Chapter Text
“Ciao,” breathes Kimi, entranced, a small smile spreading across his surprisingly timid face when the door swings open and he gets an eyeful of what has been the subject of his thoughts for the past months.
He’s finally, actually here. In the flesh, in front of him.
He’s quite a bit taller, too; the height difference is immediately very noticeable.
“Hi,” comes the smile back from Ollie, just as timid, as he fidgets with his phone in his hands.
Kimi’s immediately caught off guard by just how… pretty Oliver is. He’s seen him before, of course, in photos and at the meet and greet - but this is different.
At the meet and greet, he was desperately avoiding eye contact at all costs, scared of being found out. Now, he can freely rake his eyes over Ollie’s body and face without worrying about that trivial matter.
Suddenly, the Italian realises they’re still standing in the doorway. “Oh— come in.”
Quietly, he shuffles back to allow the Brit in. When he stops in his tracks, unsure of where to go, Kimi presses a gentle hand to the small of his back, guiding him further into the main room.
When he sees the sheer size of the room, Ollie’s jaw drops. “Mate,” he gapes, “this is so fancy!”
“Thanks,” Kimi says, smiling as he watches the other boy take a running leap and jump onto the massive bed - almost sinking into it. Even Ollie’s height is no match for it.
“Have you had dinner?” he asks, unsure how to keep the conversation flowing. “I would usually just have chicken and rice, but i don’t really feel like that right now, so if you promise to not tell my trainer then we can just order something from room service?”
There’s a muffled, contented sigh from within the pile of pillows and rumpled duvet, before Ollie’s limp body shuffles slightly to be heard.
“I think I had, like, a hotdog earlier and that was it. So yeah, can we please?” comes the enveloped voice. “This is so fucking comfortable, I love luxury. I feel like the princess from the princess and the pea, only if there was no pea..” he trails off in a giggle.
Kimi snorts. “Whatever you say. Would you feel like sushi?”
A hum of agreement from the middle of the bed. “No fish though, that's gross. Chicken only, I hate fish so much.”
“Yeah, I know,” the Italian finds himself saying before he can stop himself, in turn prompting the tall lump that is Oliver to finally sit up. “What? You know that?”
“Eh, I think maybe you mentioned it on a call once or twice,” Kimi says weakly, and he can most definitely feel his cheeks beginning to heat up as he takes a seat on the couch. “Do you want to play something maybe? I brought my Xbox. Or we could watch a movie.”
Delighted, Ollie stands up. “Do you have FIFA? I’ll actually smoke you this time I swear, no joke.”
“Yeah, can you set it up? I’ll order the food.” he replies absentmindedly, picking up the hotel's phone to dial room service.
Once the Xbox has been connected to the tv, FIFA is opened quickly, Ollie definitely a regular of the game, before Kimi finds himself with watchful eyes on him as he speaks. It’s a little unnerving.
“Hello? Yeah, um, can I please get the sushi? Two of the chicken katsu ones, please.. No, no fish… okay, thank you… no problem, have a good day. Ciao,” he finishes, hanging up. “Half an hour wait.”
Scarily, a wicked grin awaits him, Ollie’s eyes lighting up. “Ready to play me then?”
Kimi raises an eyebrow as he walks over, taking his seat on the couch next to the Brit. “you’re all talk, mate. Twenty nil in my favour by the end of the first half, just wait and see.”
A giggle comes from Ollie’s mouth, and Kimi eases up a little from his previously tense stature. “Confidence, I like that. But this is a game of pure skill, which I have lots of…” he says, pausing briefly. “By that, I mean I bet my little cousin at it a couple of times.”
Quickly, he moves the buttons on his controller to select the teams. “You know which team I play with?” he asks.
“Ummm,” says Kimi helpfully, wracking his brain for answers. Didn’t he say once— “You like Tottenham, yes?”
Ollie looks absolutely delighted at the fact Kimi remembers something about him. He really doesn’t know how much. “You go for Barcelona, yeah?” he says, grabbing the other boy's controller to get him his team.
Swallowing, Kimi leans back a little and folds his arms tightly. “Sì. I will also win with them,” he says confidently, side eyeing the Brit.
