally bright the green liquid inside is. Whatever it is can’t be safe for human consumption.
It’s sad how little Julien actually cares. He takes a sip, choking when he recognizes the flavor. “I wish I didn’t know it looked like this.”
