Chapter Text
April 14th. After the Bahrain Grand Prix in Sakhir.
Kimi hadn’t slept well after his race. Hadn’t slept at all, actually. His night was spent sulking in his hotel room, rolling over on his bed from one side to the other, thinking about the debrief session. The race. He couldn't get his head around the fact that it wasn't entirely his fault! — But it was! At least for him, yes it was!
Antonelli wasn’t a simple guy. He carried the mental boulder that was just… being the little boy that replaced Hamilton in Mercedes. He carried it every. single. day. Start to end of his entire weeks. It was a big opportunity to be in such a top-tier team for his first year in Formula One, and he needed to prove everyone — especially himself — that he deserved to be there.
There was not a massive fuss over Kimi’s P11 in the Mercedes hospitality, or the debrief. The results could have been much better, but it wasn’t just his fault. The team had some wrong strategies, that’s all. Really, his problem was himself. — Somehow, just ‘not crashing’ wasn’t good enough to his standards. — Yes, he was a rookie, but not just a rookie. Kimi was the one after — again, — the Lewis Hamilton left. That, right there, was the fuel to manage and muster up everything and anything, data or opinion, that said the seat was his. And his only.
He needed every podium like a hungry predator in hunt for it’s prey. He needed every point. He needed—
Beep. Buzz. Beep. 9:30 A.M.
Kimi’s head was ringing with a migraine that seemed to last all night long. Maybe from the lack of his usual breakfast — since he probably, most definitely overslept.. And he loved to eat —, or just from how much stress had accumulated in his subconscious over the whole night.
Kimi slowly opened his eyes. They itched and hurt! The simple task felt like stepping on a billion LEGOs with nails on them, all at once.
The world came in flashes, blurry and unfocused as he woke up. The sunlight tore through the delicate linen curtains, any shadow that could’ve lasted inside the suite for God knows how long was gone in seconds. It took over the place, Antonelli flinched. God, his head was throbbing. He couldn’t even think properly.
He closed his eyes again, but the blinding rays of light burned through his eyeballs as to say ‘stop being lazy and wake up!’. That’s what he is. Lazy. Lazy enough to not manage his own car! Lazy enough to let a Williams through! Lazy enough to—Shut up, Andrea! Race’s over!
He exhaled sharply, eyes snapped open. He turned to his side, still half-blinded and half-asleep.
His phone vibrated on the tiny nightstand by the bedside, the sound was as infuriating as a fly you couldn’t quite keep up with. He struggled to find the buzzing device with bleary eyes, hands dancing somewhere close as if to swat said fly with horrendous precision.
He bumped into the wooden nightstand’s edge and, with ease, located his phone. Antonelli’s fingers roamed over the glass screen. He found the ‘Cancel Alarm’ button quite easily, huffing as if it would understand how angry he is at himself. For the race, maybe for oversleeping, or even for setting the alarm.
Kimi slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes. The dimly-lit phone screen beside him read “12 MISSED CALLS & 7 UNREAD MESSAGES” from a totally unknown ”grandpa Russell“. He unlocked the phone with his password, one of the messages read something along the lines of “Why didn't you come and party with us? It's no problem, you'll do better next time!”… Easy for him to say that. He didn’t have a shitty weekend.
He mechanically rolled his hips to the side, feet dangling over the floor as his brain processed that yes, he was awake. It was such an awkward position, he was now scrolling on his phone, skimming through already seen messages with George. And his body was in a weird L shape with his legs out the bed. He huffed, furrowed his brows and pouted, looking through the big windows that woke him up alongside the alarm. It was a dreary day. Ew.
Kimi finally had the big idea that not eating or drinking wasn’t gonna get rid of his headache, and just staying on his phone probably would make it worse. His brain clicked, and he finally got up. He went so fast it was dizzying, Andrea instantly steadied himself against the tiny nightstand.
He walked to the tiny kitchen, — not tiny enough to be called 'kitchenette', the funny term Kimi always laughed at!— slow steps to not trip as his vision gradually unblurred. The hotel suite wasn’t super large, but it was nice. Cozy. Enough for one person.
