Chapter Text
As soon as Mercedes released him, Kimi was off to find Ollie. He’d been wanting to do it since the moment he stepped out of the car, honestly, but there had been so many obligations beforehand. The cooldown room, podium, press conferences, media pen, team meetings; all the things that had begun to feel designed just to keep Kimi away from Ollie. He enjoyed them, of course—being on a Formula 1 podium was never not thrilling, and jumping into the Monaco harbor was an incredible memory—but he wanted Ollie. He always did.
All of the Haas people turned a blind eye on Kimi’s antics by now, but he still had to be cautious when sneaking into the garage—people were always watching, especially when you were the race winner at a packed, historic circuit like Monaco. He slipped through one of the side doors, careful not to be seen by the outside world, and then relaxed behind the closed doors of the Haas garage. He steered clear of the actual car and mechanics areas, not wanting to be accused of stealing data, instead sticking to the hospitality routes as he made his way to Ollie’s driver’s room. As had become the norm, people in black and red team kits nodded or waved in passing, making no attempt to stop him. Sometimes, Ollie would come to the Mercedes hub, but there were a lot more cameras on the WCC leading garage than one in the midfield, so it was easier to go under the radar here.
Also, Kimi wasn’t the kind of person who waited for something—or someone—to come to him, which was what had gotten him where he was in the racing world.
Finally, he found Ollie’s room and knocked on the door, a special combination of raps that they’d made up back in Italy. There was no response, so he gently pushed the door open, thinking Ollie might have fallen asleep on the cot. When Kimi got inside, though, he quickly shut the door behind him.
Ollie was sitting on the floor against the far wall, his knees pulled up to his chest and his headphones on. He had his eyes closed, but not peacefully—instead, he looked like he was trying not to fall apart. Kimi gingerly walked over to him and sat in front of him, careful not to spook him. “Amore mio,” Kimi said softly, reaching out to thread his fingers through Ollie’s. Finally, Ollie opened his eyes and smiled when he saw Kimi next to him.
Kimi didn’t think that was fake—Ollie always smiled at him—but he could tell Ollie wasn’t happy. The race had been, as Ollie had put it to the press, a disappointing result, and all of the media they were forced to do after didn’t make those any easier to swallow. Kimi knew from experience that the last thing he wanted to do after a DNF was talk about it, which was exactly what he was made to do.
Ollie’s eyes were slightly puffy, and his cheeks were flushed. He was beautiful, so beautiful, but seeing him dejected like this made Kimi’s heart clench. He reached up and brushed thumb along the pinkness on Ollie’s cheek, his touch light against the skin. Ollie took off his headphones, sighed, and squeezed Kimi’s hand.
“Hi, baby,” Ollie said gently. He leaned forward until he and Kimi were pressed against each other and wrapped his hands around Kimi’s back, tucking his chin into Kimi’s shoulder. They’d dapped each other up in the paddock—something quick and “bro-like” for Getty Images—but Kimi hadn’t gotten to just be with Ollie all afternoon. He didn’t care too much about what they were doing; he just liked to be near Ollie, whether that was touching him or breathing with him or just existing alongside him.
“Are you okay?” Kimi asked as they pulled back, meeting Ollie’s eyes. Ollie nodded, running a hand through his curls, which had become slightly poofy from the helmet and balaclava. The nod conveyed so much in a single movement, a language that they’d built over years of knowing each other. I’m not happy with myself; but I’m happy for you; and I’m happy you’re here; so yes, I’m okay.
“Yeah. Just”—Ollie exhaled sharply—“dissappointed, I guess. I feel like I could have done more. The team got points, you know, so they’re not too upset, but…” he trailed off, then leaned forward and pressed his head into Kimi’s chest; Kimi slid a hand into Ollie’s curls and carded through them, his nails scratching at Ollie’s scalp. “God, baby, I’m so sorry. We shouldn’t be talking about me right now.”
