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In hindsight, it was silly.
But to be fair, it’s part of his charm. The public likes him the way he is. He has always been the happy-go-lucky prodigy, radiating a relentless can-do attitude, an absolute dear to the media and the mechanics alike.
If anything, Toto Wolff couldn’t possibly employ someone like him, pluck him from the junior categories, mold him into the face of Mercedes, and expect him not to be at least a little whimsical.
You buy a beagle, you can’t blame it for wagging its tail when it gets excited.
Only, this wasn't a tail wag. This was a globally broadcasted podium ceremony.
Kimi’s hand finds the zipper of his team jacket.
Zzzt. Up. Zzzt. Down.
The metallic whine is the only sound in the suffocatingly quiet hospitality suite, acting as a nervous metronome in the freezing, air-conditioned room. He pulls it up to his chin, then down to his collarbone.
Up. Down.
He takes a curious, careful glance at Rosa. His PR manager is sitting rigidly beside him, staring into the middle distance as if praying for a sinkhole to open up beneath the paddock and swallow them whole.
Her phone rests on the glass table between them, vibrating so violently and continuously against the surface that it looks like it’s having a seizure.
It had buzzed its way toward the edge until Rosa finally snapped out of her trance, swiped angrily at the screen to turn on Do Not Disturb, and shoved the tablet she was holding face-down onto her lap.
She let out a sigh that sounded suspiciously like a death rattle.
Kimi kicks his feet under the table, sneakers scuffing lightly against the plush grey carpet. His curls are still damp, heavy against his forehead. He had taken his time in the shower after the media pen, letting the scalding water cascade over his head until his fingertips went all pruny while the rest of the motorsport world was, apparently, catching fire.
He had lingered, hoping the extra time would let the storm blow over.
Okay. Maybe it was a lot silly.
But in his defense, in his defense-
The heavy door to the suite clicks open.
[Enters TOTO WOLFF, stage left, calm].
You see, if Toto had stormed in, slamming the door, yelling in rapid-fire, Austrian-accented English about corporate responsibility and brand image, Kimi would have known exactly what to do. He would have apologized profusely, stared contritely at the carpet, nodded aggressively, and waited for the tempest to pass.
Yelling Toto is predictable. Yelling Toto is pure, unfiltered passion for the sport and the team.
This is quiet Toto, and as anyone in Brackley will tell you, a quiet Toto is much, much worse.
Toto closes the door with a soft, definitive click that echoes in the silent room
He walks over to the head of the table, simply pulls out his chair, and sits, leaning back into the ergonomic mesh of the seat. He folds his palms together on his lap, his posture perfectly level. His expression is calm, unreadable, an absolute void of emotion.
Terrible. Kimi can’t read him at all.
And then, Toto speaks. His voice is smooth, devoid of heat, carrying the terrifying weight of a disappointed father and a team principal rolled into one.
"Can you tell me what led you to take such action, Kimi?"
How is Kimi supposed to explain it?
He tries to rewind the tape in his head, desperately searching for the exact millisecond his brain decided to short-circuit and bypass all logic.
To be fair, it’s not as terrible as some people are making it out to be. Really, it can’t constitute a kiss. It lasted two seconds! Up there on the podium, it was pure, unadulterated euphoria. It was like giving a kiss to a really good dog.
Except the dog was a British guy named Oliver Bearman. The person for whom Kimi has been harboring the biggest, fattest, most disgusting crush since long before their Formula 2 campaign. A crush so profound it occasionally makes his teeth ache.
Unimportant details, really.
“It was like giving a kiss to a really good dog, Toto,” he says weakly.
Next to him, he can hear Rosa’s breath hitch, letting out a small, choked sob while actively facepalming. She is muttering something rapid under her breath. It might be a prayer, it might be a hex, and maybe Kimi deserves it.
Toto leans back. “A really good dog,” he repeats.
Okay, when he says it like that, it makes Kimi sound dumb (he is).
