Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I am currently open to requests to please leave a message down below for anything you would like to write.

I will write pretty much anything excluding what is listed down below:

• No Smut
• No Rape/Non-Con (Am fine doing attempted to an extent but it will have to be stopped before anything bad happens)
• No relationships with anyone over three years older than Kimi, so none of the older drivers or staff
• No Drivers being the bad guy. If someone does something bad, I will create a new character. If you want something to happen with another driver, I will do it but make up a drive

I may add to this at a later date if anything comes up

I will update the tags of this fic with each chapter if something new comes up in it

Chapter Text

At eighteen, Kimi was the youngest driver on the Formula 1 grid, a prodigy catapulted into the seat vacated by Lewis Hamilton at Mercedes. It was a dream come true, a pressure cooker, and a constant uphill battle all rolled into one.

His teammate, George Russell, moved with the practiced efficiency of a seasoned professional. George was the established force at Mercedes, the heir apparent to the team's legacy. He was also… distant. Polite, yes, but with a guarded coolness that Kimi couldn't quite decipher.

Kimi often felt like an intruder in George's space, a young upstart disrupting the established order. He tried to be respectful, deferential even, but the awkward silences and the lack of genuine connection left him questioning everything. Did George resent him? Did he think Kimi wasn't ready for this?

He glanced at George, who was meticulously organizing his helmet bag. The overhead lights glinted off the sleek blue of the helmet, highlighting the intense focus etched on George's face. He couldn't read him.

“Ready to head out, Kimi?” George asked, his voice neutral.

“Almost,” Kimi replied, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. He zipped up his bag, the metallic clink echoing in the otherwise quiet garage.

Suddenly, the door crashed open.

A man, eyes wild and face contorted with rage, stood framed in the doorway. He was clutching a gun, its cold, black barrel pointed directly at Kimi.

Time seemed to slow. The hum of the paddock faded into a deafening silence. Kimi's breath hitched in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs. He couldn't move, couldn't think. He was paralysed, staring into the gun’s muzzle.

"You," the man snarled, his voice thick with malice. "You don't deserve to be here. You're ruining racing! I'm going to stop you."

Kimi's mind screamed. He was going to die. He was just eighteen years old, and he was going to die in a Formula 1 garage.

Then, in a blur of motion, George moved.

~~~~~

Without a word, without hesitation, George stepped in front of Kimi, placing himself squarely between the young rookie and the deadly weapon.

Kimi gasped, disbelief warring with terror. He couldn't understand it. George, the aloof, reserved George, was risking his life for him.

"Move," the man growled, his voice shaking with fury. "Get out of my way. This doesn't concern you."

George stood firm, his arms slightly outstretched, his eyes locked onto the man's. “I can’t do that. I won’t let you hurt him. He is just a kid, barely 18. Think about what you’re doing.” His voice was calm, steady, a stark contrast to the man’s frantic rage.

The man’s face twisted with frustration. He shifted his aim, trying to find a clear shot around George. But George moved with him, always keeping Kimi shielded behind him, his body a living barrier.

"I swear, I'll shoot you!" the man screamed, sweat beading on his forehead.

George didn't flinch. "Then shoot. I am not moving.”

Kimi, huddled behind George, was a mess of trembling limbs and choked sobs. He couldn't believe what was happening.

Suddenly, voices echoed down the hallway, drawing closer.

The man’s eyes widened with panic. He glanced back at the hallway, then back at George, his face a mask of indecision. The opportunity was slipping away.

With a frustrated roar, he turned and bolted, disappearing back into the corridor.

A few seconds later, the door burst open again. Max Verstappen and Lando Norris stood there, their faces etched with concern.

"Are you guys okay?" Max asked, his voice sharp. "We just saw a guy running out with a gun!"

The adrenaline finally drained from George, leaving him shaking and pale. He turned and, without a word, pulled Kimi into a tight embrace.

“It’s okay, Kimi. It’s okay. He’s gone,” George murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Kimi, still reeling from the terror, clung to George, burying his face in his chest. Tears streamed down his face, hot and uncontrollable. He sobbed, overwhelmed by fear and a profound sense of gratitude.

George's grip tightened. He smoothed Kimi's hair, whispering reassurances. He had been so focused on protecting Kimi, he hadn't truly processed the danger himself.

He slowly lifted Kimi, carrying him to the nearby couch. He gently sat him down and knelt in front of him, holding his hands.

"He's gone, Kimi. You're safe now. Just breathe." He wiped away Kimi’s tears with his thumbs.

Turning to Max, his voice unusually urgent, George said, "Get Toto and security. Now."

Max, understanding the severity of the situation, nodded and hurried out of the garage, Lando close behind.

~~~~~

The next few hours were a blur of security personnel, police interviews, and anxious faces. Toto Wolff, the Mercedes team principal, arrived looking ashen, his usual composure shattered. He enveloped Kimi in a tight hug, his concern palpable.

Kimi answered the police's questions in a daze, his voice barely a whisper. He kept replaying the scene in his head, the image of the gun, the man's hateful face, and George, his unlikely saviour.

George remained by Kimi's side, his presence a constant reassurance. He fielded questions from the police, his answers concise and factual, shielding Kimi from the brunt of the interrogation. He made sure Kimi had water, a blanket, and a quiet place to sit away from the chaos.

Later, as the police packed up their equipment, Toto pulled George aside.

"George, what you did... it was incredibly brave," Toto said, his voice thick with emotion. "You saved his life."

George shrugged, his gaze fixed on Kimi, who was curled up on the couch, his eyes closed. "Anyone would have done the same, Toto."

"Perhaps," Toto said, his eyes filled with admiration. "But you did it without hesitation."

The rest of the team had been sent back to the hotel, but George refused to leave Kimi. He insisted on staying with him until he fell asleep, a silent guardian against the lingering shadows of the night.

Finally, after hours of quiet reassurance, Kimi dozed off, his breathing shallow and uneven. George carefully covered him with a blanket and sat down in a chair beside him, watching over him like a protective older brother.

As the night wore on, George began to understand the depth of the bond he had forged with Kimi in those terrifying moments. He had seen the fear in Kimi's eyes, the vulnerability of the young racer facing a deadly threat. And in that moment, he had instinctively stepped in front, not thinking about the consequences, only about protecting the kid.

He knew then that his initial coolness towards Kimi had been a mistake. He had been so focused on his own ambitions, on proving himself as the future of Mercedes, that he had forgotten the importance of camaraderie, of supporting his teammate.

He looked at Kimi, his face pale and drawn in sleep. He had been so wrong about him. Kimi wasn't just a talented driver, he was a kid, thrust into a world of immense pressure and scrutiny. He needed support, guidance, and a teammate he could trust.

And George was determined to be that teammate.

Chapter Text

Kimi was exhausted, the weight of the pressure on his shoulders to replace seven-time world champion Lewis Hamilton and be the youngest F1 driver on the track crushing him.

He dragged himself through the paddock, the roar of engines and the relentless chatter fading into a dull hum as exhaustion threatened to pull him under. His driver room felt too sterile, too bright, too empty. What he craved was the comfortable silence and familiar presence of Ollie Bearman, his best friend and fellow F1 rookie at Haas. More than that, he needed Ollie’s quiet reassurance, the sense of grounding he provided.

He knew he was bordering on childish, relying on Ollie like this. He was supposed to be a professional, a hardened competitor. But tonight, he just couldn't face the buzzing in his head alone.

He stumbled through the labyrinthine corridors of the paddock, his vision blurring at the edges. He knew Ollie’s room was somewhere down this hall... or was it the next? He leaned heavily against the wall, trying to focus. Finally, he saw a door ajar, a faint light spilling into the hallway.

“Ollie?” he mumbled, pushing the door open further.

The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of expensive cologne and something vaguely medicinal. He could make out the shapes of figures lounging on sofas and chairs, their voices a low murmur. It wasn’t Ollie’s room. He realised that a fraction of a second too late.

He was already moving, driven by a primal need for comfort. His legs felt like lead, his eyelids heavy curtains. He saw a figure sitting on a large armchair, their legs stretched out in front of them, offering an inviting expanse. Without thinking, Kimi lurched forward, collapsing onto the figure’s lap.

He felt a surprised intake of breath, but his mind was already shutting down. The warmth of the body beneath him, the soft fabric of their racing suit, was enough. He burrowed his face into the crook of their neck, letting out a soft sigh that was more exhaustion than comfort. He didn't register the scent was all wrong or the muscle firmness so very distinctive. And then, he was asleep.

~~~~~

The room, previously filled with quiet conversation, was now utterly silent. Four pairs of eyes stared, wide and unblinking, at the sleeping figure nestled in Charles Leclerc's lap.

Charles himself was frozen, unsure of what to do. He'd been mid-conversation with Lando Norris, George Russell, and, ironically, Ollie Bearman when the door had creaked open. Now, he was acutely aware of the weight of the slender body in his lap, the soft, rhythmic breathing humming against his neck. He recognised the dark, messy hair immediately. It was Kimi Antonelli, the Mercedes rookie.

Ollie Bearman broke the silence, his face a mixture of amusement and concern. “Oh, for crying out loud,” he muttered, stepping forward. “Kimi? What are you doing?”

Kimi didn't stir.

Ollie sighed. “Sorry about that, Charles. He gets… like this sometimes. He has trouble sleeping, and he comes to me. I guess he just wasn't thinking straight.” He reached out to take Kimi, but Charles gently stopped him.

“It’s alright,” Charles said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s… comfortable.” He gestured to Kimi’s relaxed form. “And he’s clearly exhausted.”

Lando Norris, always one for a laugh, was practically vibrating with suppressed giggles. “Comfortable is an understatement, mate. He’s practically spooning you. This is… adorable.”

George Russell, ever the professional, tried to stifle a smile. “He must be really out of it. He’d never usually do something like this.”

Ollie frowned. “Yeah, he’s been struggling with the pressure. He’s still just a kid, you know? He just needs to feel safe and comfortable.” He looked at Charles again, a plea in his eyes. “I can take him back to his room.”

Charles ran a hand through Kimi’s hair, a gesture that felt surprisingly natural. “Let him sleep,” he said quietly. “He can stay here for a bit. He’s not bothering me.”

The others couldn’t help but coo. Even George, the most reserved of the group, had a soft look in his eyes.

“He looks so much younger when he’s asleep,” Lando observed, his voice unusually gentle. “He's got such a baby face. And the way he's just curled up there, like a puppy seeking warmth from his owner, is simply heart-melting."

Ollie huffed, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably. “He's not a puppy. He's a pain in the arse most of the time.”

Despite his words, Ollie couldn’t help but smile. He knew exactly what the others saw. Beneath the fierce competitor, the prodigy burdened with expectation, was a young man still finding his way, still searching for comfort and connection in a world that seemed determined to swallow him whole.

George chuckled. "Don't deny you love him, Ollie."

"Ugh," Ollie groaned and rolled his eyes at the observation.

Charles shifted slightly, adjusting Kimi more comfortably in his lap. He couldn’t explain why, but the feeling of the young driver nestled against him was strangely… comforting. He found himself wanting to protect him, to shield him from the harsh realities of Formula 1.

He looked at the sleeping face, the lines of tension smoothed away in slumber. He saw not the fierce competitor, but a boy lost in a world that was too big, too loud, too fast.

“Let him sleep,” he repeated, his voice firm. “We can be quiet.”

And so, they just sat there, watching over the sleeping rookie. The air was thick with unspoken understanding, a shared protectiveness for the young prodigy who had accidentally sought refuge in the most unexpected of places. The weight of the world, for a little while, seemed to have lifted from Kimi Antonelli's young shoulders, and in its place, a fragile sense of peace had settled.

~~~~~

The first thing Kimi registered was the soft fabric beneath his cheek. It wasn't the stiff, starched cotton of his own bedsheets. It was something softer, warmer, something… familiar?

He blinked, struggling to focus his blurry vision. The dim light stung his eyes. He shifted slightly, and a muscle tensed beneath him. Not a mattress.

Panic flared. He sat up abruptly, his head spinning. He looked around, his eyes widening in horror.

Charles Leclerc, Lando Norris, George Russell, and… Ollie Bearman, all staring at him.

He was in Charles’ lap.

His face burned. He scrambled to his feet, stumbling backward, his cheeks flaming. “I… I…” he stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence.

Charles smiled gently, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Sleep well?”

Kimi wanted to disappear. He wanted the earth to swallow him whole. This was beyond embarrassing. This was career-ending levels of awkward.

“I… I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper. “I thought… I thought this was Ollie’s room. I was… really tired.”

Ollie stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on Kimi’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Kimi. No harm done. Right, guys?”

Lando snorted, but quickly composed himself. “Right. Totally normal rookie behaviour. Happens all the time. Doesn’t it, George?”

George nodded, his expression carefully neutral. “Absolutely. We’ve all been there.”

Kimi knew they were lying, but he appreciated the effort. He glanced at Charles, his shame deepening. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to… impose.”

Charles stood up, towering over him. “Don’t worry about it, Kimi. You needed a nap. We all do sometimes.” He offered a small, almost shy smile. “You can come back anytime.”

Kimi didn’t know what to say. He just nodded dumbly, his face still burning. He turned and fled, Ollie trailing behind him, the laughter of Lando Norris echoing in his ears.

Kimi slapped Ollie’s shoulder. “You could have woken me asshole.”

Ollie giggled and wrapped an arm around his friend’s shoulder. “But you looked so adorable and Charles was so protective.” Kimi blushed but stayed quiet as they continued walking down the hall.

Chapter Text

The Silverstone paddock buzzed with the afterglow of the British Grand Prix. The air hung thick with the scent of burnt rubber, champagne, and the lingering adrenaline that followed every race weekend. In the Mercedes hospitality suite, a handful of drivers were unwinding, the tension of the race slowly ebbing away.

Among them was Kimi Antonelli, the Formula 1 rookie sensation. At just eighteen, he was the youngest driver on the grid, a prodigy thrust into the spotlight with the weight of Mercedes' expectations on his young shoulders. He'd finished eighth, a respectable result, but the relentless pressure and the sheer physical demand of driving a Formula 1 car had taken its toll.

He sat nestled between Lando Norris and the arm of the plush, grey couch. Carlos was animatedly recounting a near-miss during the race to Charles and Lando, his hands flailing in the air as he mimicked swerving. Kimi, however, was only half-listening. His eyelids felt heavy, the roar of the engine still echoing in his ears, a hypnotic lullaby.

He stifled a yawn, the effort barely registering with the others. He just wanted to close his eyes, just for a second.

That second stretched longer than intended.

He didn’t even realize he was falling asleep. One moment he was fighting the urge to nod off, the next, his head had lolled sideways. He landed softly, heavily, against Lando's shoulder.

Lando, listening intently to Carlos’ story, felt the slight shift in weight. He glanced down. Kimi's dark hair was a soft cloud against his racing suit, his breathing even and shallow. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was the only sign he wasn’t a wax figure.

A wave of something unexpected washed over Lando. It wasn’t pity, exactly, or even sympathy. It was… tenderness. He watched the young driver, his face relaxed and free from the intense concentration that usually etched lines around his eyes. He looked impossibly young, impossibly vulnerable.

He found himself instinctively stiffening, afraid of waking him. He slowly lowered his arm, letting it rest gently on the couch behind Kimi, creating a more comfortable support.

"Guys," Lando whispered, keeping his voice low and steady. "Hey, Charles, Carlos."

Charles, still engrossed in Carlos story, looked up, his expression quizzical. "What's up?"

Lando subtly nodded towards the couch, his eyes pleading. "Just… look."

Charles followed his gaze. He saw Lando’s carefully still posture, the almost reverent expression on his face. Then he saw Kimi.

His jaw dropped. “Oh, my god.”

The words were barely audible, a breathy whisper of disbelief. He reached out, gently nudging Max who was in a conversation with George by the wall.

Max followed Charles' gaze, and his eyes widened. He sucked in a breath, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

"Is he...?" George started to ask, but Carlos shushed him with a finger to his lips.

A silent understanding passed between them. The usually boisterous group fell silent, captivated by the unexpected sight.

"He's adorable," Charles breathed, pulling out his phone.

"Don't you dare," Lando hissed, his voice still hushed.

But it was too late. Charles already had his phone out, snapping a photo of Kimi, fast asleep against Lando.

"It's too good not to share," Charles defended, already forwarding the picture to a group chat titled "Driver Banter."

Within seconds, the chat exploded with reactions.

Pierre Gasly: OMG. DEAD. 💀

Esteban Ocon: LOOK AT THE BABY. I CAN'T. 🥺

Alex Albon: He looks like he hasn't slept in a week! Poor kid. 😂

Lewis Hamilton: (A heart emoji followed by the words "Protect him at all costs.")

Lando rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a smile.

A few minutes later, the door to the hospitality suite opened, and Lewis Hamilton sauntered in, followed by Esteban Ocon.

"So, I heard there's a sleeping beauty in here," Lewis said, his voice deceptively casual.

Lando glared at him. "Keep it down, you idiot."

Lewis just grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He approached the couch, peering down at Kimi.

"He does look knackered," Esteban commented, his voice hushed with a surprising gentleness. "Poor kid's probably running on fumes."

They all sat quietly, watching Kimi sleep. The initial amusement had faded, replaced by a genuine concern and an overwhelming sense of protectiveness. They were fiercely competitive on the track, rivals battling for every tenth of a second, but off the track, they were a band of brothers, bound by the shared experience of the grueling F1 life.

Carlos, ever the pragmatist, spoke quietly. "Maybe we should get him a blanket or something."

George got up immediately. "I'll see if I can find one."

He returned a few minutes later with a soft, Mercedes-branded blanket. Carefully, he draped it over Kimi, tucking it gently around him.

The scene felt almost sacred. The room was filled with the low hum of conversation, hushed whispers, and the unspoken understanding that surrounded them. They were all, in their own way, watching over Kimi, guarding his peaceful slumber.

Lando felt a strange surge of pride. He was a seasoned driver, and Kimi was just a rookie, but in that moment, he felt a connection to the young man, a sense of responsibility. He knew the pressures Kimi was facing, the expectations, the scrutiny. He knew how exhausting it could be. All of them did.

"He reminds me of myself when I first came into F1," Max said softly, breaking the silence. "Just wide-eyed and terrified."

A chorus of agreement rippled through the room. They had all been there, in that same position, feeling the weight of the world on their shoulders.

They stayed there for what felt like hours, content to just sit and watch, their rivalry momentarily forgotten. They were no longer competitors, but protectors, safeguarding the innocence of the young driver who, for a brief moment, had allowed them to glimpse the humanity beneath the helmets.

~~~~~

The scent of coffee eventually stirred Kimi. He blinked, his eyes fluttering open, struggling to focus. He felt warm and comfortable, enveloped in something soft.

He slowly sat up, his head heavy, his muscles stiff. He looked around, disoriented. He was in the Mercedes hospitality suite, surrounded by… all the other drivers?

He saw Lando, Charles, Max, Lewis, Carlos, George… all staring at him with strange, almost fond, expressions. He felt a blush creep up his neck.

"Did I… fall asleep?" he mumbled, mortified.

The room erupted in laughter.

"You were out cold, mate," Lando said, ruffling his hair. "Don't worry about it. You looked like you needed it."

Kimi groaned and ran a hand through his messy hair. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"Don't apologize," Charles interrupted. "You gave us all a good laugh. Plus, you're now an internet sensation."

Kimi's eyes widened in horror. "What? Why?"

Max held up his phone, showing Kimi the photo that had been circulating amongst the paddock. Kimi covered his face with his hands, mortified.

"It's not that bad," Lewis chuckled. "You look adorable."

Kimi peeked out from behind his hands, his cheeks burning. "Adorable? I'm a Formula 1 driver! I'm supposed to be intimidating!"

The drivers laughed again, the sound warm and genuine.

"You'll get there," Lando said, clapping him on the back. "For now, enjoy the cuteness."

Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd was a distant hum now, fading into the ringing in Kimi Antonelli's ears. He was exhausted. Drained. Today, his first F1 race, had been a brutal baptism by fire. He'd started strong, a flash of brilliance that belied his tender age of eighteen, but the unforgiving nature of Formula 1 had clawed its way to the surface. A spin, a misjudged braking point, and the relentless pressure of seasoned veterans had relegated him to a disappointing P15 finish.

He felt the familiar burn of frustration, a sensation he'd known since he was a kid karting, but this was different. This was the pinnacle of motorsport, the realization of a lifelong dream, and he felt…flat.

The Mercedes garage was a hive of activity, mechanics dismantling cars, engineers poring over data. The air hung thick with the smell of fuel, oil, and burnt rubber. Kimi mumbled a thank you to his engineer, a curt nod to a few passing mechanics, and retreated to a quieter corner of the garage. He found a battered leather couch tucked behind a stack of tire racks, a small haven of relative privacy.

His race suit was sticking to him like a second skin, a suffocating reminder of the hours he'd spent trapped in its confines. He glanced around, confirming he was out of direct sightlines, and quickly unzipped it. He tugged it off his shoulders, letting it pool around his ankles. He kicked it aside, leaving him in his racing underwear, and then, after another quick look around, stripped down to a pair of comfortable shorts he'd been wearing underneath.

He sank onto the couch, the worn leather a welcome comfort against his overheated skin. Closing his eyes, he let the exhaustion wash over him. The rhythmic clanging of tools and the murmur of voices faded into white noise. He was asleep within minutes.

~~~~~

The dim lighting cast long shadows, obscuring details but failing to conceal the figure that stood silhouetted in the corner. He was a mechanic, identifiable by his faded Mercedes uniform and the oil stains that adorned his hands. He hadn't been working on the cars. He hadn’t been analysing data. He'd been watching.

He'd seen Antonelli, the prodigy, seek refuge behind the tire racks. He'd watched as the young driver discarded his racing suit, a subtle, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips.

A strange, unsettling energy filled the air as he moved closer, his eyes never leaving the sleeping figure on the couch. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and adjusted the camera. The flash was disabled.

~~~~~

Lando Norris was buzzing. He'd had a decent race, securing a hard-fought P3. The post-race adrenaline was still coursing through him, a potent cocktail of satisfaction and anticipation. Tonight, they were celebrating. He was meeting George to grab a bite and maybe hit a club later.

He strode confidently towards the Mercedes garage, already picturing George's sheepish grin. He was about to cross the threshold when he saw it.

A figure lurked in the shadows, illuminated by the harsh glare of a phone screen. He recognized him as one of the Mercedes mechanics. It was the figure on the couch that stopped him in his tracks. Kimi Antonelli, the young rookie, barely 18.

Lando’s initial confusion quickly morphed into something far more sinister. Kimi was clearly asleep, stripped down to his shorts. And the mechanic...he was taking a picture.

Lando’s stomach dropped. He wasn't sure what the mechanic's intentions were, but the scene unfolding before him felt deeply, disturbingly wrong. A surge of protective anger coursed through him, a primal need to shield the young rookie from whatever was about to happen.

He burst into the corner, yelling, his voice echoing through the garage. “Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?”

The mechanic jumped, startled, his phone almost slipping from his grasp. Kimi, jolted awake by the sudden noise, sat up groggily, his eyes struggling to focus.

"Whoa, what’s going on?" he mumbled, pushing a hand through his disheveled hair.

Lando ignored him, his focus solely on the mechanic. “Give me that phone!” he demanded, his voice laced with fury. “Now! Or I'm calling the police.”

The mechanic, pale and rattled, hesitated for a fraction of a second before throwing the phone at Lando and scrambling away, disappearing into the throng of mechanics.

Lando caught the phone, his knuckles white as he gripped it tight. He turned to Kimi, who was now sitting upright, his face etched with confusion.

"What's wrong?" Kimi asked, his voice still thick with sleep.

Lando couldn't bring himself to explain. Not now. The words wouldn’t come. He just needed to get Kimi out of here.

He ripped off his McLaren jacket, still warm from the race, and draped it around Kimi's shoulders. "Come on," he said, his voice strangely gentle. He reached out and took Kimi's hand, his touch surprisingly firm.

He tugged Kimi towards the front of the garage, his grip unwavering. He spotted George and Toto Wolff, deep in conversation.

“Toto! George!” Lando called out, his voice urgent.

Both men turned, their expressions questioning.

“I found one of your mechanics taking photos of Kimi while he was sleeping,” Lando spat out, his anger still simmering.

Toto's face hardened. He approached Lando, his eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about?"

Lando thrust the phone into Toto's hand. "See for yourself."

Toto quickly scrolled through the phone, his jaw tightening with each picture he saw. The blood drained from his face.

George, meanwhile, gave Kimi a reassuring hug. "You okay, Kimi? What happened?"

Kimi, still bewildered, just shrugged, his eyes darting between Lando, George, and Toto, trying to piece together the fragmented scene. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and utterly confused.

Toto looked up, his voice dangerously low. "I will deal with this. George, take Kimi back to our hospitality suite. Make sure he's okay.” He turned back to Lando. “Thank you, Lando. For bringing this to our attention.”

Lando nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He watched as George carefully steered Kimi away, his arm protectively around his shoulders. He knew George would take care of him.

He then looked back at Toto, who was already barking orders into his phone, his face a mask of fury. The air crackled with the promise of retribution. Lando knew that whatever happened next, the mechanic would face the full force of Toto Wolff's wrath. And rightfully so.

~~~~~

Back in the Mercedes hospitality suite, George settled Kimi on a plush sofa, offering him a bottle of water.

“Here, drink this. Just relax.”

Kimi took a long swig, the cool water a welcome relief. He tried to process everything that had happened, the pieces of the puzzle still scattered and disjointed.

"What were those photos?" he finally asked, his voice barely a whisper.

George hesitated, unsure how to broach the subject. He finally settled on a simple, albeit incomplete, truth.

"Just some inappropriate photos," he said, avoiding Kimi's gaze. "Lando caught him before anything…worse…could happen."

Kimi shuddered, a wave of nausea washing over him. He suddenly felt incredibly exposed, the weight of the attention and pressure that came with being a Formula 1 driver crushing him.

"I just wanted to rest," he mumbled, the exhaustion returning with a vengeance. "I just wanted to be left alone."

George squeezed his shoulder. "I know, Kimi. And you will be. We won't let anything like this happen again."

Chapter Text

Today was supposed to be a recovery day after the Italian Grand Prix. Instead, Kimi found himself face-to-face with the newest addition to the Mercedes team: a stern-faced nutritionist named Dr. Eva Rostova.

"Kimi Antonelli," Dr. Rostova said, her voice clipped and professional. She gestured towards a chair. "Please, sit."

Kimi, still buzzing from the race, settled into the chair, a slight nervousness creeping into his demeanour. He’d met nutritionists before, of course, but there was something about Dr. Rostova’s intensity that made him uneasy.

"We need to discuss your diet," she began, her eyes scanning a tablet. "Your performance is commendable, but your physical conditioning needs some… refinement."

Kimi frowned slightly. He had worked tirelessly with the team's fitness trainers during the off-season and throughout the year. He felt strong, agile, and in peak physical condition.

"Specifically," Dr. Rostova continued, her gaze locking onto Kimi, "you're carrying unnecessary weight."

A knot formed in Kimi's stomach.

"Given your age," she added, her voice laced with a subtle condescension, "people tend to view you as… a child. You need to present yourself with more authority, more maturity. Being leaner will help with that perception."

Kimi instinctively crossed his arms over his stomach, a wave of self-consciousness washing over him. "I… I think I'm at a healthy weight," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "We worked really hard on my fitness program during pre-season. I feel strong."