He felt the carpet beneath his toes. It remembered him of his bed. God, he already misses his bed. The world seemed to go in slow-motion the entire time. — Yes, Kimi was unhurried, but at the same time, impatient. He made his way through the living room, bumping his toe into the sofa. His mind was hazy enough not to process it completely.
Kimi wandered around the little kitchen, opening and closing his disorganized white cabinets. Each one of them made a clack! thud! bompf! as he shut them closed. They were scattered around the tiny room, like an incompetent architect put them there and a slightly more incompetent guy arranged everything inside.
A special one, though, with a piece of ripped paper, read ‘First Aid Cabinet’. Yep. A whole cabinet. — Kimi was quick to snatch it open, finding an Advil and ripping the box to grab a pill. In half a minute, with cold water, he swallowed the oval capsule.
A sigh of relief came from Antonelli as he turned around to face the kitchen again. Now he needed to make food. At least what his trainer, Sergi, called ‘food’. Kimi walked up to the fridge, opening it to find a bowl of overnight oatmeal with banana, walnuts and whatever else the boy made in a hurry yesterday morning.
He scooped the dish bowl with his left hand, the other one moving around the drawers to find a spoon. His fingers twirled around one, grabbing with ease. Kimi shut the fridge with his feet, pressing it against the cold stainless steel surface. He pushed his elbow on to the cabinet, it closed, too, with a thud.
Kimi dropped the bowl on his tiny marble table, the two objects making a screeching noise when in contact. He pulled back a chair and plopped down onto it, finding his phone somewhere inside his pajama pants’ pockets and whipping out the device. (yes his pajama pants had pockets.. its technology..)
As he ate the bitter-tasted oatmeal, Antonelli opened Instagram with his free hand. He wasn’t on a finsta or whatever, he didn’t really care. Kimi didn’t have to scroll far for his timeline to show horrors towards mankind.
The migraine should’ve been gone at least a tiny bit, for it to hit him back like this. One of the first posts had to be, of course, Oliver James Bearman. Just the sight of that boy made Kimi’s insides churn with pure anger. Made his blood boil, made his head hammer, made him FERAL! — Okay, maybe the hammering was just said migraine biting back from so much hatred towards the innocent papaya man.
More and more images of Oliver just popped up on his screen as he scrolled. Kimi hated it, but came back like an addiction. He’d spend minutes — precious minutes — analyzing every team on the grid, but studying McLaren was as bad as a death sentence. Why was he even looking through their Instagram page anyway? When did he click on their profile?
Well, he was looking because, Oliver was the new McLaren star! It was impossible for you to not see him around. He was the new everything. He had been since he stepped foot into a paddock. Had been since he pulled up the zipper in that ugly orange racing suit. Bearman never needed to prove himself to the world, he just had a.. A charm! That, alone, made everyone else forget he wasn’t always there. Forget that he was just as new as Kimi. Maybe it was because he was sweet like honey to the media, had the perfect smile for fans, and the perfect races for his team. His name, plastered everywhere like a twisted mind game against every inch of Kimi’s being.
Yes, Antonelli considered it a mind game because it was all bullshit! — Kimi knew, deep down, that there wasn’t anyone in this world as calm and composed as Bearman was. Well, except his teammate, Oscar Piastri… Yeah, so maybe there was… That’s not the point!
“Fastest Lap”, “Pole Position”, “Race Winner”, every post with that ugly, stupid, pretty.. dumb face! ‘Well, fuck it! Who cares?! He’d probably win the 'unfunny people-pleaser' championship too!’ Kimi thought as he scrolled the McLaren Instagram posts mindlessly. His eye twitched at the sight of that smile. That smile. It angered him so much. His thumb hovered over the heart icon as if daring to humiliate himself with a pitiful like.
Maybe Oliver was just… better. More professional. Less childish. And that made Kimi mad.