Olle laughs, and they begin the match.
Ollie wins the first two games. Kimi begs for a third, a chance at redemption. As the game goes on, their methods to stay ahead grow less and less civil.
Everything ends up happening before they are even given time to process it, really. One minute, Ollie is comfortably leading the match two nil. The next, Kimi’s caught up — it’s two one now. All he needs to do is equalise the score.
He’s almost there. He thinks he must have caught the other boy off guard, finally! He’s just about at the goal, and he’s currently dodging past the Spurs’ defence with surprising ease— is Ollie even trying to—
All of a sudden, and just before Kimi’s about to score, the taller boy lunges at him. He lets out a surprised squeak as his controller is suddenly being tugged out of his hands.
“No! I almost there, Ollie! No, stop!” he squeals, as the boy in question grins as he keeps trying to mess with the buttons, tugging the controller away.
He’s not going to give up his only chance at victory without a fight. He’s a racing driver, it’s what Kimi does. He tugs the controller back in his direction, wriggling and kicking in his seat in an attempt to get free.
Suddenly, Ollie heaves, and they both tumble onto the floor with the taller boy somehow holding himself above Kimi.
Before Ollie can realise fully what's happening, the Italian shoves him to the side — putting those racing driver reflexes to good use — and rolls them, so he is now the one on top. “Che palle,” he mutters, “I was almost scoring!” What balls.
The boy beneath him giggles, and Kimi spares himself a glance. He notes Ollie is breathing heavily, his chest heaving as his lungs work to return the air to his body. “I had to stop you equalising,” he giggles breathlessly.
He’s struggling for breath, whereas Kimi himself isn’t, used to physical work under durance. Ollie’s cheeks are flushed slightly, his hair partially mussed up from the activity.
Suddenly, they both become somehow very aware of the extremely awkward and telling position they have ended up in.
Just as Kimi begins to contemplate life, he’s saved by a knock on the door - it’s room service. Thank fuck for room service.
“I should get the food,” he breathes, rolling off of Ollie.
When he’s back with the sushi, they settle on the bed, having decided that was enough FIFA for one night. They instead argue over what movie to put on for a bit, before deciding on The Hangover — a classic.
It’s a movie Kimi loves dearly, having rewatched it several times, and yet he finds it extremely difficult to focus on the screen when all he’s wanted since god knows when is sitting mere centimetres away, and clearly growing sleepier by the second.
It’s probably a type of day Ollie’s not really used to. Kimi has been doing this his entire life - travelling the globe for the better part of the year, dedicating his weekends to putting in long hours at the track. The Brit, however, has probably only left the UK a handful of times, and the Italian knows for a fact this is his first race weekend.
In the back of his head, a small voice begins to say he will get used to it soon.
That startles him a little.
Huh.
When the movie is over, the Italian doesn’t even notice until Oliver stifles a yawn, stretches and says, “I should probably get going soon.”
There’s a pang of disappointment in Kimis chest, but he knows it’s true. “I would offer you to stay here, but i don't really want to explain having a boy in my bed in my hotel room to my trainer..”
That prompts a laugh from the taller boy, and butterflies surface in Kimi’s stomach.
This is so stupid. He’s a Formula One driver, built to thrive under pressure, and yet he’s freaking out the second he has a boy in his hotel room.
But it’s not any boy, so he thinks he can probably be excused.
“Wait,” he blurts when Ollie rises sleepily, presumably to leave. He perks up.
He’s remembered something. “I- I, uh, I have something for you,” Kimi says, reaching across to his backpack, blushing lightly as he rummages through. Eventually, he pulls the offending item out and brandishes it at the boy ahead of him.
It’s quiet for a moment - too quiet almost, and Kimi is beginning to worry he’s crossed a line when-
Ollie’s mouth opens and closes like a goldfish for a few seconds at the presentation, trying to find his ability to speak again. “Paddock passes?!” he squeals, grabbing Kimi’s hands and shaking them up and down excitedly.
The Mercedes driver grins, relieved the idea is a hit. He doesn't really know what he was afraid of. He’d been planning this all weekend, giving them to Ollie the second he got here; but stage fright had gotten the best of him.