Dr. Rostova's expression hardened. "Strength is important, Antonelli, but so is aesthetics. And frankly, you need to shed some of the baby fat. If you don't want to improve, then perhaps you should leave."

Her words stung. Kimi swallowed hard, his cheeks burning with shame. He knew that rookies were expected to be compliant, to listen to the experts. He couldn't afford to make waves.

"I… I apologize," he muttered, hanging his head. "I want to improve."

Dr. Rostova's face softened slightly. She handed him a printed sheet. "This is your new dietary plan. Adhere to it strictly. And schedule a weigh-in with me weekly. We will monitor your progress."

Kimi took the paper with trembling hands. The list was shockingly restrictive, a far cry from the balanced meals he was used to. A wave of anxiety washed over him. He knew this was going to be difficult.

As he walked out of the hospitality unit, the roar of the crowd seemed distant, replaced by the gnawing fear that he wasn't good enough, that he wasn't the athlete everyone expected him to be.

~~~~~

That night, back in his hotel room, Kimi felt restless. The image of Dr. Rostova's disapproving face haunted him. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was failing, that he was letting the team down.

He stepped into the bathroom, shifting to stand in front of the mirror. He hesitated, then slowly lifted the hem of his t-shirt, revealing his stomach.

He stared at his reflection, his eyes searching for the flaws Dr. Rostova had pointed out. Toto, the team principal, had invested heavily in his fitness program, ensuring he had access to the best trainers and resources. They had focused on building lean muscle, improving his core strength, and refining his physique.

But as he looked at his stomach, he saw only what Dr. Rostova had highlighted: the "unnecessary weight," the "baby fat." He poked at the skin, feeling a deep sense of dread and insecurity.

He jumped as a voice broke the silence. "What do you think you're doing?"

He whirled around to see George Russell, his teammate, standing in the doorway, a puzzled frown etched on his face.

George had come to Kimi's room with a spontaneous invitation for a late-night ice cream run, a tradition they had started during testing. He'd found the door slightly ajar and heard soft sobs coming from the bathroom. He'd been immediately concerned. The sight of Kimi, his shirt pulled up, his eyes red-rimmed with tears, his hand nervously picking at his skin, sent a shot of pain through George's chest.

Kimi hastily pulled his shirt down, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. He scrubbed at his eyes, trying to regain his composure.

"Nothing," he mumbled, turning away. "Just… nothing."

George wasn't buying it. He stepped into the bathroom and gently took Kimi's arm, leading him out towards the bed.

"Come on," he said softly. "Tell me what's going on."

Kimi shrugged, avoiding George's gaze. "I just… I think I need to lose some weight."

George's eyebrows shot up. "No, you absolutely do not. Who told you that?"

"The new nutritionist," Kimi mumbled, his voice barely audible.

"Eva? What did she say?" George’s tone was hardening.

Kimi hesitated, then nervously lifted his shirt again, revealing his stomach. "She said… I'm carrying unnecessary weight. That I need to look more… mature."

George's eyes narrowed. He quickly assessed Kimi's physique, taking in the toned muscles, the defined abs, the overall athleticism of his young body. He was in perfect shape.

"Kimi," he said firmly, "you are at the perfect weight. You have a very well-defined six-pack. You're in incredible shape. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Kimi remained unconvinced. "But… she's the expert. Maybe I'm not seeing it clearly."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the dietary plan Dr. Rostova had given him. He silently handed it to George.

George's blood ran cold as he scanned the document. The portions were ridiculously small, the food choices overly restrictive. And at the bottom, scrawled in Dr. Rostova's neat handwriting, was the damning comment: "Needs to lose weight."

Rage simmered beneath George's usually calm exterior. This was beyond unacceptable. He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

"Kimi," he said, his voice low and serious, "you are not to go anywhere near that nutritionist. You stick to your usual nutrition program. Understand?"

Kimi started to protest. "But… maybe she's right. Maybe there is something wrong."

George cut him off. He saw the fear and uncertainty in Kimi's eyes, the seeds of self-doubt that Dr. Rostova had planted. He knew he had to act decisively and nip them in the bud immediately.

Despite his reserved nature, he reached out and pulled Kimi into a tight hug. He felt the younger driver tense at first, then gradually relax in his embrace. He pressed a kiss to the top of Kimi's head.

"Listen to me," George said, his voice firm but gentle. "You look perfect. You don't need to lose any weight. You've surpassed your original goals anyway. Don't let anyone make you feel insecure about your body. You are a phenomenal athlete, and you are exactly where you need to be."

He had seen talented drivers fall into dangerous cycles of self-criticism and destructive behaviours, spurred on by thoughtless comments of envious rivals. He wouldn't let that happen to Kimi. He wouldn't let Dr. Rostova's words poison the young driver's mind.

Kimi let out a shaky breath, the tension slowly draining from his body. He relaxed in George's embrace, the warmth and solidity of his teammate a comforting anchor in the storm of his insecurities.

"Really?" Kimi asked, his voice laced with doubt. "You really think so?"

George pulled back slightly, holding Kimi's gaze. "I know so. You’re one of the most naturally gifted drivers I’ve ever seen. Don't let some… misguided opinion undermine your confidence. You’ve absolutely smashed your targets. Remember the simulator numbers? Toto was practically dancing."

A faint smile touched Kimi's lips. He remembered the session George was talking about. He had finally managed to nail the perfect lap at Silverstone, beating George's previous best time by a fraction of a second. Toto had been ecstatic.

"Besides," George added, a playful glint in his eyes, "if you lose any more weight, you'll be too light to handle the car. Then you'll really be in trouble."

Kimi chuckled, the sound lighter and more genuine than before. He knew George was trying to make him feel better, but his words were genuinely reassuring.

"Okay," Kimi said, finally feeling some of the weight lift from his shoulders. "Okay, I believe you."

George squeezed his shoulders, letting out a relieved breath. "Good. Now, forget about all of this. How about that ice cream run?"

Kimi smiled again. "Yeah, okay. Ice cream sounds good."

As they left the hotel room, George kept his arm around Kimi's shoulders, a silent message of support and solidarity. He was thankful he had come to Kimi's room when he did. He knew that this was just the beginning, that he would have to be vigilant to protect Kimi from the pressures of the sport and the negativity of others. He’s surpassed just a driving partner to him, becoming more of a little brother he feels the need to protect.

He made a mental note to go straight to Toto first thing in the morning and demand that Dr. Rostova be fired. He wouldn't allow her to damage Kimi's confidence or jeopardize his career.

As they walked towards the ice cream shop, George glanced at Kimi, noticing the renewed spark in his eyes. He knew that Kimi was resilient, that he had the talent and the determination to succeed. But he also knew that even the strongest of individuals needed support, especially in the harsh and unforgiving world of Formula 1. And George was determined to be that support, to be the teammate Kimi needed, on and off the track. The weight of expectation was already heavy on Kimi's young shoulders; George wouldn't let the weight of unnecessary and damaging criticism add to that burden. He would make sure Kimi knew his worth, both as a driver and as a person.

Chapter Text

The bass vibrated through Kimi Antonelli’s chest, a throbbing counterpoint to the nervous energy that fizzed within him. The Monaco Grand Prix after-party was in full swing, a swirling kaleidoscope of faces, flashing lights, and the heady aroma of expensive champagne. For an eighteen-year-old rookie, fresh from a hard-fought P8 finish, it was both exhilarating and overwhelming.

He nursed his lime soda, the bubbles tickling his nose. Across from him, Ollie Bearman, Haas’s own prodigy and Kimi’s best mate since their karting days, was animatedly discussing the merits of a new simulator program.

“…and the force feedback is insane, honestly,” Ollie was saying, his eyes alight. “You feel every bump, every twitch. It’s like being back in the car.”

Kimi grinned. “Sounds terrifying. I’m more of a real-life bump kind of guy, you know?”

Their easy banter filled the small space between them. The weight of the season, the pressure of expectations, all seemed to melt away when they were together. It was a rare sanctuary in the frenetic world of Formula One.

“Soda refills required,” Kimi announced, pushing himself to his feet. “You want anything, Bearman?”

“Same as you. Thanks, man.”

The bar was a crowded mess, a throng of thirsty drivers, team personnel, and assorted hangers-on. Kimi squeezed his way through, trying to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes. He finally reached the counter and flagged down a harried bartender.

“Two lime sodas, please.”

As he waited, a man sidled up beside him. He was older, maybe in his late forties, with slicked-back hair and a predatory smile.

“Evening, young man. You look a little out of place here, sipping soda amidst all this champagne.”

Kimi offered a polite, tight-lipped smile. “Just keeping it clean, sir. Big race tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Ah, yes. Are you one of the drivers? I thought I recognized the face. Antonelli, isn't it? Impressive debut season, very impressive.”

Kimi shifted uncomfortably. “Thank you.”

“Tell you what, let me buy you a real drink. Celebrate your talent. A little something to loosen you up.”

“No, thank you. I’m really alright with soda.” Kimi turned toward the bartender, hoping he’d hurry up with the drinks.

The man didn't take the hint. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a suggestive murmur. “Come on, don't be shy. Just one drink. It'll be our little secret.”

Kimi felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach. He was acutely aware of being smaller, younger, and less experienced than this man.

Suddenly, a familiar arm draped itself across Kimi’s shoulders. “Everything alright here, mate?”

Lewis Hamilton's deep voice cut through the tension. Kimi looked up, relief washing over him. Lewis, after a controversial move to Ferrari at the end of last year, still felt like a mentor, someone Kimi could trust. His presence was a shield, a wall against the encroaching discomfort.

The older man’s smile faltered. He mumbled something about not realizing Kimi was with someone and quickly melted back into the crowd.

Lewis squeezed Kimi’s shoulder. “You okay? Was he bothering you?”

“Just a bit… pushy,” Kimi admitted, grateful for the intervention. “Thanks, Lewis. Really.”

“No problem, kid. Just looking out for you. You stay sharp, yeah? These parties can get a little… intense.” Lewis winked and moved off to join a group huddled around Charles Leclerc.

Kimi grabbed the sodas and started back towards Ollie. As he weaved through the crowd, someone bumped into him hard, almost sending the drinks flying. He stumbled, righting himself just in time. He glanced around, trying to get a glimpse of who had collided with him, but the person was already gone, swallowed by the throng.

Shrugging it off, he made his way back to Ollie. They clinked glasses, the fizzy sweetness a welcome distraction. The conversation flowed easily again, the earlier unease momentarily forgotten.

As Kimi finished his drink, a strange feeling began to creep over him. A light-headedness, a warmth that wasn't quite pleasant. He felt suddenly… disconnected.

“Ollie,” he said, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears. “I don’t… I don’t feel so good.”

Ollie’s face instantly creased with concern. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I just… I feel a bit dizzy. Hot. Maybe I just need some air.”

Kimi started to rise, but Ollie grabbed his arm. “Hold on a second. You look pale. Something’s not right.”

He helped Kimi to his feet, his grip firm and supportive. Instead of heading towards the exit, Ollie steered him in the opposite direction, towards a table where a cluster of familiar faces were gathered. Max Verstappen, Lando Norris, George Russell, Lewis, Charles Leclerc, and Carlos Sainz – a veritable pantheon of Formula One talent.

Ollie’s urgency drew their attention. "Guys, Kimi doesn't feel well. He said he feels dizzy and hot."

Lewis was instantly on alert. His eyes darted around the room, then locked onto Kimi’s face. “Did anyone… That man you talking to at the bar?”

Kimi nodded, his head swimming. "Just that… guy. He offered me a drink, but I said no. I swear I didn't drink anything else but soda."

The air around the table crackled with tension. George, Kimi's Mercedes teammate, was visibly pale. He took Kimi’s hand, his grip surprisingly strong. “What exactly do you feel, Kimi? Anything else?”

Before Kimi could answer, Lewis spoke, his voice low and tight. “He was drugged.”

George didn’t hesitate. “Right, we’re going to the hospital.”

He helped Kimi out, his arm securely around his waist. Ollie, his face etched with worry, followed close behind. Lewis, his expression grim, spoke to the others, likely filling them in on the details of his earlier encounter with the man at the bar.

The drive to the hospital was a blur. Kimi’s vision swam, and his limbs felt heavy and unresponsive. He mumbled incoherently, his thoughts fragmented and distorted. George kept talking to him, his voice calm and reassuring, trying to keep him conscious.

Ollie sat in the back, his knuckles white as he gripped the seat. He’d never seen Kimi like this, so vulnerable, so helpless. The image of the man at the bar, the casual offer of a drink, replayed in his mind, fuelling a burning rage.

At the hospital, the chaos of the emergency room was a disorienting assault on Kimi’s already overwhelmed senses. Doctors and nurses swarmed around him, asking questions, taking samples, hooking him up to monitors. He felt like a lab rat, a specimen under observation.

George stayed by his side, a constant presence in the swirling vortex of medical personnel. He answered questions on Kimi’s behalf, providing the medical history, the details of the incident. Ollie hovered nearby, offering silent support.

After what seemed like an eternity, a doctor finally emerged, his face grave.

“We’ve confirmed the presence of a sedative in Mr. Antonelli’s system. The dosage appears to be relatively low, but given his age and the potential interaction with any other substances he might have consumed, it was wise to bring him in.”

George’s jaw tightened. “What are the possible effects?”

“Dizziness, nausea, disorientation… in more severe cases, respiratory distress or even seizures. We’ll need to monitor him closely for the next few hours.”

“We have high hope that he will recover well and recover quickly.” Ollie and George let out deep breaths, relieved to know Kimi would be okay.

Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a tidal wave of sound washing over Kimi Antonelli. He could feel the vibrations through the soles of his racing boots, a primal rhythm that echoed the frantic beat of his heart. At eighteen, he was living a dream few dared to even whisper: a seat in Formula 1, with Mercedes no less.

He glanced at the sleek silver machine beside him on the grid. It was more than just a car; it was a symbol, a testament to years of relentless dedication, unwavering support from his family, and a talent that had caught the eye of Toto Wolff himself. But beneath the exhilaration throbbed a nervous energy, a constant hum of self-doubt that threatened to drown out the roar.

Ahead, in pole position, sat Max Verstappen. Kimi swallowed hard. Max wasn't just a competitor, he was an idol, a benchmark. He admired Max's raw aggression, the fearless way he attacked every corner, and the effortless confidence that seemed to radiate from him. He even mimicked Max’s laconic interviews, though his own words still came out sounding a bit too eager, too green.

Over the past few months, Max had surprisingly taken Kimi under his wing. He'd offered advice on tire management, track nuances, and even, to Kimi's bewildered amusement, the best places to get a decent steak in Monaco. It was an unexpected, almost fatherly mentorship, a connection that transcended the fierce rivalry of the sport.

The lights blinked on, five red beacons burning against the azure sky. Kimi gripped the wheel, his knuckles white. This was it. He was about to race against his heroes.

The race started clean. Kimi got a decent launch, slotting in behind his teammate, George Russell. He focused on maintaining his pace, managing his tires, and absorbing every ounce of information coming through his headset from his race engineer.

Lap after lap, he chipped away at the gap to George, pushing the car to its limit, but always mindful of the thin line between aggression and recklessness. He could see Max stretching his lead at the front, a blur of blue carving through the air.

Then, disaster struck.

Through the high-speed chicane, a sudden gust of wind caught the rear of his car. The back end snapped, throwing his machine into a violent spin. He wrestled with the steering wheel, frantically trying to regain control, but it was no use. He was a passenger, hurtling towards the unforgiving barrier.

The impact was brutal. The world exploded in a cacophony of screeching metal and shattering fiberglass. Pain lanced through his head, blurring his vision. He was disoriented, gasping for breath in the stifling cockpit.

His first instinct was to get out, to escape the mangled wreckage. But the harness wouldn’t release. He fumbled with the buckle, his fingers clumsy and unresponsive. Panic began to claw at his throat.

Then, he smelled it. The acrid, unmistakable scent of burning fuel.

~~~~~

Max was in the lead, comfortably managing the gap. The roar of his engine was music to his ears, the Red Bull responding perfectly to his every command. He was in his element, a predator hunting its prey.

Then, the red flag. The race was suspended. He frowned, his instincts kicking in. Something was wrong.

“Safety Car deployed, Max,” his engineer, Gianpiero, said over the radio. “There's been a significant incident at Turn 7.”

A knot of dread tightened in Max's stomach. He slowed, following the safety car, his mind racing. Then, the replay flashed on the big screens lining the track.

A mangled silver Mercedes, embedded in the barrier, smoke billowing from its shattered remains. The camera zoomed in, and Max recognized the number 12.

Kimi.

His blood ran cold. He scanned the scene, desperately searching for the telltale sign of a driver emerging from the wreckage. But there was nothing. There were no Marshall’s in sight either, likely still at least five minutes off.

He ignored his engineer’s frantic instructions, his focus solely on the stricken car ahead. Every second felt like an eternity. He saw the first wisps of flame licking at the engine cover.

Something snapped within him. This wasn't just a competitor; this was Kimi, the rookie he had begrudgingly grown fond of, the kid with the bright eyes and the insatiable hunger for speed. He couldn’t just sit here and wait. He couldn’t sit by and potentially watch an 18 year old die in a ball of flames.

He turned and slowed the Red Bull to a crawl, then brought it to a complete stop just before the crash, ignoring the safety car's signals. He unbuckled himself, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Ignoring the shouts from his engineer, the repercussions that could come  from, he jumped out of the car and sprinted towards the crash site.

The heat hit him like a physical blow. The air shimmered with the intensity of the flames, the smell of burning rubber and fuel stinging his nostrils. Officials were scrambling to get there but they were too far away.

He reached the Mercedes, the scene a horrifying tableau of crumpled metal and raging fire. He could hear Kimi's muffled cries coming from inside the cockpit.

"Kimi! Kimi, can you hear me?" Max yelled, his voice hoarse.

"Max... I'm stuck... the harness..." Kimi's voice was weak, choked with fear.

Max wrestled at the mangled cockpit, his hands burning on the hot metal. He yanked at the harness buckle, but it was jammed. The flames were growing, licking at the exposed parts of the chassis.

“Hold on, Kimi! Just hold on!”

He could see Kimi's face through the shattered visor, his eyes wide with terror, tears streaking down his cheeks. The flames were getting closer, licking at the dashboard.

Then, a figure appeared at his side. George.

George Russell, Kimi’s teammate, had seen Max stop and, realizing the urgency, had sprinted from his own car to help. He didn't hesitate, didn’t care about the rules when there was a life on the line.

"The buckle's jammed!" Max shouted, his voice ragged. "Help me rip it open!"

Together, they strained against the mangled metal, using all their combined strength. With a final, desperate heave, the buckle finally gave way.

Max reached in, grabbing Kimi under the arms. "Come on, kid! We're getting you out of here!"

Kimi was limp, disoriented. Max and George dragged him from the car, pulling him clear of the immediate danger. They stumbled back, collapsing in a heap, just as the entire car erupted in a ball of fire.

They lay gasping on the grass, the heat of the flames still radiating around them. Kimi was shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face.

Max pulled him close, wrapping his arms around the trembling young driver. "You're okay, Kimi. You're safe now. We got you."

George knelt beside them, his face etched with concern. He put a hand on Kimi's shoulder, offering a silent reassurance.

"It's alright, Kimi," George said softly. "You're safe. We're all here."

Kimi clung to them both, burying his face in Max's shoulder. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving him weak and vulnerable. The fear he had suppressed during the crash now washed over him in a tidal wave.

"I... I thought I was going to die," he sobbed.

Max held him tighter. "You weren't, Kimi. We weren't going to let that happen. We wouldn't let that happen."

Slowly, the shaking subsided. As the medical team finally arrived, the cameras broadcasting the event worldwide, they helped Kimi up and onto a stretcher.

As he was being taken away, Kimi looked back at Max and George, his eyes filled with gratitude. A faint smile flickered across his lips before the pain took over.

Max and George watched him go, a shared sense of relief washing over them. The race was forgotten. The championship standings were irrelevant. All that mattered was that Kimi was alive.

They had faced the inferno together, and they had saved a life. In the crucible of that terrifying moment, a bond had been forged, a connection that went beyond the rivalry of the track. It was a bond of respect, of camaraderie, and, for Max at least, a protective instinct that had proven stronger than any rule in the book. The prodigy was safe, and that was all that mattered.

Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a tidal wave of sound washing over Kimi Antonelli as he stood on the starting grid in Australia. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the cacophony. This was it. His first Formula One race.

At just eighteen years old, Kimi was living a dream he’d nurtured since he was a kid karting in Imola. But it was a dream laced with an almost unbearable pressure. He was sitting in Lewis Hamilton’s old seat at Mercedes, a seat warmed by seven world championships. Hamilton, the legend, had moved to Ferrari, igniting a frenzy amongst everyone and leaving a gaping hole in the Mercedes lineup.

Kimi wasn’t just filling a vacant spot. He was being heralded as the ‘next big thing’, the ‘heir apparent’, the ‘next Schumacher’. Headlines screamed his name, comparing him to the greats. The media had latched onto his raw talent, his natural speed, and the fact that he'd skipped Formula 3 entirely, jumping straight into Formula 2 and then into the most prestigious racing series in the world.

He tried to block it out, to focus on the task at hand. But the weight of expectation was a tangible thing, a lead blanket smothering his enthusiasm. He knew the world was watching, waiting to see if he’d live up to the hype.

The lights went out, and a surge of adrenaline propelled him forward. The initial chaos of the first corner settled, and Kimi found himself holding his own. He navigated the twists and turns of the Australian Circuit with a focus he hadn't known he possessed. He’d qualified P16, he had gained several places.

By the last few lap, he was running in fifth, battling with seasoned veterans who had been in the sport longer than he’d been alive. The rain was falling, a fine mist turning the track treacherous. Kimi thrived in the wet conditions. His karting days had honed his car control and his ability to read the changing grip levels. He felt alive, exhilarated.

He finished the race in fourth, a stunning result for a rookie in his debut. The paddock buzzed with excitement. He’d proven he belonged. He’d shown glimpses of the brilliance everyone had predicted.

But the honeymoon wouldn’t last. The pressure only intensified.

~~~~~

Race after race, the expectation grew. Every mistake, every slight miscalculation, was magnified under the relentless spotlight. Kimi tried to remain composed, to focus on his own performance, but the noise was overwhelming. He could feel the weight of the world on his young shoulders.

He struggled to adapt to the complex strategies, the tyre management, and the constant barrage of information from his team. The seasoned drivers seemed to anticipate every move, every nuance of the car. Kimi felt like he was constantly playing catch-up.

Then came Imola, his home race. The pressure was immense. The Italian fans, desperate for a new hero, had embraced him with open arms. He'd even caught glimpses of banners with his name alongside Schumacher's. He felt the weight of a nation's hopes resting on him.

From the start of the weekend, things went wrong. He struggled with the car setup, battled understeer in every corner. He qualified poorly, starting in P12. He pushed too hard in the race, trying to make up lost ground, and on lap 28, it all went wrong.

He misjudged the braking point into Turn 7, the car locking up and sliding helplessly towards the barriers. He braced himself for the impact.

The crash was violent, a sickening crunch of metal and carbon fibre. The safety car was deployed, and Kimi sat in the wreckage, his heart pounding in his chest. He was okay physically, but emotionally, he was shattered.

He watched as the marshals cleared the wreckage, his car – or what was left of it – being lifted onto a truck. The race was over for him.

The walk back to the paddock was agonizing. Heads turned, eyes followed him, some filled with sympathy, others with disappointment, and, he thought, even a hint of schadenfreude.

The whispers started the moment he stepped out of the medical car. He couldn’t make out the exact words, but the tone was unmistakable. "Overhyped," one woman muttered to her friend. "Just another flash in the pan," declared a man striding past. Someone else sneered, "Hamilton's replacement? More like a replacement for a crash test dummy."

Each comment was a dagger to the heart. The weight of expectation, already crushing, now threatened to suffocate him. He hadn't just failed himself, he’d failed everyone. He’d confirmed the doubts of the doubters.

He stumbled into his driver's room, the sanctuary he’d usually found solace in now feeling like a prison. He slammed the door shut, the sound echoing in the small space. He couldn't face anyone, not his engineer, not his trainer, certainly not Toto Wolff, the Mercedes team principal.

He collapsed onto the plush leather couch, drawing his knees up to his chest. He buried his face in his knees and let the tears flow. He tried to stifle the sobs, but they came out in ragged gasps. He was just a kid, after all. An eighteen-year-old kid carrying the burden of a legacy he wasn't sure he was ready for.

He stayed there for what felt like an eternity, lost in his despair. The world outside, with its cheering crowds and roaring engines, seemed a million miles away. He was alone, utterly and completely alone, consumed by the shame and disappointment of his failure.

The gentle click of the door opening startled him. He shot his head up, his tear-filled eyes widening in surprise. Standing in the doorway was Max Verstappen, the reigning world champion.

Kimi felt a wave of panic wash over him. He was mortified. The last person he wanted to see him like this was Max. He quickly tried to wipe away the tears, but his face was blotchy and red.

“Don’t,” Max said softly, closing the door behind him. He stepped further into the room. “It’s okay to cry, Kimi. Everyone needs to sometimes.”

Kimi just stared at him, speechless. Max, the unflappable, seemingly invincible Max Verstappen, was standing in his driver's room, offering him comfort. It didn’t seem real.

Max walked over and sat down on the edge of the couch, careful not to crowd him. He didn’t say anything, just waited.

“I… I messed up,” Kimi finally stammered, his voice thick with emotion. “I crashed. And everyone is saying…” He trailed off, unable to repeat the hurtful words he’d heard in the paddock.

Max nodded understandingly. “I know. The paddock is a cruel place. Everyone loves to build you up, just so they can tear you down.”

He paused, then looked Kimi directly in the eye. “Being so young in this sport… it’s not easy. The pressure is immense. I know what it’s like, Kimi. I was just seventeen when I started. Seventeen! I was still in school, just like you.”

Kimi looked at him, surprised. He'd always seen Max as a force of nature, an unstoppable machine. It was hard to imagine him as a vulnerable teenager.

“You know,” Max continued, “In my first six races, I DNF’d four times.”

“I know but… you’re Max Verstappen,” Kimi protested weakly. “You’re a world champion.”

Max chuckled. “Yeah, well, I didn't start out that way. I made mistakes, I crashed, I had my share of doubters. People wrote me off all the time. Hell, I probably cried myself to sleep a few times too."

Kimi couldn't help but crack a small smile. He’d always seen Max as untouchable, an insurmountable force. It was strangely comforting to hear him admit to his own struggles.

“Seventeen or eighteen,” Max said, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s bullshit. You're still a kid, Kimi, in my eyes. A kid who managed to make it to Formula One, a kid who got P4 in his first race in the rain. Just because you crashed seven races in, does not mean you’re not a good driver.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. “Look, Kimi, you’re incredibly talented. Don’t let a few mistakes, and the noise from the outside, define you. This is a long game, and you’ve got a lot of potential.”

He pointed a finger at Kimi’s chest. “Remember, you’re here for a reason. You earned this spot. Don’t let anyone take that away from you. Ever.”

Max stood up, his gaze unwavering. “I’m always here if you need to talk, Kimi. Ignore the noise, focus on the driving. And remember to breathe.” He winked. "And maybe sneak in a pizza tonight. You deserve it.”

He turned to leave, then paused at the door. “And seriously, ignore what everyone else says. People just like to put others down, but none of them would be able to achieve what you are achieving."

Kimi's eyes were teary again, but this time they were tears of relief. A knot that had been tightening in his chest for weeks began to loosen. Max’s words had been a lifeline, a reminder that he wasn’t alone, that even the best had faced similar challenges.

He took a deep breath, and a small voice, filled with gratitude, escaped his lips. “Thank you, Max.”

He hesitated for a moment, then, emboldened by Max’s unexpected kindness, he asked, almost in a whisper, “Can… can I have a hug, please? I-If it’s okay with you?”

Max didn’t respond verbally. He simply turned around and opened his arms. Kimi didn’t hesitate. He launched himself into Max’s embrace, clinging to him tightly. Max returned the hug with a strength that surprised Kimi. It was a silent exchange of understanding, a shared acknowledgment of the burdens they both carried.

In that moment, Kimi felt a glimmer of hope rekindle within him. The weight of the world hadn't disappeared entirely, but it felt a little lighter. He still had a long way to go, a lot to learn, but he knew he wasn't alone. And maybe, just maybe, he could still live up to the hype, after all. The hug from Max was reassuring and comforting.

Chapter Text

The Italian sun beat down on the Autodromo Nazionale Monza like a vengeful god. Even the usually stoic mechanics were glistening, the humid air clinging to everything like a second skin. For Andrea “Kimi” Antonelli, it felt more like a death shroud.

Eighteen years old, a Formula 1 rookie, driving for Mercedes – it was a dream come true, a fairytale whispered in the paddock, a legend in the making. He’d blitzed through Formula 2, leaving a trail of bewildered rivals in his wake. Now, he was here, in the pinnacle of motorsport, sharing a garage with George Russell, taking the seat of seven time World Champion Lewis Hamilton.

But today, the dream felt less like a fairytale and more like a nightmare baked in a convection oven.

Kimi wiped the sweat from his brow, the Nomex balaclava already soaked. The free practice session had been punishing. The car, felt twitchy, fighting him at every turn. He'd been pushing, trying to find the limit, impress the team, prove he deserved to be here.

“Everything alright, Kimi?” Riccardo, his race engineer, asked over the radio, his voice calm and professional.

“Yeah, fine,” Kimi lied, his voice slightly shaky. “Just getting used to the track conditions.”

Riccardo didn’t press, but Kimi knew he wasn’t fooled. The data didn’t lie. He was losing time in the braking zones; his lines were ragged. He needed to find something, and fast.

He pushed harder, braking later, accelerating earlier. The car snapped sideways, and he wrestled it back under control, his heart pounding in his chest. He was on the edge, flirting with disaster.

Back in the garage, the team was already preparing for his next run. Bottled water, energy gels, and cooling vests were laid out. Kimi usually thrived in the pressure, fuelled by adrenaline and the roar of the engine. But today, something was different. He felt lightheaded, his vision blurring at the edges.

“Need a few minutes,” he mumbled to Riccardo, before retreating to the quiet corner of the garage that served as his temporary sanctuary. He sat heavily on a folding chair, the heat radiating off the asphalt even in the shade.

He took a long swig of water, but it did little to quell the growing discomfort. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on his breathing, but the world seemed to spin around him.

“Just nerves,” he told himself. “Everyone gets them.”

He pictured his father, a former rally driver, always calm and collected, even when his car was on fire. He tried to channel that same stoicism, but the nausea was rising in his throat.

He stood up, intending to grab another bottle of water, but his legs felt weak and shaky. He stumbled, grabbing onto a nearby toolbox for support. The world swam before him, a kaleidoscope of colours and distorted shapes.

He tried to call out, to ask for help, but his voice was lost in the roar of engines echoing around the track.

Then, the world went black.