Toto does not blink. He just stares. He takes a long, slow look at Kimi, the prodigy he had nurtured and protected and strapped into the fastest car on the grid, and lets out a heavy, soul weary sigh.
“Yes!” Kimi insists, he’s knee-deep in this shit anyway.
“Like when you see a good dog that does a good trick! Come on, Toto, bringing a Haas to a podium is more than a good trick!” he explains desperately, turning to Rosa seeking approval that he knows damn well he will not get.
"Kimi," Rosa says, her voice muffled through her fingers. "You grabbed the back of his neck."
"To steady him!" Kimi argues, his hands flying up in a defensive gesture. "He looked dizzy! He had just driven a tractor for two hours! And you know how affectionate I am! I hug Bono three times a day, you know that!”
Toto leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "I need you to understand something, Andrea.”
Kimi’s mouth clamps shut. He sinks into his seat. There goes his first government name.
“I am not angry that you are happy for your friend. I am not even angry about the... affection. But right now, my phone is ringing off the hook. Domenicali is calling. The sponsors are calling. Half the internet thinks you are making a mockery of the podium, and the other half-" Toto pauses, making a vague hand gesture that receives a very vigorous nod from Rosa.
"You are a phenomenally talented driver. You are the future of this team. When you put on that race suit and stand on that podium wearing the star on your chest, you represent Mercedes. You represent our corporate partners, our thousands of employees back at the factory, and a prestigious global brand."
Kimi shrinks a little further into his oversized team jacket. "I know."
"I appreciate passion," Toto continues, softening just a fraction, though the authoritative edge remains razor-sharp. "I appreciate that you are young, and that you feel things deeply. It is what makes you fast. But you must understand the weight of your actions on a global stage. Every gesture, every look, every... celebratory act... is magnified a million times over."
Kimi nods frantically, his damp curls bouncing. "I promise, Toto. It won't happen again. I completely lost my head. I’m sorry. I really am."
He is sorry about the public kiss, maybe.
But not about the underlying emotions he felt.
Because the reality of the situation was this: Oliver Bearman, driving a Haas that had spent the entire season behaving less like a Formula 1 car and more like an unpredictable tractor, had miraculously wrestled the machinery into P3. He had driven out of his skin, out of his own league, wringing the car by its neck, defending against the Papayas and the Prancing Horses for twenty grueling laps.
And Kimi, who had cruised to a dominant P1, had stood on the top step of the podium, looked down at Ollie standing on the third step, and completely lost his mind.
When Ollie accepted his trophy, looking utterly bewildered, drenched in sweat, his cheeks flushed and his golden hair sticking out in every direction, Kimi hadn't been able to stop himself.
The sheer, overwhelming pride of seeing Ollie there, knowing how hard he had fought, how much he deserved it, had short-circuited Kimi’s brain. Amidst the roar of the crowd and the flurry of confetti, Kimi had grabbed Ollie by his damp nape, fingers brushing the curls of his hair and the edge of his fireproofs, pulled him close, and planted a massive, triumphant smooch square on his lips.
On international television.
In front of hundreds of thousands of people in the grandstands.
In front of the entire F1 grid.
Kimi’s cheeks warm up.
"Has anyone spoken to Haas?" Toto asks, smoothly turning his gaze away from Kimi and toward Rosa.
Rosa sits up straighter, adjusting her glasses. "I spoke to Borrell. She said, well, Ayao said, and I quote, ‘no hard feelings.’ He’s actually laughing about it. They’re riding the PR wave. It’s the most screen time Haas has had all season." She shrugs.
Toto’s eye twitches. "Of course they are," he murmurs, a hint of dry resignation coloring his tone. He sighs, a long, controlled exhale, and leans back in his chair once more.
He looks back at Kimi, the intense, interrogative aura dissipating just enough to let Kimi breathe.
"You will not do an apology tour. That makes it a scandal. We do not do scandals over celebrations. You will smile, you will say you were overwhelmed by a fantastic result for yourself and a childhood friend, and you will immediately pivot back to the car's performance and the tire strategy."