Oh, well. It’s done now.
“I’ll meet you there tomorrow and take you with me to the garage?” he asks.
A frantic nod in response, “Of course, I'd love that so much Kimi,” accompanied by a soft grin that makes the Italian want to die on the spot from how much he wants to kiss those lips.
He smiles back, hoping his emotions don’t shine through onto his face. “Probably not the smartest idea to wear a Ferrari shirt though, eh?”
With the parting gift of instructions of how to get down to the lobby again, Ollie’s out the door. Even when the Brit is gone, Kimi’s butterflies barely subside; his entire mind is consumed with thoughts of that hair and height, and those eyes and lips.
When there’s a twitch in his pants at the thought of Ollie’s hands, Kimi knows he needs to sleep or else something will happen he might regret.
-
12 July, 2025
The next day, Kimi makes sure to comb through his curls thoroughly before he leaves, apply lip balm, and spray the perfect amount of cologne. He even washes his face better than the usual once over, making sure there aren’t any remnants of sleep remaining.
He doesn’t really know why he’s trying so hard — It’s just Ollie. This is the same guy he’s drunk texted and called a million times, been left drunk voicemails by, and has been telling every little detail about himself and his day to day life - bar, Kimi supposes making him aware of his exact career path. Oops.
Anyway, if they made it over that little hurdle, Kimi knows he’ll be his friend. Hopefully, maybe even more than that at some point. Kimi would really like it if his — feelings were reciprocated.
Maybe he’s just a little stupid, insane even for hoping that, but Ollie has literally sent him edits thirsting over his post race self before. He’s called him gorgeous on multiple occasions, called his face card ‘lethal’ before. So maybe…?
Before entering the paddock, he waits in his rental Mercedes to give himself a pep talk. Eventually deems himself ready after looking at the time, accepts his fate as he enters. After making it past the gaggle of photographers and fans looking for a photo or signature, he finally draws closer to the front of hospitality, where he had agreed to meet Ollie.
He’s a little confused, to put it lightly, to see a perplexed looking Oliver Bearman in conversation with the one and only Charles Leclerc.
When Charles sees him approaching, he pats Ollie on the shoulder, waves at Kimi, winks at them both (badly, in classic Charles fashion), and walks off towards Ferrari.
“He just came up to me and was like, I know you, you’re the one I signed the shirt for for Kimi!” says Ollie as he jogs up to Kimi, clearly bewildered as he speaks at a much faster than average pace. Being casually recognised by Charles Leclerc often has that effect on people, Kimi muses.
He’d forgotten that had happened, the whole ordeal forcing Charles to sign a shirt for Ollie, and after questioning having to admit it was for some random British boy he’d never even met that he’s kind of in love with and not his baby tifosi cousin or something.
Dignity scraps were few and far between for Kimi that day. But it was all worth it when he heard Ollie’s reaction over the phone; pure, undulated excitement.
He smiles timidly at the Brit. “Oh? He.. knew you?”
Of course he knew him. He’d seen Kimi gush over the rare selfies he got sent on many, many occasions.
“He also said- uh, nevermind,” Olie says, suddenly looking extremely sheepish.
“What else?” Kimi frowns, wracking his brains for anything he could have said to Charles about the boy. Oh, God.
For a second, it looks like he’s struggling for words. With what comes next, he’s excused.
“He said we make a really nice couple, and he’s glad we worked it out because the Ferrari people were getting confused every time you went to see him to cry about me.”
Oh.
Oh.
“..Scusi?” Kimi says, blinking rapidly, a sinking feeling rapidly appearing in his chest. Oh, Mio Dio, Charles has only gone and spilled all of his secrets. Ollie wasn’t supposed to know he kept crying about everything!
“I-,” Ollie’s blushing. He’s blushing, and Kimi is sent straight into panic mode, his cheeks likely painted a similar shade currently. He’s on high alert.
“Yeah.. I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, I probably wasn’t supposed to know about the whole crying thing…?”
Weighing up his options, the shorter of the two sighs. “Yeah, I mean, it was kind of rough, but. It was my fault in the first place, it’s okay. Poor Charles, though, had to sit through quite a few talks since I didn't tell many people about you.”