~~~~~

Charles Leclerc hated Monza.

Okay, maybe not hated. He loved the history, the passion of the drivers, the raw speed of the track. But Monza had a way of breaking hearts. The pressure there was always amplified, the expectation suffocating. Plus, today, the heat was brutal.

He’d just finished his final practice run, and his Ferrari felt…okay. Not great, but okay. He knew they had a long way to go to catch the Mercedes and Red Bulls, but he wasn't one to shy away from a challenge.

As he walked back towards the Ferrari garage, he noticed the Mercedes garage was unusually quiet. He saw George Russell talking intently with Toto Wolff, their faces etched with concern. Curiosity piqued; Charles slowed down.

He saw the young rookie, Antonelli, slumped against a toolbox, seemingly unconscious.

"Kimi?" Charles called out, breaking into a jog. He reached the young driver's side, kneeling beside him. Kimi was pale, his face slick with sweat. His breathing was shallow and ragged.

“Hey, Kimi, can you hear me?” Charles shook him gently. Kimi groaned, his eyelids fluttering.

"Charles...?" he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

"Yeah, it's me. What happened?"

Kimi squeezed his eyes shut, wincing. "Don't...feel good..."

Charles felt his own pulse quicken. He knew the dangers of dehydration and heatstroke, especially in these extreme conditions. He reached for Kimi's wrist, feeling for a pulse. It was weak and rapid.

He looked around, spotting a half-empty water bottle nearby. He carefully lifted Kimi's head and tried to get him to drink. Kimi managed a swallow, but then gagged, pushing the bottle away.

“Not good…” he whispered, his eyes glazed over.

Charles knew he couldn't wait for the Mercedes team to notice. Time was of the essence. He looked around, shouting. “Medical! We need medical attention here! Antonelli’s passed out!”

His voice cut through the noise, drawing attention from the nearby garages. A few mechanics rushed over, followed by the race marshals.

Charles stayed by Kimi's side, holding his hand. "It's okay, Kimi. Help is on the way. Just stay with me." He spoke in Italian, hoping it would be more comforting.

Within minutes, the medical team arrived with a stretcher and oxygen mask. They quickly assessed Kimi's condition and transferred him to the medical centre.

As they wheeled him away, Charles felt a wave of relief wash over him. He'd acted quickly, instinctively, without thinking. He'd just done what anyone would have done.

But as he watched the ambulance disappear down the pit lane, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd done more than just save a fellow driver. He'd connected with someone, on a deeper level, in the most unexpected of circumstances.

~~~~~

Kimi lay on a cot in the medical centre, hooked up to an IV drip, the oxygen mask fogging with each breath.

He was groggy, disoriented, but slowly regaining awareness. He remembered the heat, the dizziness, the blackness. He remembered Charles's voice, calm and reassuring.

Dr. Roberts, the FIA medical delegate, stood beside him, her expression professional and concerned. "You gave us quite a scare, Kimi. Severe dehydration and heat exhaustion. You're lucky Charles found you when he did."

Kimi closed his eyes, a wave of shame washing over him. He, the iron man, the prodigy, had collapsed under the pressure. He'd let down his team, embarrassed himself.

"How long...?" he mumbled, his voice raspy.

"You'll need to stay here for observation overnight," Dr. Roberts replied. "We need to rehydrate you and monitor your vital signs. You won't be participating in qualifying tomorrow."

Kimi groaned. "Qualifying...?"

He knew what that meant. He'd be starting at the back of the grid, if he was even cleared to race at all. His chances of making an impression, of proving himself, were now slim to none.

Later that evening, George Russell came to visit him. His face was etched with worry, but his voice was kind and supportive.

"How are you feeling, mate?" he asked, sitting beside Kimi's bed.

"Rubbish," Kimi admitted, forcing a weak smile. "But...I'll be okay."

George squeezed his shoulder. "Don't beat yourself up about it. This is a tough sport. Happens to the best of us. The important thing is you're getting better."

He paused, then added, "And thanks to Charles, you're still here to get better."

Kimi nodded, a wave of gratitude washing over him. "Yeah...I need to thank him."

"He's a good guy," George said. "Competitive on the track, but always fair."

George stayed for a while, chatting about the car, the track, anything to take Kimi's mind off his predicament. Before leaving, he said, "Don't worry about qualifying. We'll figure something out. Just focus on getting some rest. We need you back out there, fighting."

After George left, Kimi lay in the darkness, his thoughts swirling. He thought about Charles, about his kindness, his quick thinking. He thought about his father, about the lessons he'd taught him about resilience and humility.

He realized that he had a lot to learn, not just about driving, but about himself. He'd been so focused on proving himself, on living up to the hype, that he'd forgotten to listen to his body. He'd pushed too hard, too fast, and paid the price.

He knew he had a long road ahead of him, filled with challenges and setbacks. But he also knew that he wasn't alone. He had a team behind him, a mentor in George, and now, perhaps, even an ally in Charles.

Chapter Text

The roar of the Mercedes engine was a distant memory, replaced by the humming of fluorescent lights and the rhythmic tap of Kimi Antonelli’s fingers on the carbon fibre of his steering wheel. At eighteen, he was the youngest driver on the Formula 1 grid, a prodigy plucked from Formula 2 by the Mercedes team, a dream come true, and a pressure cooker all rolled into one.

It was late, well past ten. The mechanics had long since packed up their tools, Toto Wolff had likely already moved on to his next high-stakes business call, and even George Russell, his teammate, had wished him a good night hours ago. But Kimi couldn't leave. Not yet. He’d had a difficult practice session, struggling to find the perfect balance in the car, and the looming Qualifying session tomorrow was eating at him.

He ran another simulation, his eyes glued to the telemetry data on the screen. He adjusted the brake bias, tweaking the differential settings, searching for that elusive tenth of a second that could make all the difference. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, something clicked. He saw it, a subtle change in the data that suggested a smoother entry into Turn 5.

A tired but satisfied smile touched his lips. He saved the settings, powered down the simulator, and stretched his aching muscles. The expansive Mercedes garage was almost eerily quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the building's systems and the distant rumble of traffic outside.

He grabbed his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and started to walk toward the exit, the neon Mercedes star a beacon in the gloom. As he rounded a corner, heading for the security checkpoint, a shadow detached itself from the darkness.

A hand clamped over his mouth, stifling his breath. He instinctively thrashed, his heart leaping into his throat. "Mmf!" He tried to scream, but the sound was muffled, lost in the cavernous space.

Panic threatened to overwhelm him. He clawed at the hand, trying to break free, but the grip was too strong. He was being dragged backward, away from the light, toward the shadows.

"Let...go!" he managed to croak, the words barely audible.

His captor ignored him, pulling him roughly toward a workbench littered with discarded tools. Fear turned to icy dread as he realized what was happening.

He opened his mouth and screamed, a raw, desperate sound that echoed through the otherwise silent garage. "Help!"

The man chuckled, a low, guttural sound that sent shivers down Kimi's spine. "Quiet, little star. No one can hear you now." He slammed Kimi against the workbench, pinning him down with his weight. "You're even more beautiful up close."

A surge of adrenaline coursed through Kimi. He bucked and twisted, fighting with the desperation of a cornered animal. He kicked out, connecting with something solid, but the man barely flinched. The man began to speak again, but Kimi’s mind was racing, trying to find any escape.

Then, a sound.

A roar. It wasn’t the roar of an engine, but something just as powerful, just as visceral.

“Get off him!”

A figure launched from the darkness, a blur of motion and fury. The attacker was thrown off balance, a surprised grunt escaping his lips. It was enough for Kimi to scramble away, his back pressed against the cold metal of the workbench, gasping for air.

He watched in a daze as the newcomer – Max Verstappen - wrestled with the attacker. Max, the Red Bull driver and reigning champion who was known for his controlled aggression on the track, was now a whirlwind of raw emotion. He landed a solid punch, followed by another, and another.

The attacker, clearly outmatched, finally managed to break free. He stumbled backward, his face contorted with rage and fear. He hesitated for a moment, then turned and fled, disappearing into the labyrinthine corridors of the garage.

Max didn't give chase. His focus was entirely on Kimi. He turned, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his eyes blazing with anger. Then, as he looked at Kimi, his expression softened, and concern replaced fury.

"Kimi? Are you okay?"

Kimi couldn't speak. He was shaking uncontrollably, his body trembling from the adrenaline and the sheer terror of what had just happened. He just stared at Max, his eyes wide and haunted.

Max knelt beside him, his voice gentle. "It's alright. He's gone. You're safe now." He reached out, hesitating for a moment, then gently placed a hand on Kimi's arm.

Kimi flinched at the touch, but didn't pull away. He was still trying to process what had happened, the images replaying in his mind like a broken record.

"He… he grabbed me," Kimi stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "He pinned me down."

Max's jaw tightened. "I know. I saw him. Are you hurt?" He began to examine Kimi, his eyes scanning for any signs of injury.

"No," Kimi said, shaking his head. "Just… scared."

Max pulled him into a hug, holding him tight. "It's okay to be scared. Anyone would be. But you're safe now. I promise."

~~~~~

The next few hours were a blur. Security was alerted, the police were called, and Kimi was questioned. Max stayed by his side throughout the ordeal, a silent, reassuring presence.

The police promised to investigate, but the attacker had vanished without a trace. The incident was a stark reminder of the vulnerability that even the glamorous world of Formula 1 couldn't erase.

That night, Kimi couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the man's face, felt his hand on his mouth, heard his whispered threats. He tossed and turned in his bed, the memory of the attack a cold knot in his stomach.

He replayed the scene in his head, wondering if he could have done something differently, if he could have fought harder. But the truth was, he had been terrified, paralysed by fear.

He thought about Max, about his sudden appearance, about the way he had fought to protect him. He didn't understand why Max had stayed so late. He didn’t even understand why he had been the one to come.

He got out of bed and walked to the window, staring out at the city lights. He was a Formula 1 driver, a star in the making. He was supposed to be fearless, invincible. But tonight, he felt anything but. He felt small, vulnerable, and utterly alone.

He picked up his phone and dialled a number.

"Max?" he said, his voice trembling slightly. "It's Kimi."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Kimi? Are you alright?

"I… I can't sleep," Kimi confessed. "I keep thinking about it."

"I understand," Max said softly. "Do you want me to come over?"

Kimi hesitated. He didn't want to be a burden, but he couldn't bear to be alone.

"Yes," he said finally. "Please.”

A few minutes later, a knock on the hotel room door made him jump. He peered through the peephole, his hand trembling as he unbolted the lock. Max stood in the hallway, dressed in a plain t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair tousled from sleep. He looked even bigger and more imposing than he did in his racing suit.

He stepped inside, his gaze immediately assessing the room, the windows, the exits. "You okay?"

Kimi nodded, but his voice was barely a whisper. "Thank you… for coming."

Max closed the door and leaned against it, his arms crossed. "What happened tonight… it was messed up. You shouldn't have to deal with that." He pushed himself off the door and walked over to the bed, sitting down beside Kimi.

Kimi huddled against the headboard, pulling the duvet around him like a shield. He didn't meet Max's gaze.

"Look at me, Kimi." Max's voice was gentle, almost hesitant.

Kimi slowly lifted his head. Max's eyes were filled with concern, a raw empathy that surprised him.

"You're safe now," Max said, his voice firm. "He's not here. I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

Kimi wanted to believe him, desperately. But the fear was a cold knot in his stomach, refusing to loosen.

Max reached out and took Kimi's hand, his touch surprisingly warm and reassuring. "Try to breathe. In and out. Just focus on my voice."

He guided Kimi through slow, deliberate breaths, his touch a grounding presence in the swirling vortex of his fear.

Time passed. Max didn't leave. He stayed on the bed, talking softly about anything and everything – Formula 1, karting stories from his childhood, even the ridiculous drama of the off-season. He deliberately avoided mentioning the attack, knowing that forcing Kimi to relive it would only make things worse.

Slowly, Kimi began to relax. Max's presence was a shield, a buffer against the darkness. He found himself drawn to the quiet strength that emanated from the older driver, a strength that he desperately needed.

He still couldn't shake the feeling of vulnerability, but it was less overwhelming, less paralysing.

Eventually, exhaustion took its toll. Kimi's eyelids grew heavy, and he found himself leaning against Max's shoulder.

"You need to sleep," Max murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from Kimi's forehead.

Kimi shook his head, fear flickering in his eyes. "I can't… I'll see him again."

Max sighed. "Okay. I'll stay right here. I won't let him get to you. You're safe, Kimi. I promise."

He shifted slightly, making himself more comfortable. "Just close your eyes. I'll be here when you wake up."

Kimi hesitated, his body tense. But the warmth of Max's presence, the unwavering promise in his voice, finally broke through his defences. He closed his eyes, his grip on Max's hand tightening.

He drifted off to sleep, the image of Max's protective gaze the last thing he saw.

Chapter Text

The Spanish sun beat down on Barcelona, a familiar warmth for the Formula One circus, but a brand new intensity for four of the rookies navigating their first full season.
Friday practice had been a mixed bag. Kimi had shown flashes of brilliance, but also the inexperience of a teenager thrown into the deep end. Ollie had impressed with his raw pace, pushing his Haas to its limit. Jack, as always, was consistent, steadily improving his times. And Isack had struggled with the balance of his car, a frustrating day mirrored by his own anxious energy.
With the afternoon free from track commitments, they decided to explore a bit of Barcelona. This wasn't just relaxation; it was a chance to bond, to find a shared space outside the cutthroat world of Formula One.
"Come on, lighten up!" Ollie yelled, his voice echoing in the narrow street. He and Isack were perched on a low stone wall, attempting to walk along it like tightrope walkers.
"Careful, you two," Jack warned, his brow furrowed in concern. He was the oldest and, perhaps, the most responsible of the group. Years of waiting for his chance had instilled a careful reasonableness in him.
Kimi, initially hesitant, watched them with a small smile. "They're just having fun, Jack. Let them be." He impulsively clambered onto the wall, wobbling precariously.
"Kimi!" Jack's voice was sharp, instinctively stepping forwards. "Get down. You don't need to be proving anything."
Kimi, surprised by the intensity in Jack's voice, huffed reluctantly and stopped walking. "Alright, alright," he muttered, a hint of defiance in his tone.
Jack sighed and extended a hand to help Kimi down, ruffling his hair gently once Kimi’s feet were on the ground. "Just be careful, okay? It's not worth risking an injury for a bit of fun."
They continued their walk, the atmosphere lightening as they chatted about the day's sessions, the quirks of their cars, and the pressure of living up to the hype. The narrow streets bustled with tourists and locals, the air thick with the scent of paella and the sound of lively conversation.
Then, everything changed.
Out of nowhere, a hand shot out, grabbing Kimi by the hair, yanking his head back with brutal force, another hand gripping his throat. A sharp cry escaped Kimi's lips, a sound of pure, unexpected pain. The man, his face contorted with rage, tightened his grip on Kimi's throat and slammed him down onto the pavement. Kimi's head hit the hard surface with a sickening thud, and his vision swam with black spots.
"Get the fuck away from him!" Jack roared; his voice filled with primal fury. He launched himself at the attacker, tackling him with a force that sent them both sprawling. Jack landed a solid punch to the man's jaw, a blow that seemed to momentarily stun him.
The man, his bravado gone, scrambled to his feet and fled into the crowd, disappearing as quickly as he'd appeared.
Isack, Ollie, and Jack rushed to Kimi's side. He was lying motionless on the ground, his eyes glazed over with pain. Tears streamed down his face as he tried to sit up, a strangled sob escaping his lips. He collapsed back down, his hand instinctively flying to his head.
"Kimi! Kimi, are you okay?" Isack's voice was laced with panic. "What the hell just happened?" He looked at Jack, his eyes wide with fear. "What do we do?"
Jack, his own adrenaline pumping, snapped at Isack. "Calm down! Panicking isn't going to help him." He knelt beside Kimi, gently shifting his head into his lap. "Kimi, how bad does it hurt?"
Kimi sniffled, his voice barely a whisper. "My head... I've got a really bad headache."
Ollie, his face pale with shock, pulled out his phone. "I'm calling Charles," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "He'll know what to do."
Jack, his jaw tight with anger and worry, scanned the surrounding area, his eyes searching for any sign of the attacker. He needed to protect Kimi, to make sure this never happened again. He found himself fighting back the raw instinct to hunt the man down. His focus needed to be on Kimi.
Ten agonizing minutes crawled by. Kimi remained silent, his breathing shallow and ragged. Jack stroked his hair, whispering assurances that everything would be alright, though he knew he was as much reassuring himself as comforting the young driver.
The screech of tires announced the arrival of Charles Leclerc’s rental car. Charles and Carlos Sainz, their faces etched with concern, leaped out and hurried over to the group.
"Ollie called," Charles said, his voice low and urgent. "What happened?"
Isack, still visibly shaken, blurted out the story, his words tumbling over each other in a frantic rush. Charles listened patiently, placing a calming hand on Isack's shoulder. "Okay, okay, breathe. Everything is going to be alright."
"He probably has a concussion," Charles continued, his eyes fixed on Kimi. "We need to get him to the medics and have them check him out. Then they can decide if we need to take him to the hospital."
Carlos, his expression grim, gently scooped Kimi into his arms. "Come on, kiddo," he murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Let's get you looked at." He carried Kimi to the car and carefully settled him in the back seat, sitting beside him before pulling him onto his lap and resting a protective arm around his shoulders.
Jack climbed into the passenger seat, his eyes still fixed on Kimi. Ollie and Isack squeezed into the back, their faces reflecting the weight of the situation. Charles started the engine and pulled away from the curb, his grip tight on the steering wheel.
"He'll be fine," Charles said, his voice firm but reassuring. "He's a tough kid."
The drive to the circuit's medical centre was silent, punctuated only by Kimi's occasional whimpers and the soft reassurances from Carlos. The air in the car hung heavy with anxiety, a stark contrast to the carefree atmosphere of just an hour earlier.
~~~~~
The medical team at the circuit were efficient and professional. Kimi was quickly examined, and the diagnosis was, as Charles had suspected, a concussion. They cleaned and bandaged the scrapes on his head and ordered him to rest.
As Kimi drifted in and out of sleep in a darkened room, the other drivers waited anxiously in the hallway. The silence was thick with unspoken questions and gnawing worry.
"This is insane," Isack finally broke the silence, pacing back and forth. "What kind of person does something like that?"
"Someone with a serious problem," Carlos replied grimly. "Hopefully, the police will find him."
"I don't understand why someone would do that." Ollie mumbled, staring at his hands. "He's just a kid."
Jack remained silent, his jaw still tight with anger. He kept replaying the scene in his head, wondering if he could have done something differently, if he could have prevented the attack.
Charles, sensing Jack’s self-blame, put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't beat yourself up, Jack. You reacted instinctively, you protected him. That's all that matters."
As Kimi rested, news of the incident spread like wildfire. Social media exploded with outrage and concern. The official press release from Mercedes was carefully worded, condemning the attack and assuring everyone that Kimi's safety was their top priority.
Toto Wolff, the Mercedes team principal, arrived at the circuit shortly after. He spoke quietly with the doctors and then with the shaken rookies. He ensured Kimi was receiving the best possible care and promised a full investigation.
"This is a reminder," Toto said, his voice grave, "that even in this privileged world, we are not immune to the dangers and madness of the outside world. But we will not be intimidated. We will continue to do what we love, and we will support Kimi every step of the way."
That night, as the sun set over Barcelona, casting long shadows over the empty pit lane, the four rookies found themselves drawn together, huddled in a corner of the Mercedes hospitality unit. The shared trauma had forged a bond between them, a sense of camaraderie that transcended their individual ambitions. The incident had stripped away the glamour and the excitement, leaving them facing the stark reality of the pressures and the dangers that came with their profession.
Kimi, pale and subdued, sat quietly, his head throbbing. The experience had shaken him to his core, shattering his naive belief in the inherent goodness of people.
"Thanks, Jack," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "For... you know."
Jack simply nodded, squeezing Kimi's shoulder gently. "Anytime, Kimi. Anytime."

Chapter Text

The Monza grandstands roared, a cacophony of Italian passion that vibrated through Kimi Antonelli's very bones. At eighteen, he was the youngest driver on the grid, thrust into the deep end of Formula 1 with a seat at Mercedes, a team steeped in history and expectation. This was his fifth race, and the initial euphoria had long since faded, replaced by the brutal reality of the sport: relentless pressure, cutthroat competition, and a schedule that chewed you up and spat you out.

Today had been particularly brutal. Free practice had been hampered by a mechanical issue, costing him valuable track time. Qualifying had been a nail-biter, barely scraping into Q2. And the race… the race had been a chaotic symphony of near misses, DRS overtakes, and tyre management that felt like an impossible equation.

He'd finished tenth, not a bad result considering everything. But as he navigated the snaking corridors of the Mercedes garage, dodging mechanics and engineers, the weight of the world pressed down on him. Every muscle ached, his head throbbed, and the blinding glare of the Italian sun, magnified by the white walls of the paddock, felt like a personal assault.

He needed a moment. Just a sliver of peace.

He peeled himself away from the throng, slipping behind a stack of discarded tyres in a quieter corner of the garage. He sank to the ground, back against the cool, unforgiving concrete wall. The roar of the celebrating Ferrari fans in the distance felt like a distant, mocking echo.

He closed his eyes, trying to block out the noise, the heat, the exhaustion. But it was a losing battle. His eyelids felt heavy, weighted down by sandbags. He fought them, willing himself to stay awake, to look professional, to be… Kimi Antonelli, the Formula 1 driver. Not Kimi, the tired kid.

He opened his eyes, focusing on a stray wrench that lay on the floor a few feet away. He stared at it, trying to ground himself, to find some kind of anchor in the relentless storm inside his head.

His head bobbed forward. He jerked it back up, straightening, forcing himself to stay alert. He was losing.

Then, a shadow fell across him.

He blinked, his vision blurry. A figure settled beside him, leaning against the same wall. The familiar scent of aftershave and subtle, expensive cologne wafted over him.

"Rough day?" a voice, laced with a slight French accent, asked quietly.

Kimi recognized the voice instantly. Pierre Gasly. Alpine driver.

Kimi mumbled a noncommittal sound, not wanting to admit how completely and utterly drained he was.

Pierre chuckled softly. "Don't worry, Kimi. We've all been there."

He fell silent, and Kimi was grateful for the understanding quiet. He continued to fight the creeping fatigue, but it was overwhelming. He was losing the war.

Then, Pierre spoke again, his voice even softer this time. "Hey, you okay? You look like you're about to pass out."

He reached out, gently placing a hand on Kimi's shoulder. The contact was surprisingly comforting.

"Just… tired," Kimi confessed, the words slurring slightly.

"Yeah, I can see that. Come on."

Before Kimi could react, Pierre subtly maneuvered closer, angling his shoulder towards Kimi. "Lean on me, kid. Just for a minute."

Kimi hesitated. He knew this wasn't professional. He was a Mercedes driver, a representative of a global brand. He couldn't be seen collapsing on another driver, especially not an Alpine. But the exhaustion had finally won. He was too tired to care.

With a sigh, he let his head fall against Pierre's shoulder. The fabric of his racing overalls was rough against his cheek, but the contact was surprisingly grounding. The weight of his head, which moments before had felt unbearable, seemed lighter now, shared by someone else.

He closed his eyes, and this time, he didn't fight it. The roar of the celebrating Ferrari fans faded into a distant hum. The throbbing in his head subsided. The warmth of Pierre's body beside him was surprisingly soothing.

It didn't take long. The fight had been long and hard, and his reserves were completely depleted. He drifted off to sleep.

~~~~~

Pierre sat perfectly still, his breath shallow and even. He could feel the weight of Kimi's head on his shoulder, the soft rise and fall of his chest with each breath. He felt a strange protectiveness wash over him. This kid, still in his teens, still in school, had been thrown into the pressure cooker of Formula 1, and he was struggling to cope. Pierre, having weathered his own storms in the paddock, felt a pang of empathy.

