Maybe he meant a different Julien. There are two Dubois drivers, maybe there’s another Julien too.
“You are the first reserve driver to ever win a Grand Prix.”Yeah, Davide’s crying.“The first Frenchman to win his home race in over thirty years.”
Jesus fucking shit fuck cock fucking dick shit fuck.
Julien gets all of his cursing out of the way before pressing the button again. “I can’t believe it. Thank you, Ferraro, for giving me the chance to prove I’ve still got it. Thank you Davide, Rafael, Thomas—though he didn’t make it easy today.”
Julien laughs, but it sounds like he’s crying too. Maybe he is. Maybe his garage is full of crybabies.
“Forza Ferraro!!!”he yells up at the stands coated in red. The crowd roars back loud enough to cut through the engine and the padding of his helmet.
He waves, though the tens of thousands of people packed into the stands probably can’t see it.
Odds are one of them is a little French kid in karting. Maybe someday he’ll out-race his older brother on the world stage. Stranger things have happened.
Julien parks his car dead center. He taps the first-place sign with his front wing and takes a moment to breathe it in.
His car is parked at the winner’s sign. Not just any winner’s sign—the French Grand Prix. Only after the sight is permanently affixed to the back of his eyelids does Julien finally stand up.
Shit, he needs to remove the steering wheel.
Okay, he wrestles the wheel off,thenstands. Now the wheel goes back on. Why won’t it click back in? His hands are shaking far too much. He needs—oh, there it goes. Good.
He stumbles, stepping on the seat before climbing over the halo to the body of the car. From up here, he can see everything. The Ferraro garage is out in full force and falling into each other as they look up at Julien and cheer.
Even the Red Boar mechanics are cheering for him, though it’s so bizarre to see the sea of navy turned his way. They’re happy for him. Celebrating his win.
Hiswin. Julien won the French Grand Prix.
He’s going to pass out.
Julien used to have a signature winning pose, back in Formation 2 when he and Hugo traded wins back and forth. Unfortunately, his muscle memory has deteriorated over time.
Instead, he pumps his fist as hard as he can without stumbling and tries to exert some of the energy bubbling up inside his chest, threatening to boil over.
He steps down on the front tire and launches himself over to his team. They welcome him with open arms, catching the driver when he jumps and hoisting him into the air.
Julien loses connection for a terrifying moment, but dozens of hands catch him and jump in place. When they’ve had enough, Julien vibrates right out of their grasp and back down to the stable ground.
He needs to thank people.God, there are so many people to thank. Lorenzo’s first, and the short, balding team principal is almost smiling when Julien pulls him into an embrace.
Some person in a suit is next, Davide, Ray, Pit—everyone Julien can reach is pulled forward in his excitement. He even manages to wrap an arm around a photographer, which he probably isn’t supposed to do.
Whatever, it’s acelebration!
Rafael pushes his way to the front, and Julien falls into him. His body is hard under the team kit, and Julien can’t help but squeeze, mapping out the planes of muscles that line his back. Claiming the man with a newfound hunger.
“Proud of you, kid.” Rafael taps the back of Julien’s helmet before releasing him.
“I want to celebrate tonight,” Julien says, before he’s pulled away. “Anything—everything. Whatever you want.”
Rafael’s mouth pulls up into a delicious little smirk. “Can’t wait.”
Julien is dragged down the line until he lands in front of his family. They look torn, their smiles nearly grimaces.
Maman’s eyes are red from crying.“Mon loulou.”
Not very celebratory.“Are you crying for me? Or for Thomas?”
