Work Text:
Andrea Kimi Antonelli broke up with Oliver James Bearman on a Tuesday. 8:30 PM, to be exact.
Now it was Sunday — rookie debut day in Formula 1. And, of course, the skies over Melbourne had opened up, rain hammering the track and promising a classic winner. Maybe Verstappen. Hamilton. Norris. Someone who knew how to nurse their tires to perfection. That’s what people expected. That’s what Ollie might’ve bet on — if he cared.
But he didn’t. Not when he was stuck in a dog of a car and still reeling from a breakup in the same week as his first F1 race.
He climbed into the Haas and did what he knew best. The way he’d done in Interlagos back in 2024, when he’d learned how to survive in conditions like this. But survival wasn’t winning. He was dead last. Everyone flew past him — and the one that hurt most to watch was Kimi. The number 12 on that Mercedes glared back at him, and a flash of rage surged in his chest. He wanted to shove that car into the wall, to end Kimi’s race right there. Take the penalty. Make it worth it.
But not on his debut.
The weekend was a disaster. The ones after weren’t much better. But at Imola, Ollie thought maybe — just maybe — the universe was finally on his side.
It was Kimi’s home race. His face was everywhere in Emilia-Romagna — billboards, shop windows, posters on street corners. And Ollie hated it. Hated the way everyone adored him. Hated that, in one of their last fights, Kimi had thrown it in his face: “I’m in a Mercedes my rookie year, and you’re in a Haas.” Ollie had wanted to punch him then. Wanted to now.
He behaved. Right up until race day.
A red flag was called. Ollie slowed down — and then saw it. A Mercedes stranded on the grass. His pulse kicked. That helmet was unmistakable. And the faint curl of a smile pulled at his lips. Finally, Kimi wasn’t untouchable.
It happened again in Monaco. Kimi finished, sure, but a botched strategy dropped a Mercedes to dead last. Ollie grinned at the results, popped champagne in his hotel room. Points or no points — he was ahead of Kimi.
The internet called him jealous. He wasn’t. Not when the boy who’d ripped his chest open was finally getting torn down by the universe.
Spain — another DNF. Ollie savored it.
Then Canada happened. And Kimi was back on the podium, smiling next to Verstappen after a Mercedes 1–2. Ollie’s jaw locked as he clapped through gritted teeth. People still thought they were friends. They couldn’t have been more wrong.
Austria brought the smug satisfaction back — another DNF for Kimi. Ollie’s guilty pleasure was watching karma sink its claws in. Seeing Kimi disqualified felt almost poetic, the mirror image of how Ollie had felt the night Kimi told him to pack his things and leave their apartment.
That’s when George Russell cornered him.
They’d talked before, mostly light banter and jokes. But this time George’s jaw was tight, his blue eyes darker. They crossed the paddock, past the Racing Bulls garages, heading toward Haas — until George stopped him.
“Bearman, got a minute?” he called over the crowd noise. Ollie nodded warily.
“Go ahead.” Deep down, he already knew where this was going.
“I don’t want to do this. You’re both adults. But… I need to.” George crossed his arms, still in his race suit. “Kimi’s spiraling. Thinks the DNFs are all his fault. They’re not — it’s on Mercedes — but there’s something else.”
Ollie raked a hand through sweat-damp hair, sighing. “What did he do?” His voice was flat.
“He thinks you still care,” George said simply. “And I know you two broke up — I know this isn’t about friendship. But I also know you, and I know you wouldn’t want him ruining his career like this. When we break up, we think we want our exes to suffer. But it’s not right. Trust me. You wouldn’t want this happening to you.”
Ollie had nothing to say. George gave him one last look and walked away.
Hours later, Ollie was heading to the hotel when he saw him.
Kimi’s eyes were red, the corners wet. His lips were swollen, his nose pink from crying. His backpack straps dug into clenched fists as he walked toward the parking lot, shoulders hunched. His hair was shorter — far shorter than Kimi would ever normally cut it. He’d always been protective of his curls. And just like that, Ollie knew: Kimi was not okay.
He didn’t go straight to his room. He texted George for Kimi’s room number. 403. Third floor.
He took the elevator up, heart thudding. At the end of the hall, he paused, breathed deep, and knocked. He strained to hear movement, worried — until footsteps approached. The door opened.
Kimi. Red eyes. Flushed cheeks. Hair a mess. Tracksuit hanging loose, no shirt underneath, collarbone sharp and bare. Ollie’s chest tightened.
“Don’t say anything,” Ollie started, words spilling out. “I know I’ve been ignoring you, and yeah — I’ve been happy watching you fail. But I don’t want to see you like this.”
Kimi closed his eyes, leaning on the doorframe. “George talked to you, didn’t he?”
Ollie froze. First time hearing his voice up close in months. He nodded.
“He means well,” Ollie said, meeting Kimi’s gaze. “Let me in. I know you hate me. But right now, I want to help.”
Kimi hesitated, eyes unreadable, then stepped aside. Ollie didn’t sit. He just stood there, held out his arms.
“I thought you liked seeing me fail,” Kimi murmured, moving in, resting his head on Ollie’s shoulder.
“I do. Still do, a little,” Ollie admitted with a quiet laugh, wrapping him up. “But it’s more fun racing you and beating you on track. Watching your car die just feels… cheap.”
Kimi almost smiled.
“It’s not your fault,” Ollie added. “It’s the team.”
“George says that. I don’t like blaming them.”
“Then blame them in your head. Just for now.”
Silence settled, until Kimi lifted his head and looked at him. His eyes were raw. Vulnerable.
“Stay tonight,” Kimi said softly, fisting Ollie’s shirt. “So I don’t feel alone. I… miss you at night.”
Ollie couldn’t say no. He led Kimi to the bed, kicked off his shoes, pulled him close.
“Thank you,” Kimi whispered.
“Don’t thank me.”
They whispered like it was something fragile. Ollie stared at the ceiling until he felt Kimi’s breathing even out, asleep on his chest.
“I miss you at night too,” Ollie whispered back — too low for Kimi to hear.
For the first time in months, both hearts rested quietly in the same room. The same room where their old Formula 2 numbers still hung.