He glanced around, making sure no one was watching. He didn't want Kimi to be embarrassed. He knew how brutal the F1 community could be.

He was about to shift slightly to try and get more comfortable when he heard a rustle of movement behind him. He tensed, ready to defend Kimi from any unwanted attention.

It was Lando Norris, McLaren driver and notorious paddock prankster. He was followed by Carlos Sainz, Williams, and George Russell, Kimi's teammate.

Lando’s eyes widened, and a mischievous grin spread across his face. “Well, well, well. What have we here?” he whispered, trying to suppress a snicker.

Carlos let out a soft chuckle. "Look at the little rookie. Completely crashed."

George, usually impeccably professional, couldn't help but smile. “He’s had a long day. I haven't seen him this exhausted before.”

Pierre glared at them, silently warning them to keep their voices down. "He's sleeping. Leave him alone."

Lando, however, was not to be deterred. He tiptoed closer, pulling out his phone. "This is too good to pass up. Social media gold."

Pierre grabbed his wrist. "Don't you dare, Lando. I swear, I'll pour champagne down your overalls at the next race."

Lando, realizing Pierre was serious, lowered his phone. "Fine, fine. But he looks so cute! Like a little kitten." He glanced at Carlos and George. "Doesn't he look like a little kitty?"

Carlos nodded in agreement. "Definitely a kitten. A very tired kitten."

George, taking his role as Kimi's teammate seriously, stepped forward. "Maybe we should try to wake him up. He can't sleep here."

Pierre shook his head. "No. He needs the rest. Just let him sleep."

"But what if someone sees him?" George persisted, glancing around nervously

"I'll handle it," Pierre said firmly. "Just keep watch, will you? Make sure no one bothers him."

George, relieved to have a task, nodded. "Okay. We'll keep guard."

Lando, still trying to contain his amusement, leaned closer, studying Kimi's face. "He really is adorable when he's sleeping. All that youthful innocence." He sighed dramatically. "It won't last."

Carlos slapped him on the arm. "Don't be so cynical, Lando. He might actually be a decent human being."

They continued to stand there, hovering protectively around the sleeping rookie and the French driver who had become his unexpected guardian. They whispered jokes, teased Pierre about his sudden paternal instincts, and kept a vigilant eye out for anyone who might disturb the scene.

Even Max Verstappen, who rarely stopped to acknowledge anyone outside his immediate circle, slowed down as he walked past, a flicker of something that might have been amusement playing at the corner of his lips before he moved on.

For a brief moment, the competitive, often ruthless world of Formula 1 softened, replaced by a shared moment of camaraderie and a surprising amount of tenderness for the exhausted rookie who had, quite unintentionally, brought them all together.

~~~~~

Kimi woke up slowly, disoriented. He felt a warmth against his cheek, a gentle pressure that felt… comfortable. He blinked, his vision clearing, and then he remembered. He was leaning on someone.

Panic flared in his chest. He jolted upright, instantly regretting the sudden movement as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

Pierre was there, steadying him with a hand on his arm. "Easy there, kid. You're alright."

Kimi's cheeks flushed crimson. "I… I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep."

Pierre smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry about it. You needed the rest."

He looked around, noticing the other drivers standing nearby, their faces a mixture of amusement and concern. Lando was trying, and failing, to suppress a giggle.

Kimi's embarrassment intensified. He wanted to disappear, to melt into the floor and never be seen again.

"How long was I out?" he mumbled, averting his gaze.

"About half an hour," George replied, stepping forward. "You looked like you needed it."

"Yeah, well, so did Pierre," Lando chimed in. "He hasn't moved an inch. I think his shoulder might be permanently dented."

Pierre rolled his eyes. "Shut up, Lando. I'm fine."

Kimi stood up, straightening his racing overalls. He felt slightly more rested, but the embarrassment still lingered. "Thank you… for letting me lean on you," he said to Pierre, the words barely audible.

Pierre shrugged. "Anytime, kid. Just remember to pay me back with a podium one of these days." He winked.

Kimi managed a weak smile. "I'll try."

As he walked away, heading towards the Mercedes hospitality unit, he could hear the faint murmur of conversation behind him. He didn't need to hear the words to know they were still talking about him. He was the rookie, the kid who fell asleep on another driver's shoulder. The image would likely follow him for the rest of the season.

But as he stepped into the relative cool of the hospitality unit, he realized something else. He wasn't alone anymore. There were people on the grid who cared, who were willing to offer a helping hand, or in this case, a supporting shoulder.

The weight of the world still pressed down on him, but it felt a little lighter now. He knew the next race wouldn't be easy, that the pressure would continue to mount. But he also knew that he wasn't facing it alone. And that, he realized, was a victory in itself.

Chapter Text

The air hung thick with the promise of summer. Sunlight danced on the surface of Lake Como, turning the water into a shimmering tapestry of blues and greens. For the Formula 1 circus, accustomed to roaring engines and the relentless pursuit of tenths of a second, this weekend was a rare oasis of calm. An orchestrated team-building exercise disguised as a lakeside getaway.

Kimi Antonelli, barely eighteen and still buzzing from the adrenaline of his first few races as a Mercedes driver, stood awkwardly on the edge of the wooden pier. He watched as the other drivers, a motley collection of personalities he was still trying to decipher, splashed and laughed in the water. Carlos Sainz was locked in a wrestling match with Pierre Gasly, Lewis Hamilton was effortlessly gliding on a paddleboard, and Max Verstappen was predictably trying to out-do everyone by attempting wakeboarding without a tow rope.

Kimi felt a knot tighten in his stomach. The truth was, he was terrified of water. Not just the abstract fear most people harbor, but a deep, primal dread rooted in a childhood near-drowning incident he’d long tried to bury. He couldn’t swim, and being surrounded by so much water brought back the suffocating panic with terrifying clarity. He plastered a polite smile on his face, hoping to blend into the background, a silent observer of the manufactured camaraderie.

"Enjoying the view, Kimi?" a cheerful voice boomed from behind him.

He turned to see Lando Norris grinning at him, his usual mischievous glint in his eyes. "Yeah, it's… nice," Kimi mumbled, hoping Lando wouldn't pry.

"Come on in! The water's perfect," Lando urged, gesturing towards the boisterous crowd.

Kimi shook his head, forcing a chuckle. "I'm good, thanks. I'm more of a… land mammal."

Lando shrugged, his gaze momentarily flickering with unspoken understanding, before snapping back to his usual playful demeanour. "Suit yourself! More for me then!" And with that, he bounded off to join the chaos.

A sigh of relief escaped Kimi's lips. He just wanted to be invisible, to avoid the inevitable questions and potential embarrassment of revealing his aquatic ineptitude. He leaned against the railing, pretending to be absorbed in the scenery, desperately wishing he could disappear.

~~~~~

Ollie Bearman, a rookie driver for Haas and a close friend of Kimi's from their karting days, had been watching him from across the lake. He understood Kimi's apprehension. He knew about the accident. He saw the forced smile and the way he avoided eye contact whenever someone mentioned the water.

When Lando had approached Kimi, Ollie had held his breath, hoping he wouldn't push too hard. But Lando, bless his (mostly) good intentions, was oblivious.

As the afternoon wore on, a lazy, carefree atmosphere settled over the group. Drivers, engineers, and even a few team principals were now wading in the shallows, engaging in water fights and good-natured ribbing.

It was then that the unthinkable happened.

Liam Lawson, known for his playful attitude and occasional lapses in judgment, decided to play a prank. He’d been drinking a few beers and his usual boisterousness had escalated. He saw Kimi standing alone on the pier, seemingly oblivious to the fun, and a mischievous idea sparked in his mind.

Without thinking, without considering the consequences, Liam crept up behind Kimi and gave him a playful shove.

Kimi, caught completely off guard, lost his balance. He flailed his arms, a silent scream trapped in his throat, as he plunged into the icy depths of the lake.

The cold water enveloped him, stealing his breath. The shock paralysed him. He sank like a stone, the sunlight above him distorting into a blurry, mocking halo. Panic gripped him, a suffocating, all-consuming terror. He swallowed water, choking and gasping, his limbs heavy and unresponsive.

He was drowning. Again.

He saw the distorted faces above him, the laughter fading into horrified realization. He wanted to scream, to call out for help, but his lungs burned and his throat was filled with water. He was sinking further and further, the world above him turning a distorted blue-green.

~~~~~

Ollie saw it all unfold in slow motion. He saw Liam’s playful shove, Kimi’s startled reaction as he disappeared beneath the surface.

"KIMI CAN'T SWIM!" Ollie screamed, his voice raw with panic. The words cut through the laughter like a knife.

He was too far away. He was on the opposite side of the lake. He felt a paralysing surge of helplessness.

But someone else had reacted instantly.

Fernando Alonso, ever the calculated strategist, had been observing the scene from the edge of the pier. He saw the shove, saw the fall, saw the look of sheer terror on Kimi’s face as he went under.

Without hesitation, Fernando yanked off his sunglasses and dove into the water. Years of rigorous training and a lifetime spent pushing the limits had honed his reflexes to a razor's edge. He swam with powerful, determined strokes, his eyes fixed on the spot where Kimi had disappeared.

He reached the spot, took a deep breath, and dove down into the murky water. Visibility was poor, but he could just make out Kimi's form sinking towards the bottom.

Fernando grabbed Kimi's arm and pulled him upward, fighting against the weight of the water and Kimi's own dead weight. He managed to get Kimi's head above the surface, keeping him afloat with a desperate grip.

"He can't swim!" Fernando yelled, his voice strained with exertion. "Get him out!"

The other drivers, jolted out of their shock, sprang into action. Lewis and Carlos, the strongest swimmers among them, raced towards Fernando and Kimi. They hauled them both towards the pier, their movements swift and efficient.

Kimi was dragged onto the pier, coughing and sputtering, his body shaking uncontrollably. He lay on the wooden planks, gasping for air, his eyes wide with terror. He coughed up more water, his chest aching with each ragged breath.

Ollie finally reached him, his face pale with fright. He knelt beside Kimi, wrapping his arms around him in a tight, reassuring hug.

"Kimi, Kimi, you're okay," Ollie whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You're safe now. Everything's okay."

Kimi clung to Ollie, burying his face in his shoulder, his body still trembling. He was alive, but the memory of the cold water closing in around him, the suffocating panic, was still vivid and raw.

Liam, his face etched with remorse, knelt beside them, his voice choked with guilt.

"Kimi, I… I am so, so sorry," he stammered, his eyes filled with genuine regret. "I didn't know. I would never have…"

Kimi didn't respond. He was still too shaken, too overwhelmed to process what had happened. He just clung tighter to Ollie, seeking solace in his presence.

Fernando, dripping wet but seemingly unfazed, stood nearby, his expression unreadable. He had saved Kimi's life, but he showed no outward sign of heroism. He simply observed the scene, his gaze sharp and assessing.

Lewis knelt down beside Kimi, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Take it easy, Kimi. Just breathe. You're alright now."

Slowly, gradually, Kimi began to calm down. The shivering subsided, the panic receded, and the world around him began to come back into focus.

He looked up at Ollie, his eyes filled with gratitude and lingering fear. "Thanks," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Ollie squeezed him tighter. "Always."

~~~~~

The incident at the lake had a profound impact on Kimi. Not only had it brought back the terrifying memory of his near-drowning, but it had also forced him to confront his fear and vulnerabilities in front of his peers.

In the days that followed, Kimi found himself looking at the other drivers in a new light. He saw them not just as competitors, but as individuals with their own strengths and weaknesses, their own complexities and vulnerabilities.

He saw the genuine remorse in Liam’s eyes, the unwavering support in Ollie's actions, and the quiet heroism in Fernando's stoicism. He saw the kindness in Lewis's gentle reassurance and the underlying concern in Lando's playful teasing.

The incident had forged a new bond between them, a bond built on shared experience and a deeper understanding of each other.

He started taking swimming lessons, spurred on by Ollie's encouragement and a newfound determination to conquer his fear. He still felt a flicker of panic whenever he entered the water, but now he also felt a surge of defiance, a refusal to be defined by his past.

He knew he still had a long way to go, both in his swimming lessons and in his Formula 1 career. But he also knew that he wasn't alone. He had a team, both on and off the track, who were there to support him, to push him, and to help him navigate the uncharted depths of his own fears and insecurities.

The lake incident had been a terrifying ordeal, but it had also been a catalyst for growth. It had forced him to confront his demons and to discover the unexpected bonds of friendship and camaraderie in the most unlikely of places. And in the end, that was a victory more valuable than any championship.

Chapter Text

The Italian sun beat down on the picturesque cobblestone streets of Imola. Kimi Antonelli, barely eighteen and the youngest driver on the Formula 1 grid, shielded his eyes with a hand. The cacophony of Italian being spoken around him was a pleasant hum, a world away from the roar of the engines he’d soon be immersed in.

He was walking with a small group of fellow drivers, a motley crew bound by the shared pressures and exhilarations of the sport. Lando Norris, ever the joker, was recounting a disastrous attempt at ordering pizza in his fractured Italian. Oscar Piastri, calm and collected as always, chimed in with a dry observation. George Russell, Kimi’s teammate at Mercedes, walked beside him, occasionally offering a quiet observation or a supportive nudge.

This was a rare moment of normalcy, a chance to shed the racing overalls and the intense focus, to simply be a teenager and young adults exploring a new place. Kimi savoured it. The pressure of stepping into Lewis Hamilton's seat at Mercedes had been immense, a spotlight that burned hotter than any he'd ever experienced. He was acutely aware that every move he made, on and off the track, was being scrutinized.

He'd qualified a respectable 12th earlier that day, a decent result for his first race in Imola. He knew he could do better, that he needed to do better, but the weight of expectation was a heavy burden for such young shoulders.

“Look at this gelato place,” Lando declared, pointing towards a brightly coloured shop overflowing with tempting flavours. “We have to try it. My Italian might be atrocious, but my ability to inhale gelato is world class.”

They all laughed, the tension of the weekend momentarily forgotten. As they approached the shop, Kimi trailed slightly behind, his attention caught by a street performer playing a lively tune on an accordion. He appreciated the simple joy of the music, the familiar Italian words, a welcome contrast to the complex calculations and high stakes of Formula 1.

That's when it happened.

A figure detached itself from the crowd, moving with a sudden, purposeful stride. Before Kimi could fully register what was happening, the man was right in front of him, his face contorted with anger.

"You! Antonelli!" he spat, his voice thick with venom. "You think you can just replace Lewis? You're nothing! You'll never be him!"

Kimi froze, his mind struggling to process the sudden aggression. The man lunged, grabbing at Kimi’s shirt, his fingers digging into the fabric. Fear coiled in Kimi’s stomach, cold and sharp.

Instinct took over for the other drivers. Lando, despite his earlier joviality, was the first to react. He grabbed the man's arm, yanking him away from Kimi with surprising strength. He grabbed Kimi’s arm, tugging him back.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" Lando yelled, his friendly demeanour vanishing in an instant.

Oscar, ever the strategist, quickly moved in front of Kimi, creating a human shield. George, his face a mask of fury, stepped forward, his tall frame intimidating.

“Back off, mate!” George roared, his voice echoing in the narrow street. “Get away from him!”

The man struggled against Lando’s grip, still shouting insults, his face red with rage. “He doesn’t deserve that seat! Lewis made Mercedes, and this kid is going to ruin it!”

Oscar stood firm, his gaze unwavering. “Leave him alone. This isn't the way to handle things.”

The commotion drew a crowd, their murmurs of concern a low hum around the unfolding scene. The man, realizing he was outnumbered and outmatched, finally seemed to deflate. He spat on the ground, glared at Kimi one last time, and then shoved past Lando, disappearing into the throng of onlookers.

The adrenaline slowly began to recede, leaving a stunned silence in its wake. Lando released a shaky breath, his grip on Kimi’s arm loosening. Oscar lowered his hands, his expression softening. George, his jaw still clenched, scanned the crowd, ensuring the man was truly gone.

Then, they all turned to Kimi.

He was standing frozen, his breathing shallow and ragged. His face was pale, and his eyes were wide with shock. He could still feel the man's grip on his shirt, the venom in his voice ringing in his ears.

George, without hesitation, pulled Kimi into a tight hug. Kimi instinctively clung to him, burying his face in George’s shoulder. He felt the strength and warmth of the embrace, a reassuring anchor in the storm of his emotions.

“You okay, Kimi?” George murmured, his voice low and comforting. “You’re alright. He’s gone.”

Lando and Oscar stepped closer, concern etched on their faces.

“Mate, are you hurt?” Lando asked, gently checking Kimi for any injuries.

Oscar placed a hand on Kimi’s shoulder, a silent offer of support.

Kimi slowly pulled away from George, his legs feeling shaky. He looked at the concerned faces of his fellow drivers, a wave of gratitude washing over him.

“I… I think so,” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m… fine. Just… startled.”

The fear lingered, a cold knot in Kimi’s stomach. He tried to take a deep breath, but his lungs felt constricted. He kept replaying the incident in his head, the man’s angry face, his hateful words.

“Let’s get you back to the hotel,” George said, his voice firm but gentle. “No more sightseeing for today. You need to rest.”

The suggestion was met with immediate agreement. The others, sensing Kimi’s distress, rallied around him, their earlier light-heartedness replaced with a protective concern.

They walked back in silence, the vibrant streets now feeling menacing and overwhelming. Kimi stayed close to George, drawing comfort from his presence. He felt a strange mix of vulnerability and gratitude. He was a Formula 1 driver, a professional athlete, yet in that moment, he felt like a scared kid.

Back at the hotel, George steered Kimi towards his room.

“I’ll stay with you for a bit,” he said, dismissing Kimi’s weak protests. “Just to make sure you’re okay.”

Inside the room, Kimi sank onto the edge of the bed, the plush mattress doing little to ease his anxieties. George sat beside him, offering a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder.

“That guy was a complete idiot,” George said, breaking the silence. “Don’t let him get to you. There are always going to be people who are negative and hateful. You can’t let them define you.”

Kimi nodded, but the words felt hollow. The man's outburst had tapped into his deepest insecurities. He knew he had big shoes to fill, stepping into the seat of a legend like Lewis Hamilton. The pressure was immense, and he already felt the weight of the world on his young shoulders.

“It’s just… I know I have a lot to prove,” Kimi said, his voice cracking with emotion. “Everyone expects so much. I don’t want to disappoint them.”

George sighed, understanding the pressure Kimi was under. He had been in a similar position himself, trying to prove his worth in the cutthroat world of Formula 1.

“You’re incredibly talented, Kimi,” George said, his voice sincere. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. Don’t let one angry fan make you doubt yourself. Focus on your driving, trust your instincts, and don’t let the negativity get to you.”

They talked for a long time, George offering words of encouragement and support. He shared his own experiences with dealing with pressure and criticism, reminding Kimi that everyone, even the most successful drivers, faced their own doubts and challenges.

Slowly, Kimi began to relax. The fear didn't completely disappear, but it lessened, replaced by a renewed sense of determination. He had a race to run, a career to build, and he wasn't going to let one hateful encounter derail him.

~~~~~

The atmosphere on race day was electric. The roar of the crowd, the smell of burning rubber, the palpable tension in the air - Kimi soaked it all in.

He had slept fitfully, the image of the angry man still lingering in his mind. But he had also remembered George’s words, the support of his friends, and the burning desire that had driven him to this point.

He was here to race. To prove himself.

He nodded to George in the pre-race briefing, a silent thank you passing between them. Stepping into the cockpit, he focused, shutting out the noise and the negativity. It was just him, the car, and the track.

The race was a rollercoaster. A slow start left him further down the field than he had hoped, almost immediately facing the kind of pressure his aggressor mentioned. He lost a position, then another. Doubt crept into his mind. Was he good enough? Was he really ready for this?

But then, he remembered George's words, the cheers of the crowd, and the burning determination that had brought him here. He pushed harder, finding his rhythm, threading the needle through the tight corners of Imola.

He clawed back positions, one by one, overtaking with daring moves and precise control. His engineer's voice crackled in his ear, guiding him, encouraging him.

He crossed the finish line in 6th place, a significant improvement from his qualifying position. It wasn't a podium, but it was a victory. A victory over his doubts, his fears, and the negativity that had threatened to consume him.

As he climbed out of the car, the cheers of the crowd washed over him. He saw George waiting for him in the pit lane, a proud smile on his face.

"Well done, Kimi!" George exclaimed, clapping him on the back. "That was a brilliant drive."

Kimi grinned, the adrenaline coursing through him. He had proven that day, if only to himself, that he was more than just a replacement. He was Kimi Antonelli, a Formula 1 driver, and he was here to stay.

Chapter Text

The roar of the Italian Grand Prix was deafening. The tifosi, a sea of Ferrari red, were on their feet, their hopes pinned on Leclerc or Hamilton. But a different buzz was in the air, a murmur that followed the silver arrow of Mercedes AMG Petronas. It was all about Antonelli, the Italian.

Andrea Kimi Antonelli, or Kimi as the paddock preferred, was only eighteen. He was a Formula 1 rookie, yet he drove with a breathtaking maturity that belied his age.

Today, though, he wasn't breathtaking. He was struggling, unusually aggressive on the curbs, the car twitching beneath him. He finished a disappointing P7, a result far below his usual standards. He climbed out of the car, his face pale, dark circles under his eyes.

George Russell, his teammate, clapped him on the shoulder. "Tough race, mate. You'll get 'em next time."

Kimi managed a weak smile, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Yeah, maybe."

He pulled off his helmet, revealing a tangle of dark curls. As he did, the collar of his race suit slipped slightly, exposing a hint of skin at the base of his neck. It was just a fleeting glimpse, but it was enough.

~~~~~

Lando Norris, ever observant, had been watching Kimi. He'd noticed the kid's performance dip in recent weeks, the forced smiles, the way he seemed to flinch at sudden movements. He’d dismissed it as rookie jitters, the immense pressure of F1 weighing down a young man. But now, a knot of unease tightened in his stomach.

That glimpse of skin... it had revealed a bruise. Not the kind you get from bumping into a barrier or squeezing into a tight cockpit. This one was different, a dark, angry purple blotch.

Lando hung back as Kimi walked towards the Mercedes garage, head down, shadowed by his burly trainer, James. He waited until James disappeared inside before approaching.

"Hey, Kimi," he said, his voice casual.

Kimi jumped, startled. "Oh, hey, Lando."

"Tough one today, huh? The car looked a bit loose."

"Yeah, just... couldn't find the rhythm," Kimi said, fidgeting with the zipper of his race suit.

Lando leaned in slightly, his gaze sharp. "You alright, mate? You seem a bit... off."

Kimi's face flushed. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired." He tugged at his collar, pulling it higher.

"You sure? I thought I saw..." Lando hesitated, unsure how to proceed. "Look, Kimi, you can talk to me, you know? If something's up..."

Kimi's carefully constructed composure crumbled. His eyes, usually bright and full of youthful energy, were suddenly haunted. He took a step back. "It's nothing. Just... leave it, okay?"

He turned to walk away, but Lando reached out and gently caught his arm. "Kimi, I'm serious. I saw something. A bruise. On your neck."

Kimi froze, his back rigid. Silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the distant roar of engines being packed away. Finally, he whispered, his voice barely audible, "It's nothing, Lando. Really."

"It doesn't look like nothing. Tell me what happened."

Kimi pulled his arm away, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and desperation. "Please, just... don't."

He rushed into the Mercedes garage, leaving Lando standing there, a cold dread washing over him. He knew something was terribly wrong.

~~~~~

Lando couldn't just ignore what he'd seen. He sought out Charles Leclerc, a driver known for his empathy and level-headedness. After a brief explanation, Charles’s brow furrowed. He had noticed Kimi’s recent change in demeanour as well.

"We need to do something," Charles said, his voice low. "But we need to be careful. We can't just barge in."

They decided to bring in Fernando Alonso. His experience and influence in the paddock were unparalleled. He listened intently, his eyes narrowing.

"This is serious," Fernando said grimly. "We need to find out what's going on. But we need proof and, more importantly, Kimi's consent."

Together, they hatched a plan. Over the next few days, they subtly observed Kimi, watching for any clues, any slip-ups. They were careful not to be too obvious, fearing they might scare him further into silence.

Finally, at the Singapore Grand Prix, Lando got his chance. He found Kimi alone in the drivers' lounge, looking pale and withdrawn.

"Kimi," Lando said, his voice gentle. "We're worried about you. Me, Charles, Fernando... We know something's wrong."

Kimi turned away, his shoulders shaking.

"You can trust us," Lando pleaded. "We just want to help."

The dam finally broke. Tears streamed down Kimi's face as he whispered, "It's James."

James, his trainer. Strong, imposing, always at Kimi’s side. No one would suspect him.

"He... he hurts me," Kimi choked out, the words raw with shame and fear. "He says I'm not working hard enough, that I'm letting the team down. He says I need to be punished."

Lando’s blood ran cold. This was worse than he could have imagined. He pulled Kimi into a hug, letting him cry.

"We're going to stop him, Kimi," he said, his voice firm. "You're not alone. We're going to tell someone."

~~~~~

Lando, Charles, and Fernando, their faces grim, led Kimi to a secluded room near the paddock. Max Verstappen, Lewis Hamilton and Carlos Sainz were already waiting, their expressions mirroring the gravity of the situation.

Lando recounted Kimi's confession, the room falling silent as he spoke. The initial shock gave way to a simmering rage.

"This is unacceptable," Lewis said, his voice quiet but filled with steel. "We need to go to Toto."

Toto Wolff, the team principal of Mercedes, was known for his no-nonsense attitude and his fierce loyalty to his drivers. They knew he would be furious, especially because it was Kimi that was hurt.

The group, a united front of some of the biggest names in Formula 1, marched towards the Mercedes hospitality unit. Toto was in a meeting, but Lewis brushed past the security guard, the others following close behind.

"Toto," Lewis said, his voice cutting through the room.

Toto looked up, surprised by the intrusion. But the expressions on their faces told him something was terribly wrong.

Lando stepped forward and explained everything, his voice trembling with anger. He detailed the bruises, Kimi's confession, James's abuse.

Toto's face hardened. His jaw clenched, and his eyes burned with fury. He turned to Kimi, his voice surprisingly gentle.

"Kimi, is this true?"

Kimi nodded, tears welling up in his eyes.

Toto stood up, his towering frame filling the room. He stalked out of the hospitality unit, followed by the group of drivers. They found James near the Mercedes garage, giving instructions to a mechanic.

Toto stopped in front of him, his face a mask of barely controlled rage.

"James," he said, his voice dangerously low. "You are dismissed. You are no longer employed by Mercedes. Pack your things and leave this paddock immediately."

James sputtered in disbelief. "What are you talking about, Toto? I haven't done anything wrong!"

Toto's voice rose, his anger finally breaking through. "Don't insult my intelligence! You have been abusing Kimi. Hurting him. You sicken me!"

He pointed a finger at James, his voice shaking with fury. "Get out! If I ever see your face again, I will personally call the police. You are finished in this sport. Do you understand?"

James, realizing he had been exposed, paled and stammered, "I... I didn't..."

"GET OUT!" Toto roared, his voice echoing across the paddock.

James, defeated and humiliated, slunk away, disappearing into the crowd.

Toto turned to Kimi, his expression softening. He put a hand on his shoulder. "You are safe now, Kimi. I promise you, this will never happen again."