The minutes flew by. Kimi was chewing so hard that his teeth hurt, he bit down and swallowed unconsciously, almost choking. See, Bearman?! You could kill a guy from how much hated you are! — As he scraped the bowl’s inside, the spoon screaming against the ceramic, Antonelli stopped to realize he didn’t even pay attention to his food. It was just… gone.
He got up again as a message from Sergi appeared on the top-half of his phone screen.
Sergi (sent 09:52 A.M.)
Workout today, coming to pick you up in 15.
(read 09:53 A.M.)
Kimi (sent 09:53 A.M.)
mate i am not prepared???
(read 09:55 A.M)
Sergi (sent 09:55 A.M.)
Too bad, should've expected it. (read 09:55 A.M.)
You have until 10:07 sharp. (read 09:56 A.M.)
Kimi (sent 09:57 A.M.)
ill just sweat my pajamas out then 🙂 (delivered 09:57 A.M.)
Shit, Kimi had to move quickly. He turned on his heels, leaving the empty bowl with the spoon on the table. His eyes darted around in pure panic as he strode around the suite. Antonelli took long steps with his short legs, occasionally bumping into a beanbag, an out of place shoe and carrying a wrinkled Mercedes tee that stuck to his shin along the way. Don’t know how!
He reached his closet, yanking the doors open and taking out any shirt he could use to work out. Some were really wrinkled, disorganized and thrown around. Kimi ended up with black shorts — that somehow were an intruder in the T-shirt pile — and a tight white Adidas Aeroready or.. whatever name it was. That wasn’t his most comfortable or fashionable wear of the month, but it worked so… That’s good?
Said and done, as he turned around, a very wise Sergi Àvila loomed over him. — Well, not loomed! Sergi wasn’t some giant! Kimi squeaked at the sight of his trainer just… invading his home like that!
“Sergi! Do you know how to knock?!” Squealed the angry Italian as held himself with both hands splayed over his chest. He inhaled and exhaled sharply, catching his breath. There was half a smile from fear on his tiny lips.
“I did knock, but you were busy picking your next runway look. Come on, let’s go. Heavy training today, okay? For you to do better next race.” Sergi replied. Calm, collected, composed… Wait, that sounds familiar.
Kimi narrowed his eyes, blinking and looking around. Since when did he agree on a Heavy Training Monday? And since when did that term come to his mind? He tried to argue, lifting his hands and doing gestures that couldn’t really mean anything.
“Well.. Yeah, okay, whatever.” He mumbled, the words barely escaping his mouth as he looked down. Antonelli couldn’t blame Sergi for coming up with heavy training, he really needed to improve for the next race. Really needed to.
He followed Sergi out the suite, taking an elevator down and shivering as the mildly-cold breeze hit his skin, it was prickly. He puffed hot air out, entering the passenger side of Sergi’s car. The car door closed to his right with a thud as Sergi shut it and went around to the driver side.
The drive to the gym wasn’t exactly quiet. Kimi can’t shut up for more than five minutes, so he would sing along to any song on the radio, talk about the shitty weekend, ask for Sergi’s opinion on Hot Wheels, then on his opinion on Kimi’s results, and whatnot. Yes, they were workmates, but Antonelli was a simple man — If you were in his environment, you’d have to chat with him at some point.
When they were close to their destination, Sergi waited for silence to fill in before asking,
“Is your room usually that messy? It’s as bad as a teenage boy.” He dropped coldly, making efforts to hold in his snicker behind his usual stoic face. “Tidy up, Antonelli.” He didn’t even take his eyes off of the road.
“Wow, you’re just insulting me like that, eh?” Kimi dragged out the O in his wow, eyes wide and brows arched with jaw agape in a half-smile.
“Well, yes. Also, you’re usually such an early bird. What happened for you to be running late?”
“Oh, hm. Guess I just… stayed up partying with George…?” Kimi said, though his voice was quieter now. He clicked his tongue, looking through the window to his side. “…I’m lying. Just.. couldn’t sleep after my results, I—”
“Hey, you’ll do better next weekend, race’s over, it’s not gonna magically be different if you just think hard enough,” Sergi commented. “Well, maybe it can be different, you have a pretty big head. Maybe got superpowers somewhere in there?”