Lightly, he presses a hand around Ollie’s waist, beginning to steer them towards the Mercedes hospitality finally. “Well.. Anyway, what are you wearing!?” he says, desperate to change the topic of conversation, anything to stop wearing his heart on his sleeve for just a few seconds.
Ollie frowns. “Sorry.. You said it wouldn’t be the smartest idea to wear my Ferrari shirt here, but I know this isn’t, like, designer or anything.”
“No, wait, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. But- ok, follow me. I just have something better for you.”
They speed through the area, with hurried ‘hi’s’ called by employees at every turn; The befuddled Ollie hanging onto his Kimi’s hand, eventually reaching the latters driver's room, where he makes a beeline for the shelf of clothing at the back.
“Here,” he says hastily, brandishing a Mercedes shirt with the number twelve on the back. “Wear this instead, it’s mine but im not using it right now, is a spare.”
A smile from the Brit. “Are you serious? I could kiss you, oh my god,” he says, and with a nod, he’s pulling off his plain shirt to exchange it for the branded one.
Kimi’s suddenly very interested in his hands, and then the wall when Ollie actually decides to take the time to fold his shirt up for some reason before putting on the new one.
Holyfuckholyfuckholyfuck, is the inner narrative in the Italians' head currently.
“Keep it, I’ve got loads,” he mumbles, and the grin lighting up on the other boy's face is eventually contagious.
“Yeah? I can keep it?” he asks softly, suddenly oh so close, drawing Kimi’s eyes to his chest where there’s a small number twelve embedded amongst all of the sponsor logos.
“Yeah,” he breathes, barely keeping a hold on himself amidst the realisation that oh, Ollie wearing his number does something to him.
That’s something to unpack later.
His eyes flick between Ollie’s own, and his sweet lips. The brunet's breath catches in his throat once he realises the other boy is doing the same thing.
Surely…?
All of a sudden, the door bursts open to reveal Sergi, Kimi’s trainer, strolling in. “Hey, you in here? I was hoping to- oh,” he stops dead in his tracks, the sight of two teenage boys standing so close together a little unnerving at best.
Immediately, the moment is broken, and the two step back, embarrassed.
“Uh, I’ll come back,” he says, clearly sorry for interrupting whatever was going on, but it’s too late.
-
For most of the day, Kimi deposits Ollie in hospitality. He profusely apologises, uneager to leave, but Formula One waits for no man.
During free practice and qualifying, he’s taken to and from the garage by a nice lady kitted in Mercedes gear head to toe, whom Ollie assumes is a logistics officer or something of the sort.
He’s left sitting next to Carmen Mundt during qualifying, whom he knows to be Russell’s girlfriend. Internally, the boy is trying his best not to freak out at maybe possibly being classified as Kimi’s WAG - or, would it be HAB?
Distantly, he remembers a clip of Alex Albon saying something along those lines. Huh.
When his - HAB, tops the timing sheet in Q1, he squeals, and Carmen gives him a fond, knowing glance. He grins timidly.
When Leclerc takes away P1 a second later, Ollie’s not sure how to feel. He loves them both.
By Q2, the garage is on the edge of their seats after George was nearly knocked out in Q1. Luckily, he managed to find a time.
Q3 has both Carmen and Ollie out of their seats as it turns into a RUS — ANT 1-2. For all of his efforts of sitting there and looking like a happy golden retriever, he gets the life squeezed out of him in a hug by his new best friend (apparently) Carmen, who has already questioned if he will be making appearances at any more races since “you’re such a nice couple, it’s so nice to see Kimi have someone here finally, he’s mostly been all by himself.”
Kimi is positively glowing on the TV screen during the top three interviews, and it’s exactly the same when he tugs Ollie through the garage and back to his drivers room after impatiently going through the motions with the media and his engineers, sending desperate looks to his boy the whole time he’s stuck in the garage.
“Someone’s excited,” Ollie laughs, as he’s pushed through the door by a hasty Kimi. Before he has time to blink, the door is shut and he’s somehow being pressed against it.
“Wha-” he begins, but he’s cut off when urgent, needy lips are pressed against his own.