He looked at the group of drivers, his eyes filled with gratitude. "Thank you. All of you. For protecting him."

~~~~~

The aftermath was swift and decisive. Mercedes launched a full investigation, ensuring that nothing like this would ever happen again. Kimi was given the space and support he needed to heal, both physically and emotionally. He received therapy, and Toto made sure he was surrounded by people he trusted.

The other drivers rallied around him, offering their support and friendship. They understood the pressure he was under, and they were determined to protect him.

It took time, but Kimi slowly began to regain his confidence. He started to smile again, and his driving improved. The weight of the abuse was lifting, replaced by a sense of hope and a renewed determination to succeed.

Chapter Text

Kimi woke up that morning in his hotel room, the first rays of sunlight filtering through the curtains of the Monaco Grand Prix circuit. His body felt like it had been through a qualifying lap gone wrong—achy, disoriented, and utterly exhausted. "Just a headache," he muttered to himself, rubbing his temples. "It's free practice. I can push through." He knew Toto Wolff, the Mercedes team principal, had high expectations for him. Kimi was the prodigy, the one they'd pinned their hopes on after losing their seven time World Champion. Missing practice wasn't an option, contract or not.

By the time he arrived at the track, the paddock was a hive of activity. Mechanics in silver Mercedes overalls bustled about, fine-tuning the car that had become Kimi's second home. He slipped into his driver room—a small, private sanctuary amidst the chaos—hoping a few moments of quiet would chase away the fog in his brain. The room was sparse but comfortable: a couch, a desk cluttered with race notes, and a mini-fridge stocked with energy drinks he probably shouldn't touch right now.

As Kimi sat on the couch, trying to will his headache away, the door creaked open. In walked Ollie Bearman, his best friend and fellow rookie. At 19, Ollie was a year older and already making waves with Haas. The two had bonded during their time in Formula 2, where they'd been teammates. Shared late-night strategy sessions, post-race burgers, and the occasional prank war had forged a friendship that felt unbreakable. Ollie was the steady one, the voice of reason in Kimi's whirlwind life.

"Hey, mate," Ollie said, closing the door behind him. His face lit up with that familiar grin, but it faded quickly as he took in Kimi's pale face. "You look like you've been dragged through the pit lane backwards. Everything okay?"

Kimi forced a smile, straightening up. "I'm fine. Just... tired from all the travel. What's up with you? How's the Haas setup looking?"

Ollie wasn't buying it. He knew Kimi too well—the way he fidgeted when he was hiding something, the slight wince when the lights were too bright. Crossing his arms, Ollie stepped closer. "Don't give me that shit mate. I've seen you pull all-nighters before races and still look better than this. Spill it."

"I'm serious, Ollie. It's nothing." Kimi waved it off, but his voice lacked conviction. The headache was worsening, a throbbing pressure behind his eyes that made the world spin slightly.

Ollie sighed, his expression softening. He reached out, gently cupping Kimi's face in his hands, forcing their eyes to meet. The intensity in Ollie's gaze was unwavering, a silent demand for honesty. "Kimi, come on. You think I don't know when you're faking it? We've been through too much together."

The touch was grounding, and Kimi felt his resolve crumble. He sagged slightly, the weight of his exhaustion pulling him down. Ollie didn't pull away; instead, he wrapped his arms around Kimi in a tight hug, pulling him close. "How bad is it?" Ollie murmured into his ear.

Kimi was quiet for a few seconds, his face buried in Ollie's shoulder. The familiarity of the embrace—something they'd shared after tough races—made it easier to admit the truth. "Really bad headache," he whispered finally. "And I'm so tired. I don't know what's wrong, but it's... it's not going away."

Ollie pulled back just enough to look at him, his hands moving to gently massage the sides of Kimi's temple with his fingers. The motion was soothing, light pressure that eased the pain just a fraction. Kimi's eyes slipped closed, a soft sigh escaping as he relaxed into the touch. For a moment, the world outside the room faded—the engines, the pressure, the expectations.

"You can't go out there like this," Ollie said firmly, his voice laced with concern. "It's not worth it. Free practice is important, but not if you're risking your life. What if you pass out at 200 km/h? That's not racing; that's suicide."

Kimi opened his eyes, a flicker of panic crossing his face. "I have to. I'm contracted. Toto expects me to be out there. If I bail, it'll look bad—"

Ollie shook his head, cutting him off. "That's not true, and you know it. Toto's not some monster; he'd rather have you safe and sound than wrapped around a barrier. Come on, let's go talk to him."

Before Kimi could protest, Ollie wrapped an arm around his shoulders and guided him out of the room. The paddock was a blur of activity, but Ollie's steady presence kept Kimi from feeling overwhelmed. They made their way to where Toto Wolff was deep in conversation with a mechanic, his signature headset perched on his head.

Toto excused the mechanic with a nod and turned to them, his sharp eyes immediately assessing the situation. He was a man who missed nothing— the way Kimi leaned on Ollie, the exhaustion etched into his features. "What's going on here?" Toto asked, his voice calm but authoritative.

Kimi shifted uncomfortably, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. He hated being the centre of attention like this, especially when he felt so vulnerable. But Ollie stepped in, his arm still around Kimi's shoulders. "Toto, Kimi's not feeling well. He's got a bad headache and he's exhausted. I think he needs to sit out practice today."

Toto's expression softened, and he placed a hand on Kimi's shoulder. "Thank you, Ollie. Kimi, listen to me—you're not racing today. Your health comes first. We've got plenty of data from simulations; we can manage without you for one session. The last thing we want is for you to get hurt out there."

Kimi nodded, relief washing over him, though a part of him still felt guilty. "I just... I didn't want to let anyone down."

"You're not letting anyone down," Toto assured him. "Go rest. Ollie, can you take him back to his driver room and make sure he relaxes? We'll handle things here."

Ollie nodded. "On it." With that, he guided Kimi back through the paddock, the noise of the track fading as they re-entered the quiet of the driver room.

Once inside, Ollie helped Kimi settle on the couch, propping a pillow under his head. He dimmed the lights to a soft glow, then grabbed a blanket from the corner—a plush one Kimi had brought from home for comfort during long race weekends. Draping it over Kimi, Ollie stepped back with a satisfied nod.

Kimi let out a light giggle, the sound breaking the tension. "You don't have to be such a mum, you know. I'm not a kid."

Ollie rolled his eyes fondly, a smile tugging at his lips. "Someone has to look out for you. It's my job as your best friend and ex-teammate. Besides, if I let you push yourself too hard, who'd be there to be my favourite rookie rival on the track the rest of the season?"

Kimi chuckled again, his eyes half-closed as the blanket's warmth seeped into him. "Fine, fine. You've successfully grounded me. Now go on—hurry up and get back to the Haas paddock. Don't want your team wondering where their golden boy is."

Ollie hesitated for a moment, his expression turning serious. "Promise me you'll stay put and rest? No sneaking out for a walk or anything stupid."

Kimi pouted playfully, but his voice was genuine when he said, "I promise. And... thanks, Ollie. For everything."

"Anytime, mate." Ollie gave him one last pat on the shoulder before heading for the door. "Text me if you need anything. And don't move around!"

As the door clicked shut, Kimi let his eyes slip closed, the room enveloping him in peaceful silence. For the first time that day, the headache began to ebb, replaced by a quiet gratitude. In the high-stakes world of Formula One, where every second counted and risks were constant, it was friendships like his with Ollie that kept him grounded. And as the engines roared outside, Kimi knew he'd be back on the grid soon—stronger, safer, and ready to race.

Chapter Text

The roar of the engines faded into a steady hum as the private jet cut through the clouds enroute to Shanghai. Kimi Antonelli, the newest sensation in Formula One, stared out the window at the vast expanse of blue. At just 18, he was already a rookie for Mercedes, a team that had pinned its hopes on his raw talent. But right now, amidst the luxury of leather seats and complimentary champagne that he wasn’t even allowed to drink, Kimi felt anything but triumphant.

His backpack, stuffed with race notes and school assignments, sat heavily on the seat beside him. School. It was a cruel irony. While his teammates and rivals were jet-setting across the globe, living the dream, Kimi was still finishing his high courses. His mum had insisted—education first, even if his life was a blur of circuits and speed and he didn’t want to let her down. Today, that meant tackling a stack of math worksheets on quadratic equations. He groaned inwardly, his pencil hovering over a problem that might as well have been written in hieroglyphs.

The plane was mostly quiet. Up front, the team engineers chatted about tire strategies. Across the aisle, George Russell, Kimi's experienced teammate, scrolled through his phone, earbuds in, lost in his own world. George was everything Kimi aspired to be: cool, composed, and already a veteran at 27. Kimi admired him from afar, but they hadn't exactly bonded yet. Teammates, sure, but Kimi was the rookie, the kid who still got carded at bars, bars he couldn’t always get into in some countries.

Swallowing his nerves, Kimi glanced around. The seat next to George was empty. It was now or never. He unbuckled his seatbelt and shuffled over, his heart pounding like it did before a qualifying lap.

"Uh, George?" Kimi's voice was soft, almost lost in the hum of the engines.

George looked up, pulling out one earbud. His blue eyes widened slightly in surprise. "Kimi? Everything alright, mate?"

Kimi hesitated, clutching his math workbook to his chest like a shield. "I, um... I was wondering if you could help me with something. It's my homework. Math. I'm... stuck."

George blinked, processing the request. He glanced at the workbook, then back at Kimi's flushed face. "Homework? You're still in school?"

Kimi nodded, feeling his cheeks burn. He hadn't meant for it to sound so embarrassing, but there it was—out in the open.

George's eyes widened further, and he let out a dramatic gasp. "Oh my god, you're still just a baby!"

Kimi's face turned crimson. "I'm 18!" he protested, his voice a mix of defensiveness and embarrassment.

George chuckled, but it was warm, not mocking. He reached over and wrapped an arm around Kimi's shoulder, tugging him closer with an easy familiarity. "Alright, alright, 18-year-old baby. Come on, sit properly." He pressed the button to lower the armrest between their seats, creating a shared space. "Hand it over. Let's see what we've got."

Kimi handed him the worksheets, feeling a strange mix of relief and vulnerability. George scanned the pages, his brow furrowing in concentration. "Quadratic equations? Blimey, I haven't touched these since secondary school. But okay, I think I can manage. Let's go through it step by step."

For the next half-hour, the plane's cabin became an impromptu classroom. George patiently walked Kimi through each problem, his voice steady and encouraging. "So, for this one, you factor it like this: x squared minus 4x plus 3. What two numbers multiply to 3 and add to -4? Think about it."

Kimi chewed his lip, scribbling notes. "Uh... -1 and -3?"

"Exactly! Good job." George grinned, patting Kimi's back. "You're getting it. Math's just like racing—it's all about breaking it down into smaller pieces."

As they worked, the tension eased. Kimi found himself relaxing, even laughing at George's occasional jokes about how he'd barely passed math himself. It was the first real conversation they'd had beyond team briefings, and it felt... nice.

By the time the seatbelt sign dinged for landing, Kimi had finished the worksheet. "Thanks, George. I really appreciate it."

"No problem, kid. Anytime." George squeezed his shoulder before letting go. "Now, let's go kick some ass in China."

~~~~~

Shanghai International Circuit buzzed with energy as the Mercedes team unloaded their gear. The air was thick with the scent of rubber and adrenaline, but Kimi's mind was still on that plane ride. George's help had been a lifeline, not just for the homework, but for the loneliness that came with being the youngest driver on the grid.

As they walked through the paddock, reporters swarmed, microphones thrust forward. "Kimi! How does it feel to be racing in China at 18?" one shouted.

"Exciting," Kimi replied with a rehearsed smile, dodging the question's deeper implications. He hated these interviews—they always made him feel like a novelty act.

George noticed his discomfort and stepped in, throwing an arm around him again. "He's got the talent to back it up. Watch out for this one, folks." The gesture was casual, but it meant the world to Kimi. For once, he didn't feel like the outsider.

Later, in the motorhome, Kimi pulled out his laptop to check his school emails. Another assignment deadline loomed—a history essay on the Industrial Revolution. He sighed, slumping in his chair.

George, grabbing a coffee, spotted him. "Still at it? Need a hand with that too?"

Kimi shook his head. "Nah, it's history. I think I've got it. But... why are you being so nice about this? I mean, you're a world-class driver. You don't have to help me with homework."

George sat down across from him, his expression softening. "Because I was you once. Remember, I started young too. F1's brutal, especially at your age. You're dealing with speeds that could kill you, and then you've got exams? It's mad. If I can make it a bit easier, why not?"

Kimi nodded, appreciating the honesty. They talked more that afternoon—about George's early days in karting, the sacrifices he'd made, and how he'd nearly quit racing because of burnout. "School kept me grounded," George admitted. "It reminded me there's life outside the track."

As the sun set over the circuit, Kimi felt a budding friendship. George wasn't just a teammate; he was becoming a mentor. That night, over dinner with the team, Kimi mustered the courage to ask George about race strategies. "How do you stay calm during qualifying?"

George smirked. "Practice, mate. And a bit of math—calculating risks, probabilities. See? Your homework's not so useless after all."

~~~~~

Free practice sessions were a whirlwind. Kimi pushed the car to its limits, the G-forces pressing him into his seat. He was fast, but mistakes crept in—a locked wheel here, an oversteer there. The engineers frowned at the data, and Kimi knew he was under scrutiny.

Back in his hotel room, the homework loomed again. His math grade had improved thanks to George, but now the history essay was due. Stress mounted. How was he supposed to write about 19th-century factories when his world was 21st-century speed demons?

He called his parents that evening, their faces pixelated on his screen. "I'm trying, Mum, but it's hard. George's been helping, though."

His mother smiled. "That's wonderful, Kimi. Remember, you're not just a driver. You're a young man with a future."

The next day, during a break in practice, Kimi found George in the garage, reviewing telemetry. "Hey, can I pick your brain again? Not about school this time. About the track."

George leaned against the car, arms crossed. "Shoot."

Kimi pointed to the circuit map. "The hairpin—I'm losing time there. Any tips?"

They spent the next hour going over lines and braking points, much like the math session on the plane. George was patient, breaking it down step by step. "It's like solving an equation. You have to balance speed and control."

That evening, as the team dined together, Kimi overheard whispers. Some drivers teased him about being "the kid with homework." It stung, but George shut it down with a laugh. "Jealous, are we? Wait till he laps you."

Kimi appreciated the defence, but doubt crept in. Was he cut out for this? The pressure of F1, combined with school, felt overwhelming. He confided in George later that night during a walk around the hotel grounds.

"I'm scared, George. What if I mess up the race? Or fail my classes?"

George stopped and faced him, his expression serious. "Everyone's scared, Kimi. It's what you do with it that matters. You're 18, but you've got more guts than most. Keep pushing, and you'll be fine. And hey, if you need help with that essay, I'm your man."

~~~~~

Qualifying was a disaster. Kimi spun out in Q2, ending up in P14. The media pounced, headlines blaring about the "Prodigy Rookie Chokes." In the cooldown room, Kimi sat alone, helmet in his lap, fighting back tears.

George found him there, fresh off his own P3 finish. "Hey, what happened out there?"

"I don't know. I choked. Everything felt off." Kimi's voice cracked.

George sat beside him. "You’ve been doing amazing this season so far, it’s your first mistake. Cut yourself some slack. Remember the math? You solved those problems one at a time. Do the same here."

The pep talk worked. Race day dawned with renewed determination. As Kimi strapped into his car, he thought of George's words. The lights went out, and the pack surged forward. Kimi fought hard, overtaking when he could, defending his position with grit.

By lap 30, he was up to P8, the car responding beautifully. The crowd roared as he crossed the line, not a podium finish, but a solid points haul once again. In the post-race interviews, Kimi credited his teammate. "George's been a huge help, on and off the track."

That night, the team celebrated at a quiet dinner. George raised his glass. "To Kimi, for proving he's no baby."

Kimi laughed, the weight lifting. "Thanks, George. I couldn't have done it without you."

~~~~~

The flight back from China was quieter, but the dynamic had shifted. Kimi and George sat together again, not for homework, but for conversation. Kimi had submitted his essay—George had proofread it—and for the first time, he felt balanced.

As the plane ascended, George turned to him. "You've got a bright future, kid. Don't let the pressure dim it."

Kimi smiled. "I'm not a kid anymore, remember? I'm 18."

George chuckled. "Fair point. But you'll always be the rookie to me."

Back at Mercedes HQ, Kimi threw himself into training, school, and team life with new vigour. He still had homework, but now he had a friend to lean on. The road ahead was long, but with mentors like George, Kimi knew he could handle the curves.

And as the next race loomed, one thing was clear: in the world of Formula One, sometimes the greatest victories come from the smallest lessons.

Chapter Text

Kimi Antonelli, all of eighteen years old, sat in the sterile white room that served as his personal oasis in the Mercedes garage. Outside, the roar of engines and the frantic energy of the paddock buzzed, a constant reminder of the world he’d stepped into. Formula One. The pinnacle of motorsport. And he, Kimi Antonelli, was driving for Mercedes.

It was a dream come true, a fairytale sprung to life. Every sleepless night spent karting under floodlights, every sacrifice his family had made, had led to this. But fairytales, Kimi was quickly learning, came with a dark side.

The pressure was immense. Not just the pressure to drive fast, to push the car to its limit, but the pressure of expectation. The weight of the Mercedes legacy, the shadow of Schumacher and Hamilton, pressed down on him. He was supposed to be the next big thing, a generational talent. The newspapers screamed it, the pundits debated it, and his own team, though supportive on the surface, subtly amplified the message.

"Kimi, we know you have it in you. Just trust the car." Toto Wolff’s words, delivered with a paternal pat on the shoulder, echoed in his head. Trust the car. Drive like a champion. Be a winner.

He was trying. God, was he trying. But the complex equations of downforce and brake bias, the relentless pursuit of lap time perfection, were blurring into a messy, overwhelming equation. He’d made mistakes, rookie mistakes, costly mistakes. He’d spun out in qualifying in Monaco, finished outside the points in Canada, and narrowly avoided a collision with his teammate, George Russell, in Austria.

Each mistake felt like a seismic tremor, shaking the foundations of his confidence. The critics were sharpening their knives, the memes were circulating online, and the whispers in the paddock were growing louder. "Too young. Too much too soon. He'll crack under the pressure."

He felt like he was drowning, gasping for air in a sea of expectation. He was surrounded by people, but utterly alone. His phone was buzzing with messages, but none of them seemed to reach him. He was a puppet, dancing to the tune of sponsors and engineers, trapped in a gilded cage of his own making.

He pushed away the plate of meticulously prepared pasta, the food suddenly tasting like ash in his mouth. He needed to escape, to find some silence, some space to breathe.

~~~~~

He found himself on the roof of the paddock building. The air was cooler up there, a welcome relief from the stifling heat below. He walked to the edge, drawn by a morbid curiosity. The world stretched out before him, a dizzying panorama of racing infrastructure and distant hills. From this height, the cars looked like tiny toys, the drivers like insignificant figures.

He took a step closer, feeling the wind buffet him. The ledge was narrow, barely wide enough for his feet. He looked down. The drop was significant. Enough.

He didn't know why he was there. It wasn't a plan, not exactly. Just a feeling, a suffocating weight that had become unbearable. A desperate need to silence the noise in his head.

He closed his eyes. He didn't want to think, didn't want to feel. Just to…escape.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing?"

The voice startled him. He hadn't realized he wasn't alone. He opened his eyes and saw a figure silhouetted against the fading light. Charles Leclerc.

Charles, usually impeccably dressed and radiating an effortless charm, looked dishevelled. He held a cigarette in his hand, the smoke curling up into the evening air. He looked terrified.

"Kimi? Kimi, what’re you doing? Come on, man. Get down from there!" His voice trembled, the usually smooth Monegasque accent cracking with anxiety.

Kimi didn't move. He felt detached, numb.

"Kimi, please. You're scaring me." Charles took a hesitant step forward. "I... I just came up here for a smoke. I didn't expect to see... this."

Kimi stared at him, his eyes empty.

"Look," Charles continued, his voice pleading. "I know how it is. The pressure, the expectations... it's brutal. But it's not worth it, Kimi. It's never worth it."

He slowly began to tell Kimi about his own struggles, about the intense pressure of driving for Ferrari, about the loss of his father, his godfather, about the feeling of being overwhelmed. He spoke with a raw honesty that Kimi had never seen in him before.

"We've all been there, Kimi. Maybe not on a ledge, but we've all felt like we were drowning. You're not alone, you know?"

Charles held out his hand. "Come on, Kimi. Come back. Let's talk. Let's figure this out."

Something in Charles's voice, his genuine fear and concern, the desperation, it resonated with Kimi. He saw reflected in Charles's eyes a vulnerability that mirrored his own. He took a shaky breath.

Slowly, carefully, he stepped back from the ledge.

Charles rushed forward and wrapped his arms around Kimi, holding him tight with profound relief. Kimi felt a sob building in his chest, a release of all the pent-up emotion he'd been holding inside. He clung to Charles, letting the older driver's presence ground him.

"It's okay, Kimi. It's okay. You're safe. I’m here."

~~~~~

Charles kept his arm around Kimi as he led him back down the stairs and through the labyrinth of corridors of the paddock.

"Where are we going?" Kimi mumbled, his voice hoarse.

"I... I know a place," Charles replied, avoiding direct eye contact. "Somewhere you can get some…support."

He led him to a small, unassuming room tucked away behind the hospitality suites. The door was slightly ajar, and Charles pushed it open gently.

Inside, a group of drivers were lounging on mismatched chairs and sofas. Lando Norris was playing a game on his phone, Max Verstappen was arguing with Carlos Sainz about something trivial, and Pierre Gasly was strumming a melancholic tune on a guitar.

The room fell silent as Charles and Kimi entered. Everyone’s eyes were on Kimi.

"Hey guys," Charles said, his voice a little strained. "Kimi could use some... some love."

He didn't elaborate, didn't explain what had just happened. He didn’t need to. They could see it in Kimi's face, in his slumped posture, in the haunted look in his eyes.

Without a word, Lando put down his phone and stood up. Max stopped mid-sentence. Carlos abandoned the argument. Pierre lowered his guitar.

One by one, they approached Kimi. Lando ruffled his hair. Max clapped him on the shoulder. Carlos offered him a drink. Pierre gave him a reassuring smile.

It was awkward, a little clumsy, but undeniably genuine. They didn't ask questions, didn't pry. They simply offered their presence, their support, their camaraderie.

And then, one by one, they started hugging him. First Lando, then Carlos, then Pierre. Even Max, despite his often-gruff demeanour, gave him a brief, awkward hug.

Kimi was overwhelmed. He hadn't expected this, this outpouring of support from his rivals. He'd always seen them as opponents, as obstacles in his path. But now, in this small, unassuming room, they were something else entirely. They were friends. They were colleagues. They were fellow warriors, all fighting their own battles under the same intense pressure.

He sat down on a sofa, surrounded by his peers. They started talking, about racing, about life, about everything and nothing. Lando told a silly joke. Max complained about the tires. Carlos shared a funny anecdote about his engineer. Pierre started playing a more upbeat tune on his guitar.

For the first time in weeks, Kimi felt a sense of peace. He wasn't alone. He was part of something bigger, a community of drivers who understood the unique pressures and challenges he faced. He still had a long way to go, a lot to learn. But he knew, with a newfound certainty, that he could face it all with the support of his peers.

~~~~~

The rest of the season wasn't easy. Kimi still made mistakes. He still faced criticism. He still felt the weight of expectation. But now, he had a support system, a network of friends who understood what he was going through.

Charles became a mentor, offering advice and encouragement. Lando kept him laughing. Max, surprisingly, became a confidante, a sounding board for his frustrations. Even Toto Wolff seemed to ease up on the pressure, offering more constructive criticism and genuine support.

Kimi started to find his rhythm, to trust his instincts, to enjoy the process. He scored his first points in Belgium, finished on the podium in Italy, and even challenged for the win in Brazil.

He never forgot that night on the roof. He never forgot Charles's words, his vulnerability, his genuine concern. He never forgot the warmth of his colleagues' embrace, the feeling of belonging.

He knew that the road ahead would be long and challenging. But he also knew that he wasn't alone. He had his team, his family, and his friends. And he had the unwavering support of a community of drivers who knew exactly what it was like to carry the weight of silver.

The weight was still there, but it no longer felt crushing. It felt like a challenge, an opportunity to grow, to learn, to become the driver he was destined to be.

Kimi Antonelli, the eighteen-year-old rookie, was finally finding his place in the world of Formula One. And he was ready to race.

Chapter Text

Kimi finished the Monaco qualifying session a respectable P10. Not spectacular, but solid for a rookie on a track he was still learning. He pulled into the garage, the air thick with the scent of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel. Mechanics swarmed around the car, their faces focused and efficient.

George clapped him on the back, a genuine smile creasing his face. "Good job, Kimi. Solid effort. Just need to clean up that exit from turn three tomorrow, and you'll be flying."

Kimi grinned, relieved. George was his teammate, his mentor, and a vital source of support in this bewildering new world. "Thanks, George. Appreciate it."

The debrief was intense, poring over telemetry and dissecting every corner. Kimi listened attentively, absorbing information like a sponge. He knew he had a lot to learn, but he was eager to put in the work.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the debrief ended. Kimi grabbed a water bottle and headed towards the hospitality unit, the noise of the paddock fading slightly as he stepped inside. He was exhausted, but a sense of purpose drove him forward.

George was on his phone, pacing back and forth near the entrance to the Mercedes garage. He looked agitated, his brows furrowed in concentration. As Kimi approached, he saw George quickly end the call and force a smile.

"Everything alright, George?" Kimi asked, a flicker of concern in his voice.

"Yeah, yeah, just a personal matter," George replied, waving a dismissive hand. "I'll catch you later, Kimi. Need to take another quick call."

He turned and walked purposefully down the corridor, disappearing around a corner. Kimi shrugged and continued towards the hospitality unit.

Meanwhile, George’s gut churned with unease. The call had been from his girlfriend, Carmen, with unsettling news about something she’d overheard earlier between some members of the team’s hospitality staff when she was walking back from the toilets. He hoped she had just misheard, that everything was okay. But he needed to be sure.

He finished the call, resolved to put Carmen’s mind, and his own, at ease. He turned back towards the Mercedes garage, walking quickly through the maze of corridors that connected the various team buildings, heading to where she had stated she heard.

As he passed a small conference room, he heard the voices. Something about the tone made him pause, gathering they were who Carmen was talking about. He recognized the voices of two men he vaguely knew, members of the hospitality team that catered to the VIP guests. He hesitated, then cautiously leaned closer, his blood turning to ice water as he listened.

“He’s just a kid, really. Fresh meat and only 18, so still naive.”

“Exactly. Toto is always busy, so all we need is a moment alone and…”

The other man chuckled, a low, guttural sound that sent shivers down George's spine. “He's here alone, without his family, so he must be lonely. He must be needing some fun.”

George felt a wave of nausea wash over him. He understood the implication immediately, the venomous intent behind their words. These men… they were planning something, something vile and predatory. Carmen was right, they were talking about Kimi.

His first instinct was to burst into the room and confront them, but he knew that would accomplish nothing. He needed proof, something concrete to show Toto. He fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking, and surreptitiously snapped a quick photo of the two men through the half-open door, recording for a minute as they kept talking, saying vile things about Kimi.

