Julien was so stupid for that penalty. He doesn’t even know who it was—just that it was a McLean.
Hopefully it’s Owain. It’s almost like payback for Australia if it’s Owain.
And what the fuck is Julien supposed to do tomorrow? With the amount of dirty air on the circuit, his only shot of making the podium is the long straight to turn one. Then what? Just suffer through the rest of the race searching for a place to pass that doesn’t exist?
Julien did a good job today—hopefully good enough to make the top two. He’ll be disappointed with anything less than third and devastated with anything lower than fifth. It’s impossible to fight in the midfield when?—
Radio static gives Julien a split second of warning before Davide announces,“P1. That’s pole position, Julien. Fantastic job.”
Well, it’s not fifth.
Julien can’t tell if he’s about to laugh or cry, so he heaves a mix of both.
He’s the pole sitter of the Japanese Grand Prix. It’s the absolute best-case scenario, but his accomplishment is overshadowed by the looming penalty.
Fuck, he needs to reply—to say something for the broadcast.
“We’ll see where we line up tomorrow, but I’m happy we found the pace today. Thanks to the team, to the sponsors, to Rafael and Thomas. It may only be my third race, but this result was a long time in the making.”
Julien enters the pits and rolls past all of the cars huddled off to the side. Not today. He parks right up front—at the sign clearly labelled “1”.
After worrying over the penalty, it hasn't fully sunk in yet. Julien placedfirstin Qualifying. He drove faster than every other car on the track.
The other Ferraro parks in front of number two. A Red Boar in front of number three. Julien beat them over the line—both of them.
Also all the other ones.
An overlooked, washed-upreservedriver just out-drove the entire full-time grid.
Julien stumbles out of the car and barely remembers to return the steering wheel. His team is along the sidelines—jumping, screaming, cheering for him—but Julien feels lost in limbo, awaiting his fate for tomorrow while surrounded by a wall of sound.
Someone crashes into him, lifting and spinning Julien until his vision is just as confused as his emotions are.
“I am soproudof you.” It’s Thomas who says it. Weird, he’s not usually a good sport.
“I have a pending penalty from the stewards.”
Thomas scoffs. “If they take the tire trophy from you, I will give it back. You earned pole position in Japan—that is worth celebrating!”
Julien returns the hug and squeezes extra tight. For all the shit he gives his brother, it’s so good to have his support when everything feels too-big and overwhelming.
He might not want the trophy for a position that was stripped from him, but it could be the only trophy Julien ever receives in Formation 1. It’s proof he belongs here.
Thomas drags him over to the team of red shirts who fall against the flimsy barricade to get their hands on Julien. Every knock against his helmet vibrates down his spine, and he can’t hear anything Davide and Lorenzo try to yell in his direction.
He pauses when he spots Rafael. With a quick flick, he pops his visor open to see him better.
“Good job, kid.”
At least he’s not berating him this time. “Not stupid and reckless?”
“Not those laps.” Rafael taps the helmet as well, his touch lingering a moment too long before it falls. “I’m proud of you.”
“Jesus, don’t be a baby about it.” Julien moves on before anyone notices how flushed his cheeks are.
An official guides him to the scale, and no less than three cameras are trained to his face when Julien finally removes his helmet and balaclava. What are they expecting him to do? A jig?
Julien runs his hand through his sweaty hair as well as he can and tries to smile at the camera. It feels a little grimace-y. That’s probably fine—he’s on borrowed time in the winner’s circle anyway.