“It’s okay, amore mio,” Kimi said softly. He was just happy to be there.
“No.” Ollie sat up and moved closer to Kimi so their legs were intertwined in a jumble between them. He put one hand on Kimi’s waist and perched the other on Kimi’s jaw. “You,” Ollie whispered, the word hot on Kimi’s face, “are fucking incredible. Five wins in a row?”
Then, Ollie leaned in and kissed Kimi. Kimi’s hands came up to Ollie’s neck, to the collar of the team polo he’d changed into, and they slotted together, skin against skin. Ollie could taste the champagne on Kimi’s lips, and he smelled like citrus and ocean salt and Kimi.
Kimi finally pulled away for air, his lips slightly bruised and the ghost of a smile on his lips. “We can’t,” he murmured quietly into the pocket of heat between them, “what if Esteban came in?”
Ollie rolled his eyes. “Esteban probably knows you’re here, baby. He knows better than that.”
Kimi hummed. “Ah, but I want to do this properly. Can we go out tonight?”
Usually, the nights after races were lost to the unending cycle of Formula 1—hotel rooms, airports, Ubers cutting through the murky dark of a foreign country. The goal was to get to the next step as quickly as possible, which meant that there wasn’t much opportunity to celebrate a good result the night of. Here in Monaco, though, there wasn’t any hassle; Kimi was right where he needed to be to do exactly what he wanted, and he’d be able to sleep in his own bed at the end of it.
“Sure, baby,” Ollie whispered back, smiling now. “Whatever you want.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next morning, Kimi woke up to bright sunlight seeping through his thin curtains. He blinked sleepily and ran a hand through his hair, yawning. He and Ollie had gotten back late last night, and it had been a tiring weekend in general, so he wasn’t too eager to get up. Instead, he glanced over to Ollie’s side of the bed.
It was empty, and—when Kimi ran a curious hand across the sheet—cold. The duvet was folded over itself, the pillow was slightly creased, and there was a half-empty cup of water on the bedside table, all signs of Ollie’s presence. He had slept there, Kimi was sure of that; he could still smell traces of Ollie’s cologne lingering on the sheet, and besides, he remembered cuddling before they’d fallen asleep. He’d been buzzed, sure, but Ollie had been there—and, sometime while Kimi was sleeping, Ollie had left.
Ollie never left. Most days, he liked to sleep later than Kimi, and when he did wake up earlier, he would sit in bed on his phone. He was never gone.
Kimi blinked, taking a deep breath. Maybe Ollie was just in the bathroom, or making breakfast. He wouldn’t have left.
But when Kimi glanced back at the bedside table, his eyes narrowed, Ollie’s phone was gone, and his charger with it. His watch, which Kimi remembered him taking off the night before, was gone. And—
Kimi’s heart dropped to his stomach.
Ollie’s bracelet, the one Kimi absolutely did not remember him taking off the night before, was lying on the table, the engraved silver plaque face-up. Ollie had taken his sponsored fucking watch but left his bracelet behind, which felt nothing but purposeful.
Kimi felt a hot sting in his eyes, and he tried not to cry. He rapidly tried to reason with himself—Ollie had just forgotten it, Ollie had just zipped back to his own apartment to grab something, whatever—but his anxiety refused to settle. His mind flashed to Ollie’s deflated posture the night before, to the way he’d been staring at the floor in his driver’s room, and something twisted in Kimi’s stomach. He’d thought he’d done a good job cheering Ollie up, hoped that Ollie wouldn’t resent him for the way things shook out, but he also wasn’t naive enough to think there wasn’t a distance there. There was a distance between first and twentieth; a distance between their Formula 1 experiences; a distance between their perspectives. As much as he hadn’t meant it, Kimi had hurt Ollie, and Ollie had left.
Fuck, Kimi was crying now. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and he blindly reached for it.