He didn't wait to hear more. Adrenaline coursed through him, propelling him forward. He had to warn Kimi. He had to protect him.

~~~~~

George practically sprinted back towards the Mercedes garage, his heart pounding in his chest. He scanned the area frantically, his eyes searching for Kimi. He spotted him near the motorhome, chatting with a mechanic.

"Kimi!" he shouted, his voice tight with urgency. "We need to talk. Now."

Kimi looked up, startled by George's tone. He excused himself from the mechanic and walked over, a question etched on his face.

"What's wrong, George? You look like you've seen a ghost."

George grabbed his arm, pulling him towards a less crowded area. "Listen, Kimi, there's no time to explain. We need to get you out of here. Now."

"Out of here? Where are we going?" Kimi asked, his confusion growing.

"Just trust me," George said, his voice low and urgent. "It's important."

Without giving Kimi a chance to protest, George led him through the paddock, weaving through the throngs of people. He knew he had to get Kimi to a safe place, somewhere he could be protected. He decided on the Scuderia Ferrari garage.

He knew Charles Leclerc and Lewis Hamilton, the Ferrari drivers, were stand-up guys. He’d raced against Charles and with Lewis for years and knew they possessed a strong sense of ethics. He trusted them to understand the gravity of the situation and offer Kimi refuge.

He reached the Ferrari garage and stopped outside, taking a deep breath. "Wait here," he said to Kimi. "I'll be right back."

He pushed past the Ferrari mechanics and walked directly towards Charles and Lewis, who were reviewing data on a laptop. He leaned in close, lowering his voice.

"Guys, I need your help," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Something serious is going on. I overheard some men in the hospitality team talking about Kimi... they were planning something… something bad. I need you to look after him, keep him safe until I can sort this out."

Charles and Lewis exchanged a look of instant understanding. They knew George wouldn't make such a request lightly.

"Of course, George," Charles said, his voice firm. "Bring him in. He's safe with us."

Lewis nodded in agreement. "Don't worry, we'll take care of him."

George felt a wave of relief wash over him. He turned back and beckoned Kimi over. He led him inside the Ferrari garage, his hand resting protectively on his shoulder.

"Kimi, these are Charles and Lewis as you know. They're going to look after you for a while, okay? Just stay here, and I'll come back as soon as I can."

Kimi looked from George to the two Ferrari drivers, his eyes wide with apprehension. He sensed the gravity of the situation, the unspoken threat hanging in the air.

"Okay, George," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I trust you."

George squeezed his shoulder one last time before turning and rushing back towards the Mercedes garage. He had to tell Toto, and he had to do it now.

~~~~~

He barged into Toto Wolff’s office, his face flushed with anger and concern. Toto looked up, surprised by George's abrupt entrance.

"George, what's going on? You look like you've seen a…"

"I have, Toto," George interrupted, his voice tight. "I overheard two members of the hospitality team talking about Kimi. They were planning something… something inappropriate. They were talking about getting him alone in a room. I have a photo of them and a recording."

He thrust his phone towards Toto, his hand shaking. Toto took the phone and examined the photo before listening to the video, his face growing progressively darker. He listened intently as George recounted what else he had overheard, his jaw clenched in fury.

When George finished, Toto slammed his fist on the desk, the sound echoing through the office. "This is unacceptable! Absolutely unacceptable! We will not tolerate this kind of behaviour. Not in this team, not anywhere."

He immediately summoned his head of security and showed him the photo. "Find these men," he commanded, his voice cold and steel. "And bring them to me."

Within minutes, the two men were apprehended and brought before Toto. He didn't mince words. He fired them on the spot, threatening them with legal action if they ever came near Kimi or any member of the Mercedes team again. He made it clear that their actions would be reported to the authorities if necessary.

The men, realizing the gravity of their situation, offered weak apologies, but Toto was unmoved. He ordered security to escort them off the premises, ensuring they were permanently banned from the paddock.

With the immediate threat neutralized, Toto turned to George, his expression softening. "Thank you, George," he said, his voice sincere. "You did the right thing. You protected Kimi, and you protected the integrity of this team."

George nodded, relief washing over him. "Where is Kimi now?" Toto asked.

"He's with Charles and Lewis at Ferrari," George replied.

"Go get him," Toto said. "And tell him everything is alright."

~~~~~

George rushed back to the Ferrari garage, his heart lighter than it had been all day. He found Kimi sitting with Charles and Lewis, looking subdued but safe as the two explained what was happening.

"Kimi," he said, his voice filled with relief. "It's over. They're gone. Toto fired them both and they have been warned to stay away."

Kimi looked up, his eyes widening with disbelief. "Really? They're gone?"

George nodded. "Yes. Toto handled it. They won't be bothering you anymore."

Kimi stood up and walked towards George, his face breaking into a relieved smile. He threw his arms around him in a tight hug.

"Thank you, George," he said, his voice choked with emotion. "Thank you for everything. Thank you for protecting me."

George hugged him back, feeling a surge of protectiveness towards his young teammate. "Always, Kimi," he said. "I'm always here for you. You're not alone in this."

He stepped back, looking at Kimi with a reassuring smile. "Come on," he said. "Let's go back."

He turned to Charles and Lewis, offering a grateful nod. "Thank you, guys," he said. "I owe you one."

Charles clapped him on the shoulder, "Don't mention it. You did the right thing, George"

Lewis smiled, "anytime, my friend. Kimi is safe."

As George and Kimi walked back towards the Mercedes garage, Kimi paused, his expression thoughtful. "I don't understand why they would do that," he said. "Why would they target me?"

George sighed, putting an arm around Kimi's shoulder. "Unfortunately, Kimi, there are bad people in the world. People who take advantage of others, especially those who are younger. But you can't let them define you. You have to stay strong, and you have to remember that you have people who care about you, who will always be there to protect you."

Kimi nodded, his eyes filled with determination. "I will," he said. "I won't let them win."

The walk back to the Mercedes garage was quiet, but the silence was filled with a newfound sense of camaraderie. Kimi was no longer just a rookie, a teammate. He was a friend, a brother in arms. And George was determined to protect him, not just on the track, but off it as well.

The incident cast a long shadow, but it also brought the Mercedes team closer together. It reinforced the importance of looking out for one another, of creating a safe and supportive environment for everyone.

Kimi went on to have a successful debut season, proving his talent and earning the respect of his peers. He never forgot what George had done for him, and their bond grew stronger with each passing race.

And George, he kept a watchful eye on Kimi, always ready to step in and protect him from the darkness that lurked beneath the surface of the glamorous world of Formula 1. He knew that the weight of the stars could be heavy, especially for a young man just starting his journey. He grew to view Kimi as a little brother and vowed to keep him safe in the crazy, cutthroat world of Formula 1.

Chapter Text

The roar of the Mercedes power unit was a lullaby to Kimi Antonelli. At eighteen, he was the youngest driver on the Formula One grid, a whirlwind of raw talent and boyish enthusiasm thrust into the unforgiving world of motorsport. He lived, breathed, and dreamt racing, fuelled by the pressure to prove he deserved the seat vacated by a legend.

The Abu Dhabi Grand Prix had been brutal. The desert heat, the relentless G-forces, and the incessant media demands had taken their toll. He’d finished a respectable P7, but the exhaustion clung to him like a shroud. Back in the Mercedes hospitality suite, the adrenaline drained away, leaving him bone-weary.

“Kimi, you okay?” his engineer, Riccardo, asked, concern etched on his face.

“Yeah, just… tired,” Kimi mumbled, pulling off his race suit. The air conditioning felt like a welcome caress against his overheated skin. He shed his balaclava and loosened the straps of his HANS device.

“Grab some food, hydrate. Toto wants to talk to you later about the debrief.” Riccardo patted him on the shoulder.

Kimi nodded, but the thought of even chewing felt like a monumental task. He grabbed a bottle of water and shuffled towards the plush couches in the lounge area. The noise of the post-race celebration buzzed around him, but he was already tuning it out. He collapsed onto the soft cushions, closing his eyes for just a moment.

That moment stretched into a deep, dreamless sleep. He hadn't bothered to redress, the lingering heat too tempting. The world faded away, leaving him oblivious to the soft clicks and whispers that began to fill the space around him.

~~~~~

The man, a freelance photographer named James, had been lurking at the edges of the celebratory throng, his press credentials a flimsy shield for his true intentions. He'd been following Kimi for weeks, sensing a vulnerability in the young driver, a naïveté that could be exploited. The other drivers were seasoned and careful with how they presented themselves both on and off the track. He'd been working on a story for a less-than-reputable tabloid, hungry for a scandal to boost their sales.

Seeing Kimi alone, unguarded, was an opportunity too good to pass up. He slipped into the deserted lounge area, his heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Kimi lay sprawled on the couch, his chest bare, his face relaxed in sleep.

James's hands trembled as he raised his camera, the soft click barely audible over the music. He took several shots, each one more invasive than the last. He adjusted Kimi's position slightly, pulling his arm over his head to accentuate the lean muscles of his torso. He wanted to create an image that was not simply voyeuristic, but deliberately suggestive, a story waiting to be written in the eyes of the beholder.

He was lining up another shot, a close-up of Kimi's face, when the voices broke the spell.

~~~~~

“Mate, where’s the bloody champagne?” Lando Norris’s voice echoed in the suite, followed by the deeper rumble of Max Verstappen and the quieter tones of George Russell. They entered the lounge area, their laughter dying in their throats.

The scene before them was instantly, viscerally wrong. They froze, their adrenaline surging, not from the race, but from a primal instinct to protect.

George was the first to react. "Hey!" he shouted, his voice sharp and laced with fury. He surged forward, his long strides eating up the distance between him and Kimi. He ripped off his own Mercedes team jacket and swiftly draped it over the sleeping driver, carefully avoiding any unnecessary contact. Then, he knelt beside Kimi, gently shaking his shoulder. "Kimi, wake up. It's okay, wake up."

Max, his face a mask of barely controlled rage, stalked towards James, his fists clenched. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he growled, his Dutch accent thick with anger.

Lando, usually the jokester, was deadly serious. He grabbed James's wrist, wrenching the camera from his grasp. "Delete them. Delete them all, now!" he barked, his voice surprisingly cold.

The commotion jolted Kimi awake. He blinked, disoriented, trying to reconcile the blurry images in his mind with the chaos around him. George was holding him, his arm a reassuring weight across his shoulders. He saw Max towering over a pale-faced man, and Lando furiously scrolling through a camera screen.

"What's... what's going on?" Kimi stammered, his voice thick with sleep.

"This guy was taking pictures of you while you were sleeping," George said, his voice tight with controlled anger. "He was… he was trying to take advantage."

The realization hit Kimi like a physical blow. His cheeks flushed with a mixture of shame and outrage. He curled into George, wrapping the jacket tighter around himself. The feeling of being exposed, violated, was unbearable.

The raised voices had alerted the Mercedes team members, who were having a post-race debrief. Toto Wolff, the team principal, arrived with a thunderous expression, following behind a few engineers. The sight of the photographer and the tension in the air told him everything he needed to know.

"Get him out of here," Toto commanded, his voice dangerously low. Security personnel, summoned by one of the engineers, swiftly escorted James from the premises. His protests were drowned out by the collective disapproval of the Mercedes team.

Toto turned his attention to Kimi, his gaze softening. "Are you alright, Kimi?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

Kimi mumbled something inaudible, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"He's shaken up, Toto," George said, his arm protectively around Kimi's shoulders. "He needs some space."

Toto nodded. "Riccardo, take Kimi back to the hotel. Make sure he's comfortable. We'll deal with this in the morning."

As Riccardo led Kimi away, Toto turned to Max and Lando. "Thank you," he said, his voice sincere. "For intervening."

"Of course, Toto," Max replied, his expression still grim. "Nobody deserves that."

"He should be banned from the paddock," Lando added, his voice laced with disgust.

Toto nodded grimly. "We'll make sure he is."

Back in his hotel room, Kimi sat on the edge of the bed, the events of the past hour replaying in his mind. He felt a wave of nausea wash over him. He was grateful for George, Lando, and Max's quick actions, but the feeling of vulnerability lingered. He had been so careless, so naive.

A knock at the door announced George's arrival. He sat next to Kimi on the bed, his presence a comforting reassurance.

"How are you doing?" George asked softly.

Kimi shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted. "I feel… dirty."

George put his arm around Kimi's shoulders. "Hey, it's not your fault, Kimi. You did nothing wrong. That guy was a creep."

"But I was so stupid," Kimi said, his voice barely a whisper. "I should have been more careful."

"Don't blame yourself," George insisted. "You were exhausted. You deserved to relax in a place that is supposed to be safe. And besides, we're all here for each other. You're not alone, Kimi."

~~~~~

Mercedes released a strong statement condemning the photographer's actions and vowing to take legal action. Toto Wolff personally addressed the media, his words forceful and unwavering. He also ensured that Kimi had access to the best support: therapists trained to help him process what had happened.

The F1 community rallied around Kimi. Drivers, teams, and fans expressed their outrage and support. The incident sparked a wider conversation about privacy, consent, and the responsibility of the media.

Kimi was reluctant to engage. He barely left his hotel room for days, consumed by anxiety and self-doubt. He wanted nothing more than to disappear, to escape the relentless glare of the spotlight.

It was Lando and Max who finally coaxed him out. They took him to a secluded beach, away from the prying eyes of the paparazzi. They didn't pressure him to talk; they simply offered their presence, their friendship, and their unwavering support.

Slowly, gradually, Kimi began to heal. He realized that he couldn't erase what had happened, but he could control how he responded to it. He decided to use his platform to speak out against invasion of privacy and to advocate for the protection of athletes, especially young ones, from exploitation.

The experience left a scar, but it also forged a new strength within him. He learned the importance of trust, the value of friendship, and the power of resilience. He returned to the track with a renewed sense of purpose, his determination fuelled by a desire to prove not only his talent, but also his character.

The Abu Dhabi Grand Prix the following year was a different story. Kimi qualified on the front row and drove a flawless race, taking his first Formula One victory. As he stood on the podium, showered in champagne, he looked out at the cheering crowd, a wave of emotion washing over him. He had overcome adversity, he had silenced his critics, and he had emerged stronger than ever.

Chapter Text

The roar of the Mercedes engine vibrated through Kimi’s bones, a familiar comfort that belied the maelstrom of nerves swirling in his stomach. He was here. Formula 1. The pinnacle of motorsport. And not just anywhere, but with Mercedes, the team that had dominated for so long. Eighteen years old and strapped into Lewis Hamilton’s old seat. The pressure was immense, a tangible force pressing down on him.

The Hungarian Grand Prix. Boiling heat radiated from the asphalt, shimmering the already dizzying landscape of the track. Kimi had qualified a respectable 6th. The first few races had been a rollercoaster – glimpses of brilliance overshadowed by rookie errors, mechanical gremlins, and the sheer overwhelming complexity of a modern Formula 1 car.

The lights went out, and the world exploded in a symphony of screaming engines and squealing tires. Kimi launched well, holding his position into the first corner, a tight right-hander that demanded precision and bravery. He jostled for position, elbows out, fighting experienced veterans who had been battling on this track for years.

The race unfolded in a blur of strategic calculations, tyre management, and relentless concentration. Kimi was pushing hard, trying to make up ground, but the heat was taking its toll. He felt a prickle of dizziness, a familiar sensation he’d ignored in the past. He knew his limits, usually.

He was on lap 42, pushing the car through the high-speed Turn 4, his vision blurring, a wave of nausea washing over him. He tried to blink it away, to focus on the apex, but it was too late. The world went black.

The Mercedes, unsteered, veered sharply to the right, slamming into the tyre barrier at terrifying speed. The impact was deafening, a sickening crunch of metal and carbon fibre. The air hung thick with the acrid smell of burning rubber and spilled fuel.

~~~~~

Lando Norris had had a brilliant start from fourth on the grid. He’d muscled his way past Leclerc and George into third, tailing Verstappen closely. He felt good, confident, like this could be the race he’d been striving for. Then a slow puncture on lap 10 had forced him into an early pit stop, relegating him to the back of the pack.

Frustration gnawed at him. He was navigating his way back through the field, his McLaren singing a vicious song of redemption, when he witnessed the horrific crash ahead.

The Mercedes, Kimi’s Mercedes, had inexplicably speared off the track and smashed into the barriers. The impact was brutal. A plume of dust and debris erupted, momentarily obscuring the scene.

Lando’s heart lurched. He recognized the Mercedes instantly, the silver arrow now mangled and silent. He saw the crumpled shape of the chassis, the broken wing, the sheer violence of the impact. He knew, instinctively, that this was serious.

His mind raced. He saw the yellow flags waving frantically, the safety car deploying. Drivers slowed, circulating cautiously behind the pace car. But Lando couldn’t just wait. He saw the way the young rookie’s head slumped, the stillness that was so utterly wrong.

He knew the rules. He knew he shouldn't. He knew the risks. But he couldn't ignore the gnawing fear in his gut.

“I’m pulling over,” he said tersely into the radio, his voice barely audible above the roar of the engine.

“Lando, what are you doing? Stay behind the safety car!” his engineer pleaded.

Lando ignored him. He steered the McLaren off the racing line, pulling onto the dusty verge just before the accident site. He killed the engine and unbuckled his harness, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“Lando, repeat, what are you doing?!” the engineer's voice was rising in panic.

He wrenched open the cockpit and jumped out. He sprinted towards the wreckage, ignoring the marshals waving him back, ignoring the potential danger of the debris field. He had to get to Kimi.

~~~~~

The scene was chaotic. Marshals were cautiously approaching the wreckage, armed with fire extinguishers. The silence following the crash was unnerving, broken only by the crackle of radio chatter.

Lando reached the car and peered into the shattered cockpit. Kimi was slumped against the headrest, his eyes closed, his body limp. The air smelled of petrol and battery acid.

A wave of nausea hit Lando, but he fought it down. Panic was useless. He needed to stay calm, to assess the situation.

Kimi was unconscious. His helmet was still on, thank God. But his head was at an awkward angle, unsupported. Lando knew the dangers of moving someone with a potential neck injury.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then made a decision. He carefully reached into the cockpit and braced Kimi’s head, gently supporting it against his own forearm. He held it still, unmoving, his muscles screaming in protest.

“He’s unconscious!” Lando yelled to the approaching marshals. “Don’t move him! We need medical assistance immediately!”

The marshals, initially hesitant, sprang into action. One radioed for the medical car, while another started clearing debris.

The minutes that followed stretched into an eternity. Lando remained frozen, his arm aching, his heart pounding in his chest. He focused on Kimi’s face, searching for any sign of life, any flicker of movement.

He could feel the heat radiating from the wreckage, the tension in the air. He could hear the distant wail of sirens, growing louder with each passing second.

Finally, the medical car arrived, screeching to a halt beside the crash site. The medical team swarmed around the wreckage, their faces grim.

They carefully extracted Kimi from the car, immobilizing his neck with a brace. They placed him on a stretcher and rushed him to the vehicle, one of the medical staff turned to Lando, his expression serious. “You did good,” he said. “Holding his head like that… it may have prevented further injury.”

Lando just nodded, numb. He felt a strange mixture of relief and dread. Relief that he had been able to help, dread for what the future held for Kimi.

The medical car sped away, its siren fading into the distance. Lando stood there, covered in dust and debris, the image of Kimi’s limp body seared into his memory.

He knew he had broken the rules. He knew he would likely face consequences. But in that moment, none of that mattered. He had done what he believed was right.

~~~~~

The race was red-flagged. The drivers returned to the pits, a somber mood hanging over the paddock. Speculation was rife. What had caused the crash? How badly was Kimi hurt?

Lando sat in the McLaren garage, trying to process what had happened. He was surrounded by his team, but he felt strangely isolated.

He was bracing himself for the inevitable dressing down from his team principal and the FIA, MBS, for his actions. He knew he had risked his own safety, potentially jeopardizing the race, and breaking protocol.

Then, a figure appeared in the doorway of the garage. It was Toto Wolff, the imposing team principal of Mercedes. His face, usually a carefully constructed mask of composure, was etched with concern.

Toto walked directly towards Lando, ignoring the curious glances of the McLaren mechanics. He stopped in front of him, his eyes filled with raw emotion, something it was rare to see from the Mercedes team principal.

“Lando,” he said, his voice thick with gratitude. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

Lando shifted uncomfortably. “It was nothing, Toto.”

“Nothing?!” Toto shook his head. “The doctors… they said what you did, holding Kimi’s head like that… it may have saved him from serious, lasting injury. They said it stabilized his neck, prevented further damage. He’ll have a quicker recovery because of you.”

Lando felt a wave of relief wash over him. He hadn’t realized the extent of the impact his actions had had.

“I’m just glad I could help,” he mumbled.

“Help? You went above and beyond, Lando. You risked your own safety, you broke the rules… and you saved a young man from potentially devastating consequences. You are a true sportsman, a true human being.”

Toto extended his hand, his grip firm and sincere. “Thank you, Lando. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

As Toto turned to leave, he paused at the doorway. “I owe you one, Lando. Anything. Just name it.”

Lando watched him go, a strange mix of emotions swirling inside him. He felt a sense of satisfaction, knowing that he had made a difference. But he also felt a deep unease, knowing that Kimi’s future, now hanging in the balance at just 18 years old.

~~~~~

Kimi spent the next few days in the hospital in Budapest. The initial tests revealed a concussion and a minor fracture in his wrist, but thankfully, no permanent damage to his spine.

The outpouring of support was overwhelming. Messages flooded in from fans, drivers, and team personnel. He was touched by the concern, but he also felt a crushing sense of guilt. He had let down his team, he had crashed their car, and he had put his own life, and the lives of others, at risk.

Toto visited him every day, offering words of encouragement and reassurance. He told Kimi not to blame himself, that these things happen in racing, and that the most important thing was to focus on his recovery.

He also told him about Lando’s actions, about how he had rushed to his aid, about how his quick thinking had potentially saved him from serious injury.

Kimi was deeply moved. He had always respected Lando as a driver, but he had never truly known him as a person. Now, he felt an immense sense of gratitude, and a burning desire to thank him in person.

A week later, Kimi was discharged from the hospital and flown back to Mercedes headquarters in Brackley. He was still sore and tired, but he was determined to get back in the car as soon as possible.

He knew that he had a long road ahead of him. He needed to regain his confidence, to prove to himself, and to the team, that he deserved to be in Formula 1. He needed to learn from his mistakes, to become a better driver, and a better person.

But most of all, he needed to thank Lando Norris, the man who had risked everything to save him. 

Chapter Text

The roar of the Italian Grand Prix, the cheers of the Tifosi, and the pungent scent of burning rubber still clung to Kimi as he navigated the deserted Mercedes garage late that evening. At eighteen years old, Kimi was a phenomenon, a preternaturally talented driver thrust into the unforgiving world of Formula 1 by the very team that had nurtured legends. He was living the dream, or so he kept telling himself.

The Monza race had been gruelling. He'd finished a respectable, if slightly disappointing, seventh, a stark reminder that talent alone wouldn't guarantee podiums. He was still learning, still adapting, still trying to drown out the cacophony of expectations that followed him like a persistent shadow.

He reached his small changing room, the stark white walls momentarily offering a sense of peace. He needed a shower, needed to shed the grime and the pressure. He reached for the door handle, pushed it open, and froze.

The room was dark, save for the sliver of light spilling in from the hallway. His eyes, accustomed to the brightly lit garage, struggled to adjust. And then he saw it – or rather, he thought he saw it. Underneath the small, utilitarian table tucked into the corner, a dark shape lurked. A hunched silhouette. A person.

Panic slammed into him, cold and visceral. His breath hitched. He didn’t think, didn’t analyse, didn’t even try to rationalize. Every instinct screamed at him to flee. He wasn’t going to be one of those stupid people in horror movies that sees something and decides to go towards the danger, rather than away.

He closed the door quietly, making sure it wasn’t loud so it wouldn’t alert anyone that might be inside. He spun around and bolted, his heart hammering against his ribs. He ran down the long, echoing corridor, his footsteps the only sound breaking the silence. The image of that shape, that potential threat lurking in the darkness, burned in his mind.

He fumbled with the door to the McLaren garage, the closest one to Mercedes, adrenaline coursing through his veins. It was brightly lit, a stark contrast to the shadowy fear he'd just fled. Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri were huddled around a monitor, their faces illuminated by the flickering screen.

"Lando! Oscar!" he gasped, his voice trembling. He was acutely aware that he was intruding, that he, a Mercedes driver, was seeking refuge in their space. But he couldn’t stop shaking.

They both looked up, startled. Lando was instantly alert, his playful grin replaced with concern. "Kimi? What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

His words tumbled out in a rush, a jumbled mess of fear and disbelief. "I... I was in my changing room... and there was something... someone... under the table. I saw a shadow. I think someone was hiding!"

Lando and Oscar exchanged a quick glance. They could see the genuine terror in Kimi's wide, dark eyes.

"Okay, okay, calm down," Lando said, his voice soothing. He put a comforting hand on Kimi's shoulder. "Let's get security. Tell them what you saw."

Oscar was already grabbing his phone. "Show us which room it was, mate."

They found a security guard patrolling the corridor. Kimi, still shaking, pointed to his changing room.

"I think there's someone hiding inside," he stammered. "Under the table."

The security guard, a burly man with a stern face, nodded seriously. "Alright, stay here. I'll check it out."

He radioed for backup and disappeared into the Mercedes garage. Kimi, Lando, and Oscar stood in the corridor, the silence punctuated only by the distant hum of the building's ventilation system. Lando noticed Kimi was still shaking so he gently placed an arm over his shoulders for comfort.

Kimi was mortified. He was Kimi Antonelli, the rising star. He was supposed to be calm, collected, in control. Not a quivering mess seeking refuge with his rivals.

"It was probably nothing," he mumbled, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "Just my mind playing tricks on me. I'm tired."

Lando squeezed his shoulder again. "Doesn't matter, Kimi. Even if it's just your imagination, it's better to be safe than sorry. We'd rather have it checked out." Oscar nodded in agreement.

The minutes stretched into an eternity. Kimi felt exposed, vulnerable, leaning into Lando’s side. He could feel the weight of their scrutiny, the unspoken questions hanging in the air. He was the golden boy, the future world champion. This wasn't how he was supposed to be perceived.

Finally, the security guard emerged, his face grim. He spoke briefly into his radio, then turned to face them. "The room is secure. We have someone in custody. You should probably contact your team principal, young man."