Kimi nods so fast it hurts his neck. "Yes, Toto."
"And then, you are going to go back to your hotel room, you will rest, and you're not going to look at your phone."
"Yes, Toto."
Toto stares at him for another beat. "And Kimi?"
Kimi braces himself. "Yes?"
“No more kissing other drivers on the podium, please. If you must kiss someone, kiss the trophy.”
“Understood.”
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The walk to the van had been agonizing.
Rosa had firmly decided that Kimi was not to be perceived by human eyes until further notice. At the moment, he was a multi-million dollar asset to Mercedes, and a massive liability to his own dignity.
There was no walking down the paddock, no friendly waves or stops for signatures. Instead, he was marched through a labyrinth of service corridors and back alleys. Once they arrived at the idling, tinted V-Class van, he threw himself into the plush seat and let his head thunk against the window. He had his hat pulled down, saving whatever was left of him.
Rosa had personally made sure he arrived at his hotel room door.
She took one look at Kimi, perhaps noting how pathetic he looked, just sighed, and patted his shoulder. “Get some rest, Kimi.”
“I’m sorry for causing you trouble, Rosa. Genuinely,” he let out weakly. A futile attempt, perhaps, to apologize for causing her a massive, unwarranted workload.
The woman smiled sympathetically, shaking her head with equal amounts of fondness and exasperation. “The things you do to me, Kimi.”
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He takes a shower, again.
That shower at the motorhome was for washing off the sweat, the champagne, and the physical extortion of the race itself.
This shower is to wash away his sins.
He twists the dial until the water is scorching hot, stepping under the spray with a sharp hiss. He grabs the little paper-wrapped hotel soap bar, tears it open, and begins to scrub his face and his neck furiously.
Maggie always gives him shit about using bar soap on his face, swearing it ruins his skin barrier, something his 13 year old sister learned on TikTok. He doesn't get why. It is soap. It cleans things. Right now, he needs it to deep-clean his conscience. He tries to scrub the absolute shame off his skin, desperate to physically strip the embarrassment from his flesh and watch it swirl down the drain.
But the thick heat of the stall doesn't help. The steam rising up his nose only sharpens his memory, undoing the self-memory-wiping procedure and transporting him straight back to the moment an hour or so ago.
Bono’s voice had crackled in his memory, clear and steady in his earpiece over the deafening whine of the engine as he crossed the finish line.
"Mega drive, Kimi, that’s a P1. Well done. Verstappen P2, Bearman P3, and-"
He had stopped listening after that. Really, the rest of the grid could have been abducted by aliens for all he cared.
It had been a chaotic nightmare of a race. Five cars had been taken out, including George, which had abruptly piled the entire, crushing weight of Mercedes' weekend expectations onto Kimi's shoulders. He had driven the last twenty laps holding his breath, wrestling with degradation on the hard compounds, and praying to whatever motorsport gods would listen.
And then, Bono had said it. Bearman P3.
Standing under the scalding water, Kimi remembers the sheer, breathless disbelief that had bloomed in his chest.
Ollie. In a Haas. Surviving the absolute carnage of the midfield, defending against cars that had absolutely no business being behind him, and putting that unpredictable tractor on the podium.
Kimi remembers screaming and laughing into his team radio, an incoherent noise of pure joy that Bono had politely ignored.
By the time he had parked the W17 behind the number one board, his heart had been threatening to beat right out of his ribcage.
So really, when he thinks about it objectively while aggressively lathering his shoulders, his actions hadn't been that catastrophic.
Given the sheer magnitude of the euphoria in his veins since the cool down lap, Kimi decides he had actually behaved with a remarkable amount of professionalism. A quick, two second kiss was, frankly, polite.
Because if it had been without restraint?
He wouldn't have just grabbed Ollie’s nape. He would have launched himself off the top of the podium like a missile. He would have tackled Oliver squarely to the floorboards, knocked their heads together in his excitement, and rolled them both into the Pirelli sponsor and landed at the very feet of Toto Wolff.
