“Both.”
Before Julien can look too deeply into that, he’s lifted into a hug from behind. His legs dangle in the air as he kicks out, laughing.
He thought Thomas would be upset, but this is a nice change of pace—good sportsmanship has never really been his strong suit.
“I didn’t know you were so strong!” When Julien is set down, he turns, expecting to see a red suit, but there’s only a wall of navy.
“I have little arms, but you are little all over,” Fritz says. “You have won your home race! Officially, you are no longer the brother.”
Julien laughs again, his delight overwhelming. Speaking of— “Have you seen my brother?”
Both drivers look around, searching the open area between the cars, the interview area, and the scales.
Thomas’s car is definitely there, so where else would he be?
With a jerk, Fritz hooks an arm around Julien’s shoulder and leads him towards the pedestals. “Come, come. You must put on your hat and sponsor watch now. Many pictures for the race winner.”
Weird. Fritz doesn’t seem like a touchy-feely kind of dude. He also doesn’t seem like some goody-two-shoes rule follower.
Something in Julien’s gut tells him to look around once more.
Oh.
Well, there’s Thomas. Found him. He isn’t lost, he’s just tucked into Rafael’s embrace.
No wonder they couldn’t find him. Rafael’s larger body leans over the flimsy barricade to wrap around the smaller man. His eyes are closed, like he’s savoring the moment.
That’s fine. That’s—that’s probably normal for teammates. Definitely fine.
Fritz lets his arm fall when Julien stops. So, he knows about Julien and Rafael, huh? It reached Red Boar?
The paddock is shit for secrets.
“You still won the race,” Fritz says.
Julien nods silently. His brother can’t take the win from him. Even if Julien has nothing and no one else, he will still be the winner of the French Grand Prix.
Finally, Julien pulls his helmet and balaclava off. He runs his hand through his hair and tries to tame it. It’s no use. “Thanks, Fritz.”
The German driver mirrors the movement as they shuffle towards the scale. His silky blond hair is easier to manage, and it effortlessly flows back into shape after a single comb through. Lucky.
“So… What would you say is the weak area of your brother?”
Julien snorts as he steps up to the scale. “I’m not telling you that.” He might be upset, but he’s still an employee of Ferraro.
“It was worth the try.”
Other drivers wander into the area and offer their congratulations. It feels a little strange to be celebrated by so many people when Julien barely knows anyone, but he leans into every driver's embrace with enthusiasm.
When he finally spots Matt, Julien nearly tackles the American. “You were right! So fuckingright!” They stumble together, but Julien finally gets a good grip on the man. “He attacked in twelve and fourteen, you wereright!”
“Glad I could help,” Matt squeaks.
It was more than helpful—Julien needed every shred of intel and advice to overtake and defend against his brother on the track. Without Matt’s warning, he wouldn’t have made it out on top.
“Stream for Imola this week?”
The American driver nods quickly. “Just let me know when.”