The knot in Kimi's stomach tightened. Someone was in custody. This wasn't just his imagination. This was real.

~~~~~

A few minutes later, Toto Wolff, the formidable team principal of Mercedes, arrived, his face a mask of controlled fury. He thanked Lando and Oscar for their assistance and ushered Kimi into a private office within the Mercedes garage.

The door closed with a soft click, sealing them off from the rest of the world.

"Kimi," Toto said, his voice low and serious. "What happened?"

Kimi recounted the story again, his voice steadier this time, but still tinged with fear. He described the shadow, the feeling of dread, the frantic escape.

Toto listened intently, his gaze unwavering. When Kimi finished, he sighed, a sound heavy with weariness.

"I'm afraid what you saw was real, Kimi. There was a man hiding in your changing room. He was apprehended by security and is now in police custody."

Relief washed over Kimi, quickly followed by a fresh wave of fear. He wasn't crazy. But what did this mean? Why would someone be hiding in his changing room?

"Why?" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "What did he want?"

Toto's expression hardened. "We don't know his exact motives yet. The police are investigating. But preliminary reports suggest he intended to..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "He intended to, to take advantage of you Kimi."

The words hit Kimi like a physical blow. Take advantage. The reality of the situation crashed down on him, cold and brutal. He felt sick, violated, his sense of security shattered.

"He... he wanted to hurt me?"

Toto nodded grimly. "The authorities believe he had been planning this for some time. He was waiting for an opportunity. He knew you would be alone late tonight."

Kimi felt a shiver run down his spine. He imagined that dark figure, lurking in the shadows, waiting for him. The thought made his stomach churn.

"What now?" he asked, his voice trembling. "What happens now?"

Toto placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "The man is in police custody, Kimi. He will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. We will also be increasing security measures throughout the garage, both here and at every race from now on. You will never be left alone. We will make sure you are safe."

He paused, his eyes filled with genuine concern. "This is a deeply disturbing situation, Kimi. And I understand that you must be feeling frightened and vulnerable. We will provide you with whatever support you need. Counselling, therapy, whatever you need to process this. Your well-being is our priority."

Kimi nodded, his throat tight. He appreciated Toto's words, his concern. But he couldn't shake the feeling of violation, the sense that his world had been irrevocably tainted.

"Thank you, Toto," he managed to say. "I... I don't know what to say."

"There's nothing to say, Kimi," Toto replied. "Just know that you are not alone. We are here for you, every step of the way."

He stood up, his presence commanding. "Now, I want you to go back to your hotel, get some rest. Don't think about this anymore tonight. We will deal with everything. You focus on the race next week. That's what you do best."

Kimi nodded, but he knew sleep would be a long time coming. The image of that shadowy figure, the knowledge of what he intended, would be etched in his mind for a long time.

He left the office, his steps heavy. The garage seemed different now, contaminated. The bright lights felt harsh, the silence oppressive. He felt like a target, exposed and vulnerable.

As he walked back to his hotel, the weight of being Kimi Antonelli, the Formula 1 rookie, the golden boy, felt heavier than ever before. He wasn't just a driver anymore. He was a victim. He was a target. And he had to learn to live with that.

Chapter Text

The roar of the Japanese crowd still vibrated in Kimi Antonelli's ears, a chaotic symphony of triumph and disappointment. He had finished sixth, a respectable result for his third ever Formula One race. But the weight of expectation, the crushing pressure of filling Lewis Hamilton's seat at Mercedes at just eighteen, felt heavier than ever.

He stood awkwardly amongst the post-race hubbub, a kid in a candy store surrounded by giants. The other drivers, his rivals, were gathered near the Mercedes hospitality unit, a relaxed atmosphere of camaraderie and friendly rivalry replacing the on-track intensity. Lewis, now driving for Ferrari, was holding court, his laughter booming above the general chatter.

Kimi felt a pang of… something. Jealousy? Disappointment? He barely knew Lewis. When the seven-time champion had announced his departure, Kimi had been a mere blip on the Formula 2 radar. Now, thrust into the spotlight, he carried the weight of a legacy he hadn't earned, a shadow he couldn't escape.

He tried to ignore the feeling, forcing a smile as George Russell, his teammate, clapped him on the back. “Good job out there, Kimi. Defended well against Carlos in the last few laps.”

“Thanks, George,” Kimi mumbled, his gaze drifting back to the group surrounding Lewis.

Then, the atmosphere shattered.

A man, unremarkable in appearance, detached himself from the crowd. He was middle-aged, dressed in jeans and a worn Mercedes t-shirt, his face contorted with rage. In his hand, he held a gun.

“You!” he screamed, pointing the weapon directly at Kimi. “You don’t deserve to be here! You’re a disgrace! You’re ruining Mercedes! Lewis is the greatest, and you’re just… a child!”

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Kimi's blood turned to ice and he froze. The world narrowed to the black hole of the gun barrel. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only see the mad intensity in the man’s eyes.

Then, a lightning-fast blur.

Lewis.

He moved faster than anyone Kimi had ever seen, a predator reacting instinctively. He launched himself forward, placing his body between Kimi and the gunman, his hands raised defensively.

"Put the gun down!" Lewis roared, his voice a weapon in itself. The force of his command seemed to momentarily stun the man.

The hesitation was all the security needed. Two burly guards, faces grim, surged forward and tackled the man to the ground. The gun clattered away, skidding across the polished concrete.

The world snapped back into focus. The air rushed back into Kimi's lungs. He was shaking uncontrollably, tears stinging his eyes.

He felt a strong arm wrap around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. It was Lewis.

“You’re okay, kid.” Lewis murmured, his voice low and reassuring. “You’re okay.”

Kimi could only nod, burying his face in Lewis's shoulder, the sobs wracking his body. He felt the shock, the fear, the overwhelming vulnerability of a boy suddenly faced with mortality.

The other drivers, alerted by the commotion, gathered around, their faces etched with concern. Max Verstappen, ever the pragmatist, was the first to speak.

“That was… reckless, Lewis,” he said, his voice surprisingly subdued. “You could have gotten yourself killed.”

Lewis pulled back from Kimi, his expression hardening. “He was delusional, Max. Thinking he was defending… my honour. He was unlikely to shoot me, but he was very likely to shoot Kimi. He was the target.”

“But still…” Max argued, shaking his head.

“He’s 18 Max, he’s a kid,” Lewis snapped.

“Enough,” Fernando Alonso interjected, his gaze sweeping over the scene. “What matters is everyone is safe. Let’s just focus on that.”

~~~~~

The aftermath was a whirlwind of police interviews, security debriefings, and concerned calls from Toto Wolff, the Mercedes team principal. Kimi felt numb, disconnected from reality. He spent the rest of the day in his hotel room, staring blankly at the television, the images blurring into meaningless shapes.

The gravity of what had happened didn't truly sink in until late that night. He replayed the moment over and over in his mind: the man, the gun, Lewis’s unbelievable bravery. He imagined the bullet, tearing through flesh and bone, ending his life before it had even truly begun.

He woke up in a cold sweat, the nightmare a vivid replay of the day’s horrors. He needed to talk to someone, anyone.

He picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts. His parents were back in Italy, and he didn't want to worry them. George was probably asleep. Then he saw Lewis's number. He hesitated for a moment, a dozen conflicting emotions swirling within him. Gratitude, fear, awkwardness, a strange sense of obligation.

He took a deep breath and pressed the call button.

Lewis answered on the second ring. “Kimi? Is everything alright?”

“I… I just wanted to say thank you,” Kimi stammered, his voice thick with emotion. “For… for everything.”

There was a pause. “You don’t have to thank me, kid. Anyone would have done the same.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” Kimi insisted. “You… you saved my life.”

“Maybe,” Lewis conceded. “But more importantly, you’re okay. That’s all that matters.”

They spoke for another hour, Lewis’s calm voice a soothing balm to Kimi’s frayed nerves. He talked about the pressure, the expectations, the loneliness of being a rookie in Formula One. Lewis listened patiently, offering words of encouragement and understanding.

“It’s a tough world, Kimi,” Lewis said finally. “But you’ve got talent, real talent. Don’t let anyone, especially some crazy fan, take that away from you.”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Kimi confessed, the vulnerability raw in his voice. “The pressure… it’s crushing me.”

“You can,” Lewis said firmly. “You just have to believe in yourself. And remember why you’re here. You’re here because you’re good. Damn good. Now get some sleep. You’ve got a race to win.”

~~~~~

The next few weeks were a blur of racing, training, and media appearances. The incident at Suzuka had made Kimi a global celebrity, his every move scrutinized, his every word dissected. The pressure intensified, amplified by the constant comparisons to Lewis.

Toto Wolff, ever the shrewd strategist, was acutely aware of the challenges Kimi faced. He arranged for a series of meetings with psychologists and mentors, hoping to provide Kimi with the tools he needed to cope with the pressure and the trauma.

But Kimi found himself increasingly drawn to Lewis. They talked regularly, either on the phone or in person, sharing meals and discussing racing strategy. Lewis became a mentor, offering guidance and support, understanding the unique burden Kimi carried.

“He’s a good kid,” Lewis said to Angela, his physiotherapist and confidant, one evening. “He’s got the talent, but he needs to learn how to handle the pressure. And he needs to stop trying to be me.”

“He’s filling your shoes, Lewis,” Angela pointed out. “It’s inevitable that he’ll be compared to you.”

“I know,” Lewis sighed. “But he needs to find his own path. He needs to be Kimi Antonelli, not the next Lewis Hamilton.”

The next race was in Singapore, a challenging street circuit known for its heat and humidity. Kimi struggled in qualifying, ending up in tenth place. Lewis, driving brilliantly for Ferrari, secured pole position.

As the lights went out, Kimi got a good start, gaining two positions in the opening lap. He pushed hard, battling his way through the field, his driving aggressive but controlled. By lap twenty, he was in sixth place, closing in on the leaders.

Then, disaster struck.

As he navigated a tight corner, his rear tires locked up, sending him spinning into the barrier. The impact was violent, the car a mangled mess of carbon fibre and metal.

The race was red-flagged. Emergency crews rushed to Kimi’s aid. He was conscious but in pain, his left leg trapped beneath the wreckage.

As he waited for the rescue team to extract him, he saw Lewis approaching. He was out of his car, his face etched with concern.

“Kimi! Are you alright?” Lewis shouted above the din.

“I think I broke my leg,” Kimi groaned.

Lewis knelt beside him, his eyes filled with empathy. “Don’t worry, kid. They’ll get you out of there. Just stay calm.”

As he was being lifted onto a stretcher, Kimi looked at Lewis, a wave of emotion washing over him. He was grateful for Lewis’s presence, but also frustrated with his own mistakes.

“I’m sorry, Lewis,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m letting everyone down.”

Lewis shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not letting anyone down. This is racing, Kimi. It happens. Just focus on getting better.”

~~~~~

Kimi’s crash at Singapore was a turning point. The broken leg forced him to take a break, giving him time to reflect on his experiences and reassess his priorities.

He spent weeks in rehabilitation, undergoing intense physical therapy. He missed racing, but he also appreciated the opportunity to step away from the spotlight and reconnect with himself.

Lewis visited him regularly, offering encouragement and support. They talked about racing, but also about life, about the challenges of fame and the importance of staying true to oneself.

“You need to find your own voice, Kimi,” Lewis said one day, as they were walking along the beach. “Don’t try to be someone you’re not. Be authentic, be genuine, be yourself.”

Kimi took Lewis’s words to heart. He started to shed the weight of expectation, to embrace his own strengths and acknowledge his weaknesses. He realized that he didn’t have to be Lewis Hamilton to be a successful Formula One driver. He just had to be the best version of himself.

As he recovered, he began to study the telemetry data from his races, analysing his mistakes and identifying areas for improvement. He worked with his engineers to fine-tune his driving style, focusing on consistency and precision.

By the time he was ready to return to racing, he was a different driver. He was more confident, more focused, and more determined than ever before.

~~~~~

Kimi’s return to Formula One was at the Austria Grand Prix. The pressure was immense, but Kimi felt calm and focused. He had nothing to prove, no expectations to meet. He was just there to race, to do his best, and to enjoy the experience.

He qualified fifth, a strong result considering he had been out of the car for several months. As the race started, he got a good launch, gaining a position on the first lap. He drove with precision and control, managing his tires and conserving fuel.

By lap twenty, he was in third place, behind Max Verstappen and Lewis Hamilton. The three drivers were locked in a fierce battle, pushing each other to the limit.

As the race entered its final stages, a light rain began to fall. The track became treacherous, requiring drivers to be extra cautious.

Max, leading the race, made a mistake, running wide on a corner and losing valuable time. Lewis seized the opportunity, overtaking him and taking the lead.

Kimi, following close behind, saw his chance. He pushed hard, closing the gap to Lewis. On the final lap, he made a daring move, overtaking Lewis on the inside of a corner.

He crossed the finish line in first place, his first Formula One victory. The crowd erupted in cheers, celebrating the return of the prodigy.

As he stood on the podium, accepting the trophy, Kimi looked out at the crowd, a wave of emotion washing over him. He had overcome adversity, faced his fears, and emerged stronger than ever before.

He saw Lewis standing beside him, applauding him with genuine enthusiasm. He smiled, knowing that he had finally earned his respect. He isn't Lewis Hamilton, He's Kimi Antonelli.

Chapter Text

The roar of the engines still echoed in Kimi Antonelli’s ears, even hours after the chequered flag had fallen. His debut Formula 1 race, the Melbourne Prix, had been a brutal baptism by fire. P4. Not a disaster, a triumph. A truly stunning performance that he was not expecting to achieve.

He’d expected pressure, of course. He was Kimi Antonelli, the prodigy, fast-tracked from Formula 2, after skipping Formula 3, straight into a Mercedes seat at just eighteen years old. The weight of expectation felt heavier than the car itself sometimes. He'd expected the g-forces, the tyre management, the intricate dance of strategy. But he hadn’t anticipated the sheer, overwhelming intensity of it all.

The media circus, the constant scrutiny, the pressure to perform… it was suffocating. He missed the relative anonymity of the junior categories, the close-knit camaraderie of his previous team. Here, in the glittering, high-stakes world of Formula 1, everyone felt like a competitor, even within his own team.

Sleep came fitfully, haunted by phantom engine noises and the relentless pressure of the race. He tossed and turned, the events of the day replaying in his mind, mistakes magnified, opportunities missed.

Then came the nightmare.

He was back in the car, but something was wrong. The steering was unresponsive, the brakes non-existent. He was hurtling towards a wall, the concrete barrier looming closer and closer. He screamed, a silent scream lost in the deafening roar, the impact inevitable…

Kimi jolted awake, drenched in sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The darkness of his hotel room seemed to press down on him, amplifying the fear that still gripped him. He was breathing raggedly, his hands shaking. He needed… he just needed someone.

Ollie.

Ollie Bearman, another rookie, also making waves. They’d raced together in F2, forged a strong friendship in the pressure cooker of motorsport. Ollie would understand. He'd know how to calm him down.

He fumbled for his phone, squinting at the bright screen. 3:17 AM. He didn’t care.

He stumbled out of bed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. He didn’t even bother with shoes, just padded down the hallway, relying on the faint light filtering from under the doors. He knew Ollie's room number. 214.

~~~~~

He found the room easily enough, his hand trembling as he knocked softly. He waited, the silence amplifying the frantic rhythm of his heart. He knocked again, a little louder this time.

A moment later, the door creaked open. A figure stood silhouetted against the dim light inside. It wasn't Ollie.

Kimi’s mind, already reeling from the nightmare, short-circuited. He vaguely registered a broader frame, darker hair, a more… defined jawline than Ollie's. He didn’t know who it was. He didn’t care.

The fear, the exhaustion, the overwhelming loneliness of the past few days crashed down on him like a tidal wave. He couldn't hold it in anymore.

He just collapsed, a sob escaping his lips as he stumbled forward, burying his face in the stranger's chest. He felt strong arms wrap around him, holding him tight. He clung to them, his body shaking with silent sobs.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” a low, concerned voice murmured. It was French, with a hint of something else Kimi couldn't quite place.

He couldn’t speak, couldn't explain. He just cried, letting the pent-up emotions flow freely.

The stranger, whoever he was, didn’t push him away. He just held him, a silent, comforting presence. After a few moments, he gently guided Kimi inside the room, closing the door behind them.

He led Kimi to the bed, the soft glow of a bedside lamp illuminating his face. It was Pierre Gasly. Veteran driver, Alpine. He’d seen him around the paddock, a fleeting nod here, a brief exchange there. They'd never spoken properly.

“Come on, sit down kiddo,” Pierre said softly, his voice laced with genuine concern. He sat beside Kimi on the edge of the bed, his arm still around him. He was surprised at how comforting he found this.

“Nightmare,” Kimi finally managed to choke out, his voice thick with emotion. “Just… a bad nightmare.”

Pierre’s expression softened. “Nightmares can be rough. What was it about?”

Kimi hesitated, embarrassed to admit his fears. “Crashing… I couldn’t stop the car. It was… real.”

Pierre squeezed his shoulder. “It wasn’t real, Kimi. You’re safe now.”

He pulled back slightly, looking directly at Kimi.

“You know,” Pierre continued, his voice soothing, "the pressure we put on ourselves, especially as rookies, can be immense. It manifests in strange ways."

Kimi nodded, feeling a flicker of understanding. Maybe Pierre understood more than he thought.

“Come here,” Pierre said, gently pulling Kimi down so he was lying on the bed. He shifted, adjusting the pillows and then lay down beside him, keeping his arm around him.

Kimi stiffened for a moment, caught off guard by the intimacy of the gesture. But the comforting warmth of Pierre’s presence, the gentle pressure of his arm, slowly melted his resistance. He felt safe, protected.

“Just close your eyes,” Pierre whispered. “Focus on your breathing. I’m here.”

Kimi closed his eyes, concentrating on the steady rhythm of Pierre’s breathing beside him. The scent of his cologne, a subtle blend of spice and citrus, filled his senses. It was surprisingly calming.

He felt Pierre’s hand gently stroking his hair, a small, comforting motion that soothed his frayed nerves. Slowly, gradually, the tension began to seep out of his body. The fear receded, replaced by a sense of profound exhaustion.

He drifted off to sleep, the nightmare fading into the background, replaced by the comforting presence of Pierre, a silent guardian in the darkness.

~~~~~

Sunlight streamed through the gap in the curtains, waking Kimi with a jolt. He blinked, disoriented, his head heavy. He felt… warm. Comfortable.

He turned his head and his breath caught in his throat. Pierre Gasly was still beside him, sound asleep. One arm was draped protectively across Kimi’s chest, his face relaxed and peaceful.

Memory flooded back, the nightmare, the frantic search for Ollie, the mistaken room number, and then… Pierre. Pierre holding him, comforting him, letting him sleep in his bed.

A wave of embarrassment washed over him. He had barged into a fellow driver's room in the middle of the night, a blubbering mess. How mortifying.

He carefully extracted himself from Pierre's embrace, trying not to wake him. He needed to get out of here, to disappear before Pierre woke up and realized the full extent of his awkwardness.

He tiptoed to the door, reaching for the handle when he heard a soft groan behind him.

“Kimi?” Pierre mumbled, his eyes still closed.

Kimi froze. Dammit.

Pierre slowly sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He looked at Kimi, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Morning,” he said, his voice still husky with sleep. “Sleep okay?”

Kimi felt his cheeks flush. “Um, yeah. I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I thought this was Ollie’s room. I had a nightmare and…” He trailed off, unable to meet Pierre’s gaze.

Pierre chuckled softly. “It’s alright, kid. I understand. Nightmares happen. And Ollie’s in room 216, not 214.”

He stood up, stretching his arms above his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad I could help. I think a lot of people often forget just how young you are.”

Kimi still felt a knot of embarrassment in his stomach. "Thank you. Really. I don't know what I would have done."

"You would have been okay. But," Pierre paused, "perhaps you needed someone. We all do sometimes. It’s good that you feel comfortable enough to seek Ollie for help. We all need someone in this sport, like I’ve got Charles."

He walked over to Kimi and clapped him on the shoulder. “Go get some breakfast. You’ve got a long season ahead of you.”

Kimi nodded, feeling a little less mortified. He turned to leave, then paused at the door.

“Pierre?”

Pierre turned back, raising an eyebrow.

“Thank you,” Kimi repeated, his voice sincere. “For… everything.”

Pierre smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes. “Anytime, Kimi. Anytime.”

As Kimi walked back to his own room, he couldn't help but feel a strange sense of gratitude. He’d stumbled into the wrong room, seeking comfort in the wrong person. But somehow, he’d found exactly what he needed.

Chapter Text

The roar of the Monza crowd was a physical thing, a wave crashing over Andrea “Kimi” Antonelli as he stood on the grid. At eighteen, he was the youngest driver on the current Formula 1 circuit, a fact that felt both exhilarating and terrifying. Beside him, the sleek silver arrow of his Mercedes simmered, a beast waiting to be unleashed. This was his dream, the culmination of years spent carving his name into the karting tracks, Formula 4 circuits, and finally, Formula 2.

But Monza wasn’t just any race. It was his home race, the Italian Grand Prix. And it was also the first race where his best friend, Oliver “Ollie” Bearman, would be lining up beside him on the grid, a Haas driver.

Kimi glanced over. Ollie, a year older at nineteen, was a picture of focused intent. His eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were narrowed, locked on the start lights. Ollie caught his eye, a brief, tight smile flickering across his face before he returned his gaze to the front.

They had been teammates at Prema in Formula 2 and became inseparable. They’d battled each other mercilessly on the track, pushing each other to be better, faster. The intensity of their rivalry was only matched by the depth of their friendship. When Kimi had signed with the Mercedes, and Ollie with Haas, they had been ecstatic that they'd be racing wheel-to-wheel in Formula 1.

Now, here they were.

The lights went out, and Monza erupted into chaos. Kimi got a decent start, holding his position as he navigated the first few corners. Ollie, didn’t get as good a start and dropped down two places and was more aggressive, weaving through the pack to get back to position with a raw, almost reckless energy.

The opening laps were a blur of speed, strategy, and controlled aggression. Kimi, still finding his feet in the complex world of Formula 1, focused on consistency, learning from the experienced drivers around him. Ollie, on the other hand, was driving like a man possessed, eager to prove himself.

By lap twenty, Kimi was holding steady in seventh place, a respectable position for a rookie. He heard his engineer, Bono, in his ear. "P7, Kimi. Bearman is closing the gap, two seconds behind."

Kimi tightened his grip on the wheel. Ollie was coming.

He braced himself. He knew Ollie's strengths, his tenacity, his fearless overtaking manoeuvres. He also knew his weaknesses – his occasional over-aggression, the tendency to push the car, and himself, too hard.

The gap closed rapidly. Lap after lap, Ollie chipped away at Kimi's advantage. The pressure was mounting.

He saw Ollie in his mirrors, the black and red Haas car a menacing shadow closing in. They were approaching the Ascari chicane, a notoriously tricky section of the track.

"Bearman is right behind you, Kimi," Bono’s voice crackled in his ear. "Defend your position."

Kimi took a deep breath. He knew what he had to do.

Ollie was a man possessed. He tasted blood, the intoxicating thrill of the chase fuelling his every move. He had started the race dropping, further back than he'd hoped, but he’d been steadily clawing his way back up the ranks. Now, finally, he had Kimi in his sights.

His best friend. His rival.

The thought flickered through his mind, a momentary distraction in the heat of battle. But he quickly pushed it aside. This wasn't about friendship; it was about racing. It was about proving himself.

As they hurtled towards the chicane, Ollie knew this was his opportunity. Kimi was defending well, but Ollie could see a sliver of space, a chance to dive inside on the turn. It was risky, borderline reckless, but Ollie was never one to shy away from a challenge.

He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves. “I’m going for it,” he muttered into his radio.

He braked late, throwing the Haas car into the chicane. He was close, too close to Kimi's Mercedes. His back wheels locked up momentarily, a sickening screech of tires against asphalt. He felt the car spinning, a violent, sickening lurch.

He braced for impact.

He closed his eyes, a silent prayer escaping his lips.

The world exploded.

The impact was brutal. The Haas car spun wildly, coming to a jarring halt in the gravel trap. Ollie's head snapped back, his vision blurring.

He gasped for breath, his chest heaving, his heart pounding in his ears. He was alive.

"Ollie, Ollie, are you alright?" his engineer, Dom, shouted over the radio.

"I... I'm fine," Ollie managed to stammer, his voice shaking. "I'm okay."

But he wasn't okay. He was far from okay.

He glanced up, his eyes frantically searching for Kimi's Mercedes. He saw it then, a mangled mess of metal careening off the track, smashing into the barrier at terrifying speed.

And then, the flames.

A plume of thick, black smoke billowed into the sky, followed by vibrant orange flames that licked hungrily at the crumpled chassis of the Mercedes.

Ollie's heart stopped.

"Kimi!" he screamed, the sound raw and desperate. "Kimi! No!"

His hands trembled as he fumbled with his seatbelt, his fingers clumsy and unresponsive. He had to get out. He had to get to Kimi.

"Ollie, stay in the car!" his engineer’s voice was sharp, urgent. "Do not get out of the car! The marshals are on their way."

But Ollie wasn't listening. He was beyond reason. He was beyond logic. All he saw was the flames, the inferno that was consuming his best friend's car.

"I killed him!" he sobbed, tearing at his helmet, ripping it off his head. "I killed Kimi! I killed my best friend!"

He clawed at the balaclava beneath, pulling it off, gasping for breath, choking on his own tears.

He was a mess, a broken, sobbing mess, consumed by guilt and terror.

And then, he heard it.

A roar.

It wasn't the roar of the engine, or the screech of the tires. It was the roar of the crowd, a unified surge of relief and jubilation.

He looked up, his eyes blurred with tears.

And he saw him.

Kimi.

Stumbling away from the wreckage, his racing suit blackened with soot, his helmet discarded on the ground. He was alive.

Ollie didn't think, didn't hesitate. He ripped off his seatbelt, the buckle tearing at his fingers. He threw himself from the car, landing heavily on the gravel.

He didn't feel the pain. All he felt was the overwhelming urge to reach Kimi, to make sure he was real, to make sure he was alive.

He sprinted towards him, his legs pumping, his lungs burning. He ignored the shouts of his engineer, the frantic whistles from the track marshals. Nothing mattered but Kimi.

Kimi stumbled slightly, his movements uncertain. He reached up, pulling off his balaclava, his face streaked with grime and sweat.

And then he saw Ollie.

Before Kimi could react, Ollie slammed into him, wrapping his arms around him in a desperate, bone-crushing hug. They both stumbled, nearly falling, the impact jarring Kimi's already battered body.

"Ollie," Kimi gasped, his voice strained. "Ollie, I'm okay."

But Ollie wasn't listening. He was sobbing, his body shaking uncontrollably.

"I thought... I thought I killed you," he choked out, his voice thick with tears. "I'm so sorry, Kimi. I'm so, so sorry."

Kimi clutched him tightly, his own body trembling in shock. He closed his eyes, burying his face in Ollie's shoulder.

"It's okay, Ollie," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "It's okay. You didn't kill me. I'm here."

They both slowly sank to the ground, their legs giving way beneath them. Ollie tugged Kimi closer, pulling him into his lap, cradling him like a child. He held him tight, his arms wrapped around Kimi's body, his tears soaking into his racing suit.

The world around them faded into a blur. The roaring crowd, the flashing lights, the frantic activity of the track marshals – it all seemed distant and unreal. All that mattered was the feel of Kimi's body against his, the reassurance that he was alive, that he was safe.

Finally, the track marshals arrived, their faces etched with concern. Medics rushed forward with stretchers and blankets.

But Ollie wouldn't let go.

"Give us some space," Kimi said weakly to the marshals, his voice still shaking. "We just... we just need a minute."

The marshals hesitated, then nodded understandingly. They kept their distance, standing guard, allowing the two young drivers a moment of respite in the chaos.

Ollie continued to hold Kimi, his grip unwavering, his sobs gradually subsiding. He stroked Kimi's hair, murmuring words of comfort, words of apology, words of love.

"I'm so glad you're okay," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I was so scared."

Kimi leaned into him, closing his eyes. He was still shaking, still reeling from the impact, but he felt a sense of calm settle over him, a sense of security in Ollie's embrace.

"Me too," he murmured. "Me too."

In that moment, amid the wreckage and the chaos, their friendship had been forged anew, tempered by fire and fear. It was a bond that ran deeper than rivalry, stronger than competition. It was a bond that would last a lifetime.

The road ahead was uncertain, the future of their careers hanging in the balance. But as they sat there, huddled together on the ground, they knew that they wouldn't face it alone. They had each other. And that was all that mattered.