Kimi nods to himself, squeezing his eyes shut as the hot water rinses the soap from his hair. Yes. Tackling Ollie to the floor would have been highly disrespectful to a three-time World Champion.
But then the specific piece of the incident comes to his mind, vivid and jarring.
Because after the two-second peck (which Kimi is sure not everyone got the correct angle of. He firmly believes they looked like two people talking too closely, it was so quick, he swears!) After the contact, Kimi remembers pulling back, the roar of the crowd suddenly deafening again, the metallic smell of the champagne sharp in his nose. And then, he had looked at Ollie’s face.
He had expected a laugh. A shove. A breathless, ‘What the hell, mate?’
Instead, Ollie had just stood there, frozen. His eyes had been blown so wide Kimi could see the whites all the way around his irises, looking less like a triumphant racing driver and more like a deer caught in the high beams of incoming traffic.
He had looked completely, utterly stunned. Confused. Breathless, maybe, but Kimi’s brain had been misfiring too violently to read the nuance.
It might have happened for a second or an hour, his brain couldn’t compute.
The sheer shock on Ollie’s face had been the bucket of ice water Kimi needed to snap out of his euphoria. Panic, cold and sharp, had seized him by the throat.
Oh God, what did I just do?
His immediate, instinctual defense mechanism had been to sever the connection entirely. He had dropped his hand from Ollie's neck like the fireproof fabric was made of molten lava. And sprayed his champagne up the man’s nose. Waterboarded him, essentially.
Kimi had actually caught Bono’s eye just over Oliver’s shoulder, and a very shocked, very dumbfounded, silent what the fuck? was communicated.
But the high of the celebration in the moment had swept it away. It was just a blur of champagne and music, hugs, and silent we’ll talk about this laters from Rosa and his team.
And from that second on, Kimi had made it his life’s mission not to look into those eyes again. He couldn't. If he had looked at Ollie, he would have had to process what he had just done, and if he had processed it on the podium, his knees would have buckled.
Which, of course, had made the mandatory FIA post-race press conference an exercise in psychological torture.
He rubs his skin furiously, lightheaded from the jasmine fumes and the steam he greedily inhales.
He remembers the frantic thirty seconds right before the press conference doors had opened. Rosa had practically pinned him against the wall of the corridor, her clipboard pressed flat against his chest.
“You will not blush. You will say it was the adrenaline of seeing your best friend on the podium, and then you will talk about the tire degradation. Do you understand me? Good mates. Tire degradation.”
He had nodded numbly, and then he had been shoved out into the blinding lights of the media center.
They had been seated on the plush chairs: Kimi in the middle, Max sprawling comfortably to his right, and Ollie to his left, sitting so rigidly he looked like he had been taxidermied.
It hadn’t even taken five minutes. Tom Clarkson had started with the standard questions about the race start and the safety car restart, but everyone in the room was just waiting for the elephant in the room to be addressed.
It had been a journalist from the floor, someone from a British tabloid, who finally took the shot.
“Kimi, massive congratulations on the win. A dominant drive. We couldn’t help but notice the... expressive gesture of celebration on the podium with Oliver. Was that planned, or just the heat of the moment?”
A ripple of low, expectant laughter had swept through the press corps. To Kimi's immediate right, Max Verstappen had let out a single, highly amused snort, picking up his Red Bull bottle to hide a massive grin.
Kimi’s brain had blue-screened. He remembers staring at the microphone in his hand as if it were a live grenade. He had felt Ollie freezing beside him, the silence stretching out for one agonizing second too long.
Rosa’s voice had echoed in his panicked mind. Good mates. Tire degradation.
“Ah. Yes,” Kimi had blurted out, leaning into the mic. His voice was entirely an octave too high. His free hand had been busy, rubbing his nape, adjusting his cap. “It was... very, yeah, heat of the moment. We have known each other since we were kids, basically, with F2 and all, so seeing him up there after... after defending so well on the hard compound..."