The screen was exploding. There were notifications from WhatsApp, Twitter, Instagram—even his fucking Facebook profile, which Mercedes had set up for him. The tears blurred his vision as he frantically scanned his home page, trying to find out what the fuck had happened. He assumed—and, frankly, feared—that it was something to do with George and Max, unless Lewis was switching teams again.
But Kimi couldn’t get anywhere; before he could even read a message, a new one would pop up on his screen. It made him feel sick with sour anticipation, and he could feel his heart pounding against his chest, almost in rhythm with the notifications. Something was wrong, and Ollie wasn’t there, and Kimi couldn’t even find out what because his eyes were full of fucking tears.
Ba-dum.
Ping!
Ba-dum.
Ping!
Ba-dum.
Ping!
Kimi threw his phone onto the bed and pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, forcing his breathing to slow. He started counting down from twenty in German, which he’d briefly studied in school—it required focusing on the numbers and the language, and by the time he got to eins, he could actually think. Slowly, he reached out for his phone and unlocked it, skipping the melee of the lock screen altogether. Instead, he navigated to WhatsApp and looked at the messages from his mum, which seemed like a palatable enough place to start. They’d texted after the race last night, but there were new notifications since then from earlier that morning.
Hello, my love. I’m so sorry about everything that’s happened. Dad and I are sending you and Ollie our love and support. Call if you need anything.
Kimi was immediately confused. What had happened? And why was she bringing Ollie into it?
She could have been talking about the race, but she wouldn’t have been sorry that Kimi had won, even if Ollie hadn’t finished. Veronica loved Ollie; she just loved Kimi more.
He left the thread without replying. A new message from an old high school groupchat, which had been collecting dust since Kimi graduated, popped up—yo kimi is this really you and a link—and something compelled Kimi to click on it.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The link led to a Twitter post timestamped 1:28 a.m., Monaco time. It was a photo formally captioned Kimi Antonelli and Oliver Bearman in Monaco last night.
Kimi and Ollie, with the dark wrapped around them, kissing each other. They were illuminated by a streetlamp to the left of the frame, Kimi against a brick wall and Ollie in front of him. Kimi’s hands around Ollie’s waist; Ollie’s hands on Kimi’s jaw and in his hair; their bodies pressed together in the dimness. Kissing in the street in public like fucking idiots.
Kimi remembered this moment. He remembered the champagne bubbles on his tongue, Ollie’s lips against his, the solid feeling of the wall against his back and Ollie’s warmth in front of him, Ollie’s hands on him, keeping him safe and steady. He didn’t remember exactly where they were, or what time it was, or who was around. He just remembered Ollie.
And, apparently, someone else remembered the moment too.
Kimi threw his phone down a second time. His heart was pounding again, faster than it had been during the race, and all of the progress he’d made calming himself down went to shit. He felt like he was choking on his thoughts as they blistered in his mind.
Everyone knew. Everyone fucking knew, and they’d never forget, and he’d never be Kimi Antonelli again. He’d never be Kimi Antonelli, Formula 1 rookie again. He might never even be Kimi Antonelli, championship leader again. He was Kimi Antonelli, gay driver now. The one who was dating another driver. The one who had to go and throw away everything he’d worked for for years.
It hit him in the face.
His nights never belonged to him. They belonged to racing, and to travel, and to the press; none of the nights belonged to him, or to Ollie, or to anyone else on the grid. His trophies, the replicas he had on his shelf that glistened in the sunlight—those belonged to him. He’d earned those. But Formula 1 had taken so much in return, and now his life was infected with it. For all the winning he was doing, Kimi was losing, too. Losing his youth; losing his privacy; and, worst of all, losing Ollie.
Ollie, who probably hadn’t left because of the race. He’d probably woken up, seen everything online, and gotten the hell out of dodge because he didn’t want to be Ollie Bearman, gay driver. He’d probably left because he didn’t want to have to be the one who was dating another driver. He’d probably left because he hated Kimi and everything Kimi was and how hard Kimi had made his life.