Kimi burst out laughing, hitting his head against the glass pane once or twice. He was full on crying from that stupid joke. It wasn’t even funny! His arms were stretched out against the car’s dashboard, as if he could physically hold himself from laughing more. Aow.. It hurt a little.
In the corner of Antonelli’s eye, a pleased Sergi had a tiny smirk on his face as he looked straight ahead.
That was Sergi, straightforward and professional. He could be a disciplined man anywhere he went, but also keep up with Kimi and make him unwind. It was good enough to balance out Kimi’s energy.
Having Sergi was nice.
It wasn’t so nice to have Sergi around when that was the plan for a week start. Wow. Hard workout was not enough to describe what hellishness Kimi had just gone through! Andrea was dripping in sweat. His curls pressed flat against his forehead, a stain around his neck as he huffed and puffed. Sergi seemed satisfied enough.
Kimi sat in front of the A/C for half an hour and it still wasn’t enough. His trainer was already getting quite impatient, so unfortunately, they both needed to leave the gym. It smelled like sweat and dreams that lasted for approximately 5 minutes before the Devil’s Workout took place.
“That will be all for today, okay?” The trainer said, voice steady. Noticing Kimi’s sweaty neck and back, there was a pretty noticeable puddle around the boy’s nape. — Maybe he went a little far.
“Grazie a Dio! I was about to pass out, mate!” Kimi breathed out, turning his head to look at Sergi. “What did I do to you, Sergi!?” He asked, playfully. There was already half a grin on his face.
“Well, let’s work hard enough on the track to not need the gym like this next time, hm?” Sergi gave Antonelli a dramatic pitiful look. It didn’t last long until the man’s usual neutral expression came back.
They exited the gym and went into Sergi’s car. The drive back was significantly quieter. But not uncomfortable, just friendly quiet. The trainer dropped Kimi downtown and left to wherever he always went — Kimi did not know, like, at all —. One coffee before lunch, wouldn’t hurt a fly, hmm?
He picked his way across the rocky, uneven sidewalk, around the center of Bahrein. It was
Looking around for any café with a sign that said "OPEN" — or whatever that was similar enough — Kimi ended up on a pretty busy diner, taking careful steps to the counter so he didn’t bump into anyone. The place was tiny, noisy and a million voices overlapped as he talked to the barista.
It was an Italian café, Kimi felt a small weight fall off his shoulders as he read the menu in his native language. He felt at home even in such a bustling place. The barista who took his order was a young woman, with long straight black hair. Her eyes seemed sweet, gaze locked in on Kimi as she took his order. She tucked her hair behind her ear.
…
Does she want a tip or a tip?
“—So, a medium latte macchiato with honey and extra milk, is that right?” Her voice ringed inside Antonelli’s ears. Shit. She’s pretty.
Kimi got his mind out of the gutter, just enough to answer.
“Ah—Uh, yeah! Mhm!”
“Well, it will be ready in a minute, you can sit there while you wait. We will call you, Mr. Antonelli.”
The woman held Kimi’s shoulder with one hand, spinning him around — she was terrifyingly strong! — . With the other, she pointed to a tiny table by the corner of the diner, Kimi narrowed his eyes to observe a slender boy with his head down taking a sip from a takeaway cup. He had brown hair and was leaned against the uncomfortable café chair like it was actually good. — Wait, why was he using a takeaway cup? Is he slow or something?
The boy had something different from the others, he was magnetic in a way that pulled Kimi closer, and in the blink of an eye, Antonelli was sat in front of the other boy. Staring. He seemed way too familiar in his red-yellow hoodie.
The one in front of Kimi took a while to notice him just blatantly analyzing every inch of his face as if not planning on forgetting it for a while. Antonelli’s eyes were wide at this point, like a mesmerized kitty. The stranger looked up, tilting his head and furrowing his brows.
“Do you need something?”