He had taken a desperate breath, completely derailing the sentence. "Because the thermal window on the hards today was extremely difficult to manage. The aero balance was optimal for us, but for Haas to keep the temperature in the rears without blistering, it was a massive achievement. So, yes. Friendship. And tire management. Very good.”
He had sounded completely, utterly unhinged.
Max had actually chuckled into his microphone, leaning forward. “I think we all love a good tire management, mate. Gets the heart racing.”
The room had erupted into laughter. Kimi had wanted the ground to open up and swallow him into the earth's mantle.
Max Verstappen, an elephant never forgets (that elephant, currently, being Kimi).
“Yeah, no, it was... it was brilliant,” Ollie had stammered, staring fixedly at the journalists, or towards their direction, at least. “Kimi drove a great race. And, um, yeah. Good tires.”
And that was it. The great, eloquent charmer that is Oliver Bearman. No eye contact. No shared, knowing smile. Just two boys who used to share a tiny Prema tent, now separated by eighteen inches of space and a sudden, terrifying shift in their reality.
He shuts the shower tap violently, eager to escape his own body because of the embarrassment.
Because rationalizing the kiss is one thing. Dealing with the terrifying, suffocating reality that he hasn't actually spoken to Ollie since their mouths collided is something else entirely.
He slips into comfortable clothes, not bothering to even see what he grabs. Something soft, because he has had enough torture for today.
His phone, which is sitting on the bedside table, vibrates continuously.
It sounds like an angry hornet. He had ignored Toto’s rule just long enough to take a peek, discovering he has 142 unread messages, most of them from his friends, ranging from 'MATE WHAT WAS THAT' to strings of crying-laughing emojis. Missed calls from his parents, and a single message containing a rainbow flag emoji from Maggie.
Jesus.
He hasn't heard from Ollie.
That is the part that is making Kimi’s chest ache.
Ollie is probably furious. He has just achieved the greatest milestone of his racing career, an absolute masterclass of defensive driving in a subpar car, and Kimi has completely overshadowed it by acting like an impulsive idiot. The headlines tomorrow won't be about Oliver Bearman’s heroic P3, they will be about Kimi Antonelli’s bizarre and suspicious podium behavior.
I ruined his moment, Kimi thinks miserably, curling onto his side. I ruined his moment, and I probably ruined our friendship.
He considers texting him.
Sorry about the kiss, mate. Adrenaline, you know?
No, that's pathetic.
Hey, congrats on P3! Ignore the podium thing, I was just happy for you.
Also pathetic.
He is halfway through drafting an apology in his notes app when a sharp knock at the door makes him jump.
Kimi freezes. It could be Rosa, coming to deliver a drafted statement. It could be Sergei, or worse, it could be Bono.
He drags himself off the bed, pads over to the door, and swings it open.
Oliver Bearman is standing in the hallway.
He is out of his race gear, wearing a plain gray hoodie and dark trousers.
“Hi,” Kimi says, wide-eyed. He sounds pathetically small.
“Hi,” Oliver replies. His expression is unreadable, a mix of exhaustion, confusion, and something close to hurt.
And true to his nature, Kimi overcompensates.
“Congratulations on P3. You drove like a demon out there, mate. Turn 14? Insane. I saw the replay, a masterclass in racecraft.”
“Kimi,” Oliver says, cutting through the rambling.
He doesn't raise his voice, but the tone itself is enough to make Kimi clamp his mouth shut. Kimi’s eyes drop to the thickly carpeted floor next to Ollie’s sneakers.
“Do you want to come in?” he asks weakly, moving aside to give the other man space to enter. At least if his entire ego is going to be obliterated, his existence crushed into nothingness, he would rather have it done behind closed doors.
Ollie steps inside, his sneakers soundless against the ridiculously plush carpet. He doesn't venture far, stopping just near the foot of the king-sized bed. He shoves his hands deep into the front pocket of his hoodie, his eyes scanning the high ceilings, the sprawling seating area, and the massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
"Nice room," Ollie mutters, his voice deliberately flat. "Guess P1 gets you the premium suite."
