Julien doesn’t need to ask how his brother finished. When he pulls into parc ferme, the other red car is parked dead-center, in the winner’s spot.
Ferraro made a winning car.
Julien placed seventh with it.
“Don’t forget to reattach the steering wheel.”
“Thanks.”
It takes some convincing, but Julien eventually pulls himself upright. He remembers the steering wheel, but his legs are jelly as he tries to navigate around the halo.
Once he’s finally on stable ground, he lines up for the scales behind the McLeans. Owain notices him and turns, smacking his shoulder.
“How’d your first Form 1 race go?”
“Fine.” Now Julien’s shoulder also hurts. “Frustrated I couldn’t do more out there.”
“Yeah, that’s usually the vibe for the drivers in this line.” Owain taps the helmet of the driver ahead of him. “Hey, Hugo, didja meet Julien yet?”
Hugo turns, popping his visor up. “Hey, Juliet.”
“Humungo.”
Owain looks between the two drivers, his head bouncing back and forth. “You already know each other?”
“Yeah. Hey, go first.” Hugo doesn’t wait for Owain to move, he just manhandles the Welsh driver out of his way. “How’ve you been?”
Julien's too tired to lie. “Y’know, same as ever.”
“Got back in the race, though. Never thought I’d see it.”
“Gee, thanks.” And whose fault is that? Which driver took the final open seat of the season? “So… First race as a fancy full-time driver. How’d you do?”
Hugo shrugs, blasé as ever. “Neck hurts like a bitch.”
“Tell me about it.”
Owain leaves the scale and Hugo steps on. That should be it, their pleasantries fulfilled, but Hugo hangs back and waits for Julien before heading to the press pit.
“Got a notification you streamed last night,” the Canadian driver says. “Bold to go live the night before a race.”
Julien forgot he followed his account. He wouldn’t have expected him to hang around all these years, though. “I already got shit from Thomas, no need to pile it on.”
“I caught a bit on Friday. Brutal stuff. I’m guessing they still don’t know you’re you?”
“Defeats the point if everyone knows. Can’t make a name for myself if I’m Thomas’s brother.”
Hugo flicks Julien on the hip, and the Ferraro driver yelps.
“It’s your name too, you dolt.”
Julien rubs at the sting blooming beneath the “DUBOIS” printed on his suit. “Hey, that hurt.”
“You’ve never complained before.”
Julien knocks into him with a laugh. “Shutup!Jesus fuck. There’s like, a million cameras and shit!”
Hugo only smirks.