The guy said it in a British accent that made Kimi shiver and he folded like a little bitch. Antonelli blinked once, twice, thrice. That was Oliver Bearman. Right in front of him. No pretty media smiles or soft voice for the reporters. He was just staring back, annoyed.
Kimi felt his face heating up, he was probably red at this point. His skin prickled all over, he had pins and needles from head-to-toe. It all went up by a million when he noticed that Oliver analyzed him too.
Oliver’s squinted eyes roamed over Kimi’s face with masterclass precision, a small smirk forming at the corner of his pink lips. It seemed like he was enjoying this a bit too much. — Kimi wasn’t like this. Not at all. He never got nervous, but now look at him, shaking and quiet as the Oliver Bearman stared at him waiting for an answer.
“I—No, ahem… I, well.. Woman said… busy Café… Needed sit here… Waiting for drink, uh.. I..” What the fuck are you saying, Andrea?
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
“It’s, uh..”
Oliver inched closer with his head still tilted and a growing smile on his face. He knew Kimi. He definitely knew. He had one elbow on the table now, holding his chin as he fixated those glowing eyes on Andrea. The air was so tense, and Antonelli was sweating more than he did at the workout with Sergi.
“I—”
“You’re… Kimi Antonelli, right?” Bearman interrupted Kimi.
“Mhm, yeah!”
Another question to the growing pile. Oliver whispered Kimi’s name — probably to avoid more attention — and Antonelli’s brain just… Short-circuited. Kimi forced a smile and nodded. The small phrase he breathed out came so nervous that it seemed like he was tearing his vocal chords apart and rearranging them in real time.
“Well. That’s nice, uh, I’m—”
“Oliver Bearman! James.. Bearman. Yeah, you drive for McLaren. I’ve seen you race. Nice P3 yesterday. ”
“Oh. Oh, yeah, that’s… Cool. Well, thank you…?”
Kimi hated Oliver. So why was he acting like this? Like a little fangirl with her idol right in front of her? — He didn’t know what to say, they kept staring at each other. Andrea opened his mouth to say something that eased the mood, but after what felt like a lifetime, someone screamed “Latte macchiato for An-tony!”
His mouth closed in a second. Lips pressed flat as he furrowed his brows and looked behind him.
“Look, that’s your cue, An-tony.” Oliver huffed a laugh out.
“Hey! Do not call me that.”
“Go grab the drink already.”
“I won’t do it just because you asked me to. Dio mio…”
Kimi stood up anyway, a tiny smile on his lips as he walked over the counter, grabbing the cup and coming back to the table. Andrea could feel Oliver’s gaze as he went and came back, it lit up a fire inside him, he needed to prove he was better on and off the track. Whether it was better jokes or better presence.
He sat more comfortably now, legs slightly spread under the tabletop. The sweating had passed, probably because he had coffee to drink and ignore the world rather than his own saliva he’d ran out of five times already..
“Feeling at home, huh?”
“A little.”
“Well, so, how’s your season going? Mine’s been great.”
Kimi talked a lot when he was nervous. In a matter of minutes, he’d gone through three topics with Oliver. Until there wasn’t really anything more to talk about. Silence settled in, Antonelli gulped. Weirdly quiet for such a busy café. It felt like the walls were closing as he and Bearman just… stared at each other.
“So, what happened for you to get P11 yesterday?” Oliver broke the ice.
“Oh, you did watch my race! How would you know that I got P11?!”
“I raced with you on that same track and got a podium, Antonelli.”
“Oh.. Yeah. Uhm, about the P11… Just a bad strategy, really. (blah-blah-blah…) Didn’t manage the tyres good enough and we had three pit-stops that didn’t make much sense. (blah-blah-proper-name-backstory-stuff…) Better luck next time, I guess..?”
Oliver hadn’t paid entire attention to him. It tied a knot inside Kimi’s stomach, made him feel just something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Bearman’s gaze was locked and steady on Kimi’s eyes. He didn’t interrupt — which was good! —, but the way he observed was just… interesting. When Antonelli finished his ramble, the other driver just chuckled.