Kimi leans back against the heavy mahogany door, feeling the cool wood through his t-shirt. The click of the lock had sounded terrifyingly final, like the sealing of a tomb.
"Yeah. Toto likes us comfortable. Um. Do you want to sit? I have water. The minibar is completely free, actually, if you want a Sprite- hey, you like Sprite!”
"I’m good, Kimi."
The silence that follows is suffocating, thick with the weight of the last three hours. Kimi’s skin feels too tight. He can't handle the quiet. He has never been able to handle the quiet around Ollie.
"Right. Well," Kimi babbles, gesturing vaguely with his hands. "Like I said, congratulations again. It was a massive haul of points for the team. Ayao must be over the moon with the constructor standings. And the way you managed the thermal window on those hards-”
"Rosa was in the lobby," Ollie interrupts, cutting through the frantic stalling. He doesn't raise his voice, but the sudden shift in his tone makes Kimi’s jaw snap shut so fast his teeth click.
Kimi blinks. "Rosa?"
"Yeah. She was practically standing guard by the elevators," Ollie says, finally turning his head to look at Kimi properly. The hurt is still there, swimming right beneath the exhaustion in his eyes, making Kimi’s chest ache violently. "She told me you were under strict room arrest. No phones, no media, no leaving this floor until Toto says otherwise."
Kimi shrinks back against the door, suddenly hyper-aware of his damp hair and the hotel slippers on his feet. "She... she let you up?"
"I told her I deserved an explanation," Ollie says simply, holding Kimi's gaze. "And shockingly, she agreed. She gave me exactly ten minutes before she comes up here to physically drag me out by my ear."
Ollie takes a slow breath, his shoulders rising and falling under the gray cotton of his hoodie. "So. Are you going to give me one? Or are we going to stand here and discuss my tire management some more?"
Kimi’s brain completely short-circuits.
All the careful compartmentalization he had meticulously constructed under the scalding water instantly disintegrated into ash. The calm, collected, professional persona he desperately needs to project vanishes the second Ollie actually asks for the truth.
He opens his mouth, and what comes out is pure, unadulterated, panicked word vomit.
"It wasn't- it wasn't a big deal!" Kimi blurts out, waving his hands in a frantic, defensive gesture. "It was just a totally normal, heat-of-the-moment gesture of camaraderie! Like a high five! But, you know, higher up. Just two mates, excited about a race. It was just a quick, celebratory smack. Completely platonic."
“A celebratory smack,” Ollie deadpans. “Right, because that’s what normal mates do. When Charles Leclerc gets a podium, he definitely grabs Hamilton by the back of his neck and lays one on him.”
“I was just excited! I was so happy for you, Ollie. You looked so brilliant and happy, and God, you deserved it. And I was an idiot who couldn’t control his own impulses, and for that I am so, so sorry.”
Oliver just stares at him, completely pinning Kimi against the door. But something worse happens: the anger seems to drain out of Ollie’s posture, leaving a deep exhaustion.
“Impulses,” Ollie repeats, the word catching slightly.
“Yes!” Kimi scrambles to get his footing, desperate to explain the mechanics of his peculiar brain.
Okay, fine, Kimi is hopelessly, catastrophically in love with him. That is a known variable, a condition much like an illness he had accepted somewhere around his eighteenth birthday, a secret he plans to take to his grave.
But that’s entirely beside the point. He would never consciously jeopardize their careers. He respects the sport too much, and he respects Ollie even more, to drag him into a circus that could potentially derail their hard-fought trajectory.
Unconsciously, however? It has proven to be a problem.
Kimi is a driver built entirely on instinct. That’s something you’re born with. He doesn't overthink braking zones. He sees a millimeter of space, and his impulses take over, commanding him to take it.
Seeing Oliver on the podium had been exactly like that.
[Audience, walk with him for a second on this.]
Seeing Oliver on that podium, looking like a golden god who had just conquered his demons, had been the equivalent of an open racing line. He hadn't processed the cameras, the audience, or the implications. His brain had simply supplied: He is beautiful. Kiss him. And his body had executed the maneuver before he could think.
“I’m an impulsive person. You know this,” he pleads. “I brake late! I dive down tight spaces! I just saw you standing there, so overwhelmed by everything you’ve been through this season, and I- I lost my mind. I wasn't trying to- to make a statement, or ruin your moment.”
“You hijacked my moment,” Oliver says, his voice dropping a register.
“I’m sorry,” Kimi says weakly. “I will fix it. Tell everyone it was a mistake, a deeply unfortunate reflex. I will issue a formal apology for subjecting you to such a horrific experience.”
“It was horrific,” Oliver nods, exhaustion bleeding into annoyance.
Okay hold on.
Well, this gets Kimi heated, too!
Defensive and entirely panicking, he throws his hands up. “It was just a kiss! It wasn’t that disgusting!”
“I didn’t say it was disgusting!” Oliver snaps, his voice finally, finally rising. “You just didn’t have to do it in front of the whole bloody world!”
Kimi balks at that. “Oh, right,” he fires back, fueled purely by adrenaline, stubbornness, and embarrassment, with zero logical thought process. “Because if I had done it in private, it would’ve been perfectly fine! Like you’d actually let me kiss you behind closed doors!”
This is beyond embarrassing. This is him digging his own grave. There is no turning back from this. He might have to say goodbye to his first love and—
“I would!” Ollie yells right back.
The silence is absolute. Kimi can actually hear the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner.
Kimi stares at him, and that stare is returned.
“What?” Kimi squeaks. Pathetic and utterly embarrassing.
Kimi can practically hear the Windows XP shutdown noise playing on an endless loop behind his own eyes. His brain, usually capable of processing split-second telemetry at 300 kilometers per hour, has completely flatlined.
Ollie looks like he desperately wants to climb out the window and free-fall into the streets of the city. The furious red flush that had started at his neck has now taken over his entire face, making the pale smattering of freckles across his nose stand out in stark relief. His hands are out of his pockets now, hovering uselessly at his sides as if he’s trying to figure out what to do with his own limbs.
“I-” Ollie starts, his voice cracking violently. He clears his throat, taking a frantic, stumbling step backward until his calves hit the edge of the plush velvet armchair. “I meant… hypothetically.”
Kimi blinks. Once. Twice. “Hypothetically.”
“Yes! Theoretically!” Ollie’s hands fly up to grip the back of his own neck, tangling in his curls. “As a concept! You were yelling at me, and I felt cornered, and it’s basic physics, Kimi! Action and reaction! You yell an accusation, I yell a rebuttal!”
“Your rebuttal to ‘you wouldn’t let me kiss you’ was ‘I would’?” Kimi asks, the gears in his head finally, agonizingly starting to turn.
“I was cornered!” Ollie argues desperately, his accent thickening the way it always does when he’s genuinely panicked. “I had just spent an hour being interrogated by my PR team! My cognitive functions are impaired!”
Kimi drops his hands slowly. The panic that had been vibrating under his skin since he stepped off the podium is suddenly gone. It is entirely replaced by something else. A sudden, hyper-focused clarity. The exact same terrifying, crystalline calm that settles over him right before the five red lights go out.
He takes a step forward.
Ollie’s breath hitches. “Kimi. Don't look at me like that.”
“Like what?” Kimi asks, taking another step. He is no longer fused to the mahogany door. The distance between them, which had felt like an insurmountable canyon just two minutes ago, is shrinking rapidly.
“Like… like I’m a gap down the inside of Turn 4,” Ollie stammers, pressing his back firmly against the upholstery of the armchair. He has nowhere else to retreat.
“You said you would,” Kimi says softly. The erratic, high pitched panic is completely stripped from his voice. He sounds grounded. Dangerous, almost.
“I said I was impaired,” Ollie shoots back weakly, though his eyes track Kimi’s every movement, his pupils blown wide.
“Are you impaired right now?”