“Are you usually this boring? Or do you never look at who’s talking?” Andrea asked, squinting his eyes. His voice lowered as he talked, for dramatic effect.
“Rude. And I’m looking at you.” Oliver snickered.
“I’m being serious, Oliver. What was I talking about?”
“Oh!— Uh, your… Your P11? Your—! Your….” Oliver started waving his hands in the air while having a full-on giggle fit now. Ollie’s eyes crinkled at the sides. His hands were sprawled against the table, holding himself from laughing.
“You weren’t paying attention! I knew it! I just felt it!”
“No, no! I didn’t—… You talk a lot! You’ve been jumping around and talking like a parrot!! I can’t keep up!”
“I were?”
“Yeah.”
Kimi chuckled as he took the last sip from his cup.
Oliver smiled and looked at his watch. He opened his mouth, stopped for a second and closed it again. His face fell just a fraction, but Antonelli was looking just enough to notice it.
“Oh. I need to go. Had a meeting scheduled.”
“Oh.. So, see you, mate.” Kimi’s voice was unconsciously quieter now.
“Inviting me for another date, already.” Oliver said, already turning around and sliding out his chair. “Well, well, Mercedes boy. I’ll see you in Jeddah..?”
“Sure! I’ll find you there. And don’t call me Mercedes boy.”
Kimi stared at Oliver as he walked out the door. The bell jingled, reminding Antonelli he had to go back to his hotel too.
The walk home was weird. Andrea’s mind kept reeling back. It was not normal to just… Have a coffee with your rival. His body was short-circuiting every system as he went.
Kimi had came back to his suite in about thirty minutes. He didn’t even notice how he downed a whole cup of coffee without paying attention to it. His head was stuck to replaying Oliver’s face, smile, giggles… It was so… weird. — The thought! Not Ollie!!! — Kimi wasn’t used to having someone new in his life. And definitely not the new rookie he swore to hate every inch of.
The rest of his afternoon was just staying at home, playing Mario Kart alone and staring out the balcony of his hotel suite. It had quite a nice view, if he was being honest. There were tiny plants in vases on the balcony, and a beanbag he thinks wasn’t supposed to be there, but just became part of the room. Gave something to sit on while people-watching.
His evening was just Kimi studying himself. Lap times, what he did and didn’t do right on his past few races, and whatnot. He’d decided it was enough of doing nothing, taking the initiative of actually talking to someone.
Kimi (sent 08:07 P.M.)
met oliver today. he's just as boring as on TV.
(read 08:11 P.M.)
grandpa Russell (sent 08:11 P.M.)
Come on, Kimi. Give the boy one chance.
(read 08:11 P.M.)
He's really nice, isn't he?
(read 08:11 P.M.)
Kimi (sent 08:12 P.M.)
no! he's not!!
(read 08:12 P.M.)
grandpa Russell (sent 08:13 P.M.)
Kimi, if i hated every guy that outperformed me as a rookie, i'd be so fucked.
(read 08:13 P.M.)
You should separate the driver from the person sometimes. Still tired from all the partying you missed so don't call or text, I won't see it.
(read 08:13 P.M.)
Kimi (sent 08:13 P.M.)
i hate you so much
(delivered 08:13 P.M.)
George was right. Kimi should know how to differentiate the driver Ollie and person Ollie, but he didn’t want to. Not yet.
He was already tucked into bed, so, rolling to his side with phone in hand, Antonelli opened Instagram. He searched for the McLaren account, checking the bio and clicking on the first user mentioned.
@ollie.bearman
Kimi scrolled through Oliver’s posts, he needed to know more about his enemy. His fingers roamed until they were sore. He memorized captions like Lap Times. Posts like WDCs. A specific picture of shirtless Oliver like his personal trophy. Until he reached the bottom.
Andrea tried to descend even further, his finger slipping on the like button. Shit.
He had just liked Oliver’s first ever post.
Is this stalking?
In panic, Kimi clicked it once again. And twice again. Two likes, and now trembling out of nervousness. Kimi decided to turn his phone face-down. He should just throw it far away. Add another sleepless night to the count? I guess so.