Kimi stops. He is close now. So close that he can feel the ambient heat radiating off Ollie’s skin. There are no fireproofs between them. Just the gray cotton of Ollie’s hoodie and the thin fabric of Kimi’s oversized t-shirt.
Ollie swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply. He looks down at Kimi, his brown eyes completely stripped of their media-trained defenses. He just looks incredibly young, incredibly tired, and terrified.
“Kimi,” Ollie whispers. It’s not a protest. It sounds like a plea.
“Because I need to be sure,” Kimi says, his voice barely louder than the hum of the air conditioning. He doesn't reach out. He doesn't grab Ollie’s collar. He forces himself to keep his hands firmly planted by his sides, an exercise in restraint that is actively burning holes through his nerve endings.
“I need to know if I completely ruined everything for a stupid impulse, or… or if I’m not entirely crazy.”
Ollie’s chest rises and falls rapidly. He looks at Kimi’s eyes, then drops his gaze to Kimi’s mouth, before snapping it back up again. The internal war playing out across his face is agonizing to watch.
The fear of the press, the fear of the paddock, the terrifying reality of their careers, it’s all warring against whatever has been brewing between them in the quiet corners of motorhomes and late night flights.
Slowly, agonizingly, Ollie’s hands drop from his hair.
“You’re crazy,” Ollie breathes out, his voice trembling slightly. “You’re an absolute lunatic. You kissed me on the podium. Max Verstappen watched you do it.”
“I know,” Kimi murmurs.
“Ayao is going to have a stroke when he stops laughing about the PR value.”
“I know.”
Ollie takes a shuddering breath. “You didn’t even close your eyes, you psychopath.”
Kimi lets out a breathless, broken little laugh. “I was surprised.”
“Yeah,” Ollie whispers. “Me too.”
And then, Ollie bridges the final inch.
It isn't a desperate tackle. It isn't a chaotic, adrenaline-fueled collision in front of a hundred thousand screaming fans. It is agonizingly slow. Ollie’s hands come up, hesitant at first, before his fingers gently curl into the fabric of Kimi’s shirt at his waist. Kimi’s breath completely stalls in his lungs as Ollie tilts his head, leaning down until their foreheads rest together.
For a long, suspended second, they just stay there, breathing the same air in the quiet sanctuary of the hotel room. Kimi closes his eyes, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against his ribs, waiting. Giving Ollie the control.
Ollie’s grip on his shirt tightens, pulling Kimi flush against his chest, and he finally, properly, kisses him.
It completely short-circuits Kimi’s brain all over again, but this time, it’s a terrifyingly good feeling. Ollie’s mouth is warm and impossibly soft, the kiss entirely deliberate and completely devoid of the sharp, metallic taste of champagne and panic. Kimi lets out a soft, embarrassing sound, his hands flying up to Ollie’s shoulders, his fingers digging into the thick cotton of the hoodie like a lifeline.
Ollie kisses him back with a sudden, desperate kind of hunger, one hand sliding up from Kimi's waist to trace the line of his spine, pulling him closer until there is absolutely zero space left between them. It’s messy, and it’s breathless, and it feels like an accumulation of every unspoken word, every stolen glance over the last three years, finally crashing to the surface.
When they finally break apart, they are both gasping for air. Kimi keeps his eyes closed, his forehead still resting against Ollie’s, his hands still anchored to his shoulders. He is terrified that if he opens his eyes, he’ll wake up and be back on the floor of the shower, rationalizing reality to survive his own stupidity.
“Okay,” Ollie whispers, his voice incredibly rough. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of Kimi’s mouth, and then another to his cheek. “Okay. Behind closed doors is infinitely better.”
Kimi lets out a wet, genuine laugh, finally opening his eyes. Ollie is smiling a small, shy, devastatingly beautiful smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Yeah,” Kimi says, his voice thick with relief. He reaches up, tangling his fingers gently into the curls at the nape of Ollie's neck. “Closed doors,” he whispers out, before pulling Oliver down, lips meeting again.
Sorry, Toto, for I have sinned.
The devil made me do it (but I’ve always kinda wanted to).