~~~~~

The aftermath of the crash was a whirlwind of interviews, medical checks, and investigations. Both Kimi and Ollie were declared fit, miraculously escaping serious injury. They were, however, withdrawn from the race.

The stewards launched an inquiry into the incident, scrutinizing telemetry data, video footage, and driver testimonies. Ollie, plagued by guilt and self-reproach, fully cooperated, taking responsibility for the misjudgement that led to the collision.

The media, predictably, went into overdrive. Headlines screamed of reckless driving, broken friendships, and the dangers of pushing young drivers too soon. Some accused Ollie of deliberately sabotaging Kimi's race, fuelling a firestorm of online abuse.

Kimi, however, refused to participate in the blame game. He defended Ollie vehemently, acknowledging his friend's mistake but emphasizing his inherent talent and good intentions. He publicly stated that their friendship was stronger than any racing incident and that he held no grudge against Ollie.

Mercedes team boss, Toto Wolff, was initially furious, but Kimi's unwavering loyalty and Ollie's genuine remorse eventually softened his stance. Haas team principal, Ayao Komatsu, however, was less forgiving. While he supported Ollie publicly, he privately expressed his concerns about his driver's tendency for over-aggression and hinted at potential consequences.

The online abuse directed at Ollie intensified, fueled by the media frenzy and the polarized opinions of fans. He received death threats, hate mail, and relentless taunts on social media. He struggled to cope with the onslaught, withdrawing into himself, haunted by the image of Kimi's car engulfed in flames.

Kimi, seeing his friend suffer, stepped in again. He used his platform to call for an end to the online bullying, reminding people that Ollie was a young man who had made a mistake, not a villain deserving of their hatred. He even released a compilation video of himself and Ollie, laughing and joking, reinforcing the message that their friendship was intact. He told everyone he cherished the Bearnelli friendship above all and a racing incident won’t change that.

The public response was mixed. Some doubled down on their criticism of Ollie, while others began to sympathize with him, recognizing the immense pressure he was under. The tide slowly began to turn, and the online abuse gradually subsided.

Despite the public reconciliation, the crash had a lasting impact on both drivers. Kimi found himself questioning his own abilities, wondering if he was truly ready for the cutthroat world of Formula 1. Ollie, on the other hand, struggled with the emotional scars of the incident, plagued by nightmares and anxiety.

They both knew that they had a long road ahead, a road filled with challenges and uncertainties. But they also knew that they wouldn't face it alone. They had each other, a bond forged in the crucible of racing, a friendship that could withstand even the fiercest flames.

Chapter Text

George Russell.

The older driver, a seasoned professional with years of experience, was everything Kimi wasn't: calm, collected, and seemingly immune to pressure. He also seemed to actively dislike Kimi.

Not outwardly, of course. George was always polite, offering a curt nod in the garage, a brief "Good luck" before a race. But it was the lack of warmth that stung. The barely-there smile, the averted eyes, the subtle distance he maintained. Kimi couldn't shake the feeling that George resented him, saw him as an inexperienced kid who'd been unfairly fast-tracked into a coveted seat.

As he walked towards the hotel, his Mercedes track suit feeling heavy with disappointment, Kimi glanced over at George, who was walking a few paces ahead, absorbed in a phone call. His brow was furrowed, his expression serious. Kimi quickly looked away. It was better not to attract any unwanted attention.

He just wanted to get back to his room, order some room service, and try to forget about the day. The pressure was immense. He was carrying the weight of Mercedes' expectations, the weight of a nation's hopes, and the heavy, nagging feeling that he was letting everyone down.

They reached the hotel, a modern structure situated a few miles from the circuit. The lobby was bustling with teams and media personnel, all winding down after the frantic weekend. Kimi and George rode the elevator in silence, a thick tension hanging in the air. Kimi felt like a buzzing fly, constantly on the verge of irritating the stoic figure beside him.

They stepped out on their floor, George heading to his room on the left, Kimi's on the right. Another curt nod from George, and Kimi mumbled a response before hurrying to his own door. He went to swipe his keycard but realised it was in his backpack. He dropped the back to the ground and unzipped it, searching for the keycard inside.

Just as he turned to close the door, the ground began to tremble.

At first, Kimi thought it was the rumble of a truck passing by. But the vibrations grew stronger, more violent. The lamps in the hall swayed, the pictures on the wall rattled, and a low, guttural roar filled the air.

Panic seized him. He'd never experienced an earthquake before.

He froze, his mind blank with terror. Before he could even scream, the floor lurched violently, throwing him off balance. He stumbled, catching himself on the door.

Then, a hand grabbed his arm, yanking him with unexpected force. It was George.

"Get in here!" George yelled, his voice raw with urgency. He dragged Kimi towards the open doorway of his own room, the safest place during an earthquake.

Kimi didn't have time to think, to question, to even register the look of intense concern on George's face. He was pulled forcefully against George's chest, his back pressed against the cool, solid wood of the doorframe.

Then, George was pushing him down, forcing him to crouch low. He was shielding him, his taller, stronger frame curving over Kimi's body, protecting him from whatever might fall.

The world was shaking, objects crashing around them. The roar intensified, a deafening symphony of destruction. Kimi squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed by fear. All he could feel was George, his rapid heartbeat thumping against his back, his strong arms holding him tight.

He expected to be crushed, buried under falling debris. But George held firm, a human shield against the chaos.

The earthquake seemed to last an eternity, a terrifying dance of destruction. Finally, slowly, the shaking began to subside. The roar faded to a low rumble, then silence.

They remained crouched in the doorway, breathless, for a few more moments, waiting for aftershocks. Kimi's heart hammered in his chest, his limbs trembling.

Finally, George slowly straightened, allowing Kimi to do the same. He looked at Kimi, his eyes searching, worried.

"Are you okay?" George asked, his voice rough, but laced with genuine concern.

Kimi couldn't speak. He just nodded, his throat tight with emotion. The fear was still clinging to him, a cold, clammy feeling.

Without thinking, he reached out and clung to George, wrapping his arms around his waist. He needed the reassurance of solid ground, the comfort of another human being.

George hesitated for a moment, then returned the embrace, his arms tightening around Kimi. He held him close, his chin resting on Kimi's head.

"It's alright," George murmured, his voice low and soothing. "It's over now."

Kimi snuggled closer, burying his face in George's shoulder. He felt safe, protected. He realized, with a jolt, that George's hands were trembling slightly. He was scared too.

In that moment, something shifted. The icy wall Kimi had perceived between them began to crack. He felt a connection to George, a shared experience that transcended their professional rivalry.

Maybe, just maybe, George didn't hate him. Maybe he was just reserved, focused, and not particularly good at expressing his emotions, especially under the intense pressure of Formula 1. Maybe, on the track, George was a competitor, a rival. But off the track, underneath the carefully constructed facade, he was just a person, capable of fear, and capable of compassion.

~~~~~

The aftermath of the earthquake was surreal. Emergency services swarmed the area, assessing the damage. The hotel, thankfully, had weathered the quake reasonably well, although there were cracks in the walls and a few shattered windows.

Kimi and George spent the rest of the night in the hotel lobby, along with the rest of the team and other guests. Sleep was impossible. The experience had shaken them all to the core.

The next morning, the race was officially cancelled. The damage to the circuit was minimal, but with aftershocks still possible, the authorities deemed it too risky to proceed.

Kimi found himself drawn to George. He stayed close, listening to him talk to Toto Wolff and the engineers, observing his calm and decisive manner. He saw a different side of George, a leader, a protector. Whenever Kimi stepped close to him, his arm wrapped around Kimi’s shoulders.

That afternoon, as they waited for their flight back to the UK, George sat beside Kimi in the airport lounge. He didn't say much, but his presence was comforting.

"Thanks," Kimi finally managed to say, breaking the silence.

George looked at him, his eyes meeting Kimi's for the first time with genuine warmth. "For what?"

"For… yesterday. For pulling me into the doorway. For protecting me."

George shrugged, a faint flush rising on his cheeks. "It's what anyone would have done."

"Maybe," Kimi said softly. "But you did it without hesitation."

A small smile played on George's lips. "You would have done the same for me."

Kimi nodded, feeling a surge of gratitude. "I hope so."

The flight home was a blur. Kimi replayed the events of the past few days in his head, trying to make sense of it all. The disastrous race, the horrifying earthquake, and the unexpected connection with George.

He realized that he'd been so focused on his own anxieties, his own insecurities, that he'd completely misread George. He'd projected his own fears onto him, seeing him as a cold, indifferent rival instead of a complex individual.

~~~~~

Back at the Mercedes factory, things slowly returned to normal. The team began preparing for the next race, in Miami, a track that Kimi had never driven before.

This time, however, things were different. George was more approachable, more willing to offer advice. He spent extra time with Kimi in the simulator, guiding him through the treacherous corners of the Monaco circuit.

He still wasn't effusive, but his actions spoke volumes. He saw Kimi's potential, and he was willing to help him reach it.

Kimi, in turn, was more open to learning, more willing to ask questions. He realized that George wasn't trying to intimidate him; he was simply driven, focused, and intensely competitive.

Slowly, tentatively, a friendship began to blossom. They started having lunch together in the factory canteen, talking about everything from car setup to their favourite music. Kimi discovered that George had a dry wit and a surprising sense of humour.

The pressure was still immense, the competition still fierce. But now, Kimi knew he wasn't alone. He had a teammate, a mentor, and maybe, just maybe, a friend.

Miami was still a challenge. Kimi struggled to find his rhythm on the tight, unforgiving street circuit. But George was there, offering encouragement, providing valuable feedback.

On race day, Kimi started from the back of the grid after a gearbox penalty. He drove a brilliant race, navigating the treacherous corners with skill and precision. He finished in a respectable 8th place.

As he stood watching the podium, watching George celebrate his own impressive 3^rd place finish, Kimi felt a surge of pride. He had a long way to go, but he was finally starting to find his feet.

He still had much to learn from George, both on and off the track. The earthquake had been a terrifying experience, but it had also been a catalyst, a fault line that had shaken the foundations of their relationship and allowed something new, something stronger, to grow.

Chapter Text

The Monza weekend had been brutal. Qualifying had been a disaster, leaving him starting P15. The race itself was a chaotic ballet of near misses and desperate overtakes. He'd managed to claw his way to tenth, a respectable finish given the circumstances, but a far cry from the near podium finishes everyone expected.

Back in his empty hotel room, the silence was oppressive. He craved the noise of the engine, the adrenaline, anything to drown out the gnawing loneliness. He missed his dad, his little sister, the familiar chaos of his family home. He missed the easy camaraderie of his old racing team, the shared laughter and inside jokes. Here, in the rarefied air of Formula 1, everyone was polite, professional, but distant. He was a rookie, the one they whispered about, the one to watch. But no one to connect with.

He scrolled through his phone, finding no messages that truly lifted his spirits.

He knew where they’d be. Every night after race day, a gaggle of drivers migrated to Max Verstappen’s room for their nightly ritual: online gaming. He’d overheard snippets of their conversations in the paddock, their laughter echoing in the otherwise tense atmosphere. They seemed… comfortable, relaxed. Something he desperately craved.

He knew he shouldn't. It was unprofessional, weird even. But the loneliness was a tangible ache in his chest. He needed… something.

He slipped out of his room, padding down the hallway in his socks. The door to Max’s room was slightly ajar, a sliver of light and the muffled sounds of gunfire spilling out. He hesitated, his heart pounding against his ribs. Then, with a deep breath, he pushed the door open a crack and peered inside.

The room was dimly lit by the glow of the TV screen, illuminating a group of drivers huddled around a sofa and bed, controllers in hand. They were completely engrossed in the game, their faces intense with concentration.

Seizing the opportunity, Kimi slipped inside, hugging the wall and keeping to the shadows. He didn't want to be seen, just… present. He shuffled towards the bed, the only available space in the crowded room, and curled up on the floor between the side of the bed and the wall, pulling his knees to his chest. He closed his eyes, letting the buzz of their voices wash over him like a warm blanket.

Lando’s high-pitched laugh, Max’s sarcastic commentary, George’s quiet observations – it was a symphony of belonging. He felt the tension in his shoulders ease, his breathing slow as the exhaustion of the race weekend finally caught up with him. He was safe, for now, cocooned in the noisy, slightly chaotic, but ultimately comforting presence of his peers.

Sleep claimed him quickly, pulling him into a dreamless oblivion.

~~~~~

Time passed, marked only by the shifting sounds of the game and the occasional rustling as someone reached for a drink or snack. Max was on a roll, his Red Bull-branded controller moving with practiced ease. Lando was raging about being unfairly targeted, while George quietly collected points and moved up the leaderboard.

After a particularly intense round, Pierre Gasly pushed back from the sofa, stretching his arms above his head. "I'm gonna grab another Red Bull. Anyone want anything?"

He stepped carefully around the sofa, heading towards the mini-fridge in the corner. That's when he saw him.

He froze, his hand hovering over the fridge door, his eyes wide. He stared, blinking, convinced he was hallucinating.

"Uh, guys?" he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Everyone turned to look at him, confusion etched on their faces. "What's up, Pierre? See a ghost?" Max teased, not taking his eyes off the screen.

Pierre pointed, a small smile slipping onto his lips. "We have an adorable little stowaway."

Intrigued, the others followed his gaze. Their jaws dropped.

Curled up on the floor by the bed, fast asleep, was Kimi Antonelli. His dark hair was slightly tousled, his face peaceful and childlike in sleep. His small frame was huddled, his arms wrapped around himself as if seeking warmth.

"Holy shit," Lando breathed, his usual exuberance replaced with astonishment. "Is that...? Is that Kimi?"

George, ever the pragmatist, was the first to break the stunned silence. "What the hell is he doing here?"

Max snorted, a low rumble in his chest. "He's sleeping, genius. Obviously not playing video games. The question is more, when did he get here."

He watched Kimi for a moment, his expression unreadable. He couldn't deny the sight was… endearing. The kid looked completely exhausted and utterly out of place amongst the boisterous energy of their game night.

He sighed and tossed his controller onto the sofa. "Fine, let's not leave him sleeping on the floor like a stray puppy."

He stood up and carefully approached Kimi. He knelt down, his movements surprisingly gentle, and carefully scooped the smaller driver into his arms. Kimi stirred slightly, mumbling something unintelligible, but didn't fully wake up.

Max carried him to the bed and carefully laid him down, arranging the pillows so he was comfortable. Kimi instinctively curled towards Max, his head nestling against his side.

Max stared down at him, a strange mixture of irritation and… something else… swirling within him. He couldn’t quite define it.

"You know, you really are a softie, Max," Lando teased, nudging George with his elbow.

"Shut up," Max retorted, though without much heat. He slipped into the bed beside Kimi, careful not to jostle him. He pulled the duvet over them both, tucking it around Kimi’s shoulders as he snuggled closer to his side.

Max then reached for his controller, resuming the game as if nothing unusual had happened. The others exchanged amused glances, the tension in the room replaced with a soft, unspoken understanding.

"So, anyone betting on how long it takes for Kimi to become Max's new favourite?" Lando whispered, earning a glare from Max.

“Bold of you to assume he isn’t already the favourite,” George replied.

"Focus on the game, assholes," Max growled, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

As the sounds of gunfire and laughter filled the room once more, Max found his gaze drifting back to Kimi. The younger driver was completely relaxed now, his breathing even and deep. He looked… peaceful.

Max found himself oddly content. He continued to play the game, occasionally nudging Kimi closer when he shifted in his sleep. He didn't understand why the kid had snuck into his room, especially when it was an open invite, or why he felt the urge to protect him.

All he knew was that the weight next to him, the warm presence of the sleeping rookie, was a comfort he didn't expect, and one he wasn't entirely opposed to. He was still Max Verstappen, the ruthless racing champion, but maybe, just maybe, Lando was right. Maybe he was a bit of a softie after all. At least, when it came to this particular wide-eyed, lonely rookie.

Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd was a dull hum in Kimi Antonelli's ears. He felt like a squeezed tube of toothpaste, all the energy and focus he’d poured into his first ever Formula 1 race at Melbourne completely depleted. The Australian Grand Prix had been a brutal initiation. The pressure cooker atmosphere of the paddock, the pouring rain, the relentless demands of the car… it had all coalesced into a single, overwhelming wave.

He'd finished P4, not a great result for his debut, especially considering the amount of drivers that crashed. But disappointment clung to him like damp clothes. He wanted more. He craved the thrill of the podium that was so close, the spray of champagne, the feeling of pushing himself and the car to the absolute limit.

Now however, all he wanted was a shower, food, and oblivion.

He shuffled through the bustling paddock, surrounded by a sea of mechanics dismantling garages, team members debriefing, and media still buzzing with the day's excitement. He just wanted to disappear into the sanctuary of his room.

His feet felt heavy as lead. He navigated the maze of motorhomes and team trucks, dodging stray wheels and mechanics carrying equipment. He blearily focused on the Mercedes emblem on his door, a beacon of promised rest.

He fumbled with his keycard, finally managing to swipe it through the reader. The door clicked open, and he stumbled inside, the cool air conditioning washing over him like a benediction.

He took a step, another, his eyes already half-closed.

Then it happened.

A hand clamped around his upper arm, a rough, unexpected grip that sent a jolt of adrenaline through his exhausted system. He was yanked backward, pulled away from the door, away from the promise of respite.

Kimi blinked, struggling to focus. His vision swam. He tried to register who was holding him, but his brain felt like scrambled eggs. He could only make out a blurry shape in the periphery, a tall, stocky figure with a baseball cap pulled low over his face.

"Hey!" he mumbled, the word slurred and weak. He tried to pull his arm free, but the man's grip only tightened.

He was being dragged. Away from his room, away from the chaos of the paddock.

Panic started to prickle beneath his skin, a cold, unwelcome sensation that fought against the exhaustion. He tried to plant his feet, to resist, but his muscles felt like jelly. He stumbled, nearly falling, and the man simply tightened his grip and hauled him along.

Where was he being taken? Why? A door slammed open and he was yanked outside.

He was being led towards the carpark, a sprawling expanse of asphalt filled with team vans, hospitality trucks, and the luxury cars of the Formula 1 elite.

The man was moving with a purpose, his steps quick and purposeful. He hauled Kimi towards a nondescript white van parked near the edge of the lot.

The back doors of the van were open, revealing a dark, cavernous interior.

That's when the last vestiges of Kimi's exhaustion shattered. A wave of icy terror washed over him, clearing the fog in his brain. This wasn't right. This was wrong.

He dug in his heels, finally finding some strength in the face of his mounting fear. "Let go of me!" he croaked, his voice still weak but laced with a desperate urgency.

He tried to wrench his arm free, but the man was too strong. He shoved him forward, towards the van. Kimi stumbled, teetering on the edge of the open doorway.

He flailed, grabbing for anything to hold onto, but his fingers only met air. The man was pushing him, forcing him closer to the darkness inside.

He was losing. He was going to be forced inside. He was too exhausted, he didn’t have the strength to fight back.

Then, a blur of motion. A shout.

The man holding Kimi was suddenly tackled from the side, sent sprawling onto the asphalt. A fist connected with his jaw, a sickening thud echoing in the air.

Kimi stumbled back, his legs shaking, trying to process what was happening. He saw two figures grappling on the ground, a flurry of fists and grunts.

Then, more figures arrived. A surge of faces, familiar and unfamiliar, crowding around him.

He was pulled back, away from the van, away from the struggling men. Strong arms encircled him, holding him protectively.

"Kimi! Are you okay?"

The voice was familiar, but his brain still struggled to put a name to the face.

"What the hell is going on?" another voice yelled, harsh and furious.

He was being held tight, shielded from the chaos. He could see the man who had attacked him pinned to the ground, his face contorted in pain and anger. Other drivers, faces grim with fury, stood over him, yelling accusations.

"Security!" someone shouted. "Get security here now!"

He finally recognized the faces around him. Carlos Sainz, his face pale with shock. Pierre Gasly, his eyes burning with anger. And the one who had tackled the man, his teammate, George Russell, his knuckles bruised and bloodied.

George squeezed his shoulder, his voice low and urgent. "Kimi, are you hurt? Did he do anything to you?"

Kimi shook his head, still reeling. "I... I don't know. I was just... I’m so tired."

The reality of what had almost happened began to dawn on him, a cold, heavy weight in his stomach. He'd been kidnapped. He'd almost been forced into that van.

He started to tremble.

Security arrived, sirens wailing in the distance. They quickly apprehended the man on the ground, dragging him away, his muffled protests lost in the rising noise.

The other drivers kept a tight circle around Kimi, their faces a mixture of concern and outrage. He felt their protectiveness, their solidarity, a strange and unexpected comfort in the midst of his terror.

George put an arm around his shoulders, guiding him away from the carpark, away from the scene of the near-abduction.

"Come on, let's get you back to the paddock," he said, his voice still tight with anger. "We're not letting you out of our sight."

Kimi felt like a puppet with frayed strings. George had his arm wrapped firmly but gently around his shoulders, and the pressure was grounding, a stark contrast to the swirling panic clawing at his insides. Carlos and Pierre flanked them, their expressions grim, a human shield against unseen threats. The chaos of the Paddock after the race, usually a buzzing hive of activity, seemed muted, filtered through a haze of fear.

He stumbled slightly, his legs still shaky. “He… He just grabbed me,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible above the low rumble of the retreating engines.

George squeezed Kimi’s shoulder reassuringly. “Shhh, it’s okay. He’s not getting near you again. You’re safe now.” He kept his voice calm, even. He could feel Kimi trembling, and the protective instinct surging through him was something he hadn’t fully known he possessed.

Carlos, ever the pragmatist, spoke to Pierre quietly, something about informing the FIA security as well. Pierre nodded, peeled away, and melted back into the crowd, a silent sentry.

The walk back to the Mercedes hospitality unit felt like an eternity. Each flash of a camera, each shout of a fan, made Kimi flinch. He clung to George, burying his face in the familiar Mercedes jacket. The exhaustion that had been a dull ache before had sharpened into a throbbing agony. He just wanted to disappear.

Inside the relatively quiet sanctuary of the Mercedes paddock, Toto Wolff, who had been pacing anxiously, rushed forward. His face, etched with worry, softened with relief as he saw Kimi flanked by the other drivers.

"Kimi! What happened? Security told me… are you alright?" Toto’s usual stern demeanour was replaced with genuine concern.

George gently steered Kimi towards a chair. "He's shaken up, Toto. Someone tried to… well, it was definitely an attempted kidnapping. Carlos, Pierre, and I intervened."

Toto’s eyes hardened. The steely glint was back. "Kidnapping? Security is dealing with the individual. They have him in custody." He turned his gaze towards Kimi, his voice softening again. “Kimi, look at me. Are you hurt?”

Kimi shook his head, still clutching George’s jacket. “Just… scared. He grabbed me… He wouldn't let go.”

He shuddered, reliving the moment of panic, the chilling grip on his arm, the manic glint in the man's eyes. He'd been so tired, so vulnerable.

Toto knelt beside him, his hand resting gently on Kimi's knee. "Right. We'll need to inform your family, and the police will likely want a statement. But first, let's get you checked over by the medical team. Then, we can talk.” He gave a pointed look to one of the Mercedes staff and asked to get Angela, Lewis's physio, to check on Kimi. Even though Lewis had moved to Ferrari and Angela with him, Toto knew she would agree to help in a heartbeat.

As they waited for Angela, George pulled up a chair and sat close to Kimi, keeping a comforting hand on his shoulder. Carlos, standing nearby, spoke in hushed tones to Toto.

“He’s just a kid, Toto,” Carlos said, his voice tight. “He shouldn’t have to deal with this. We need to ensure he has proper protection moving forward."

Toto nodded grimly. “Agreed. This should never have been allowed to happen, and right under our noses. We'll be doubling security for Kimi, both at the track and away from it. Your assistance is greatly appreciated, Carlos.”

Angela arrived, her presence a calming force. She was all business, her sharp eyes assessing Kimi's condition with practiced ease. After a brief examination, she confirmed that he wasn't physically injured, but she recommended a thorough psychological debriefing.

"He's in shock, Toto. He needs time to process what happened."

Toto turned back to Kimi. “Angela is right. We'll arrange everything for you, Kimi. You don't have to worry about anything. We will handle it all. For tonight, though, just focus on resting, getting some sleep.”

The next few hours were a blur. Kimi was whisked away to the team's mobile medical unit, where he underwent a quick but reassuring examination. He gave a brief, disjointed statement to the local police. He spoke to his mother, his voice trembling as he recounted the events, trying to downplay the severity to avoid upsetting her more than necessary. He was grateful when George stayed close to him, offering a silent, steady presence.

Later, back in his hotel room, the silence was deafening. He couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, of being vulnerable. He kept the lights on, every shadow a potential threat. He replayed the incident in his mind, over and over, each time feeling the icy grip of fear tightening its hold.

He picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts, landing on Max Verstappen’s number. They had surprisingly become close in the lead up to the season. He hesitated, then pressed call.

“Verstappen,” came the curt reply.

“Hey, Max, it’s Kimi.”

There was a pause. “Hey kiddo? What’s up?”

Kimi took a deep breath, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Something… something happened today. After the race. Someone tried to… kidnap me.”

Another longer pause. Kimi could almost hear the cogs turning in Max’s mind.

“Kidnap? Holy shit. Kimi are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. George, Carlos, and Pierre… they stopped him. But I’m… I’m scared, man. I don’t know what to do.”

The harshness in Max’s voice softened. “Listen, kid. This shit is crazy. You need to trust your team. They’ll protect you. And don’t be afraid to ask for help. Talk to a professional, get security. Do whatever you need to do to feel safe. This is a different world now.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Kimi rubbed his eyes wearily.

Max seemed to catch on that Kimi still seemed unsure. “Do you want me to come over Andrea?”

“Please,” Kimi whispered.

There was shuffling on the other end of the line before Kimi heard the click of a door. “I’ll be there soon.”

Chapter Text

The roar of the engines was a distant thunder in Kimi Antonelli’s ears as he hurtled through the Monza paddock. Eighteen years old, fresh out of Formula 2, and piloting a Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team car – it was a dream come true, a meteoric rise that had made him the most talked-about rookie in years. But right now, the dream felt a lot more like a nightmare fuelled by Italian traffic and a malfunctioning alarm clock.

He was late. Late for FP1. And in Formula 1, seconds felt like eons. Every session, including FP was important.

Panic clawed at his throat as he rounded the corner, his heart hammering against his ribs. He could practically feel Toto Wolff’s disapproving gaze already boring into him. He needed to get to the garage, and fast.

That’s when it happened.

A rogue cable, a misplaced kerb, something. He didn’t see it, just felt his foot catch, the world tilting violently as gravity took hold. He instinctively reached out, but there was nothing to grab. He crashed to the ground, the breath knocked out of him.

He groaned, a small, involuntary sound of pain. He pushed himself up, wincing. His left ankle throbbed. He rotated his foot gingerly, the pain spiking with each movement. Not good. Not good at all.

He had a qualifying session tomorrow night. A race the night after. This was Monza, the “Temple of Speed,” a track that demanded absolute precision and unwavering commitment. An injured ankle was the last thing he needed. It could cost him his entire weekend.

He tried to quell the rising panic. It was just a tweak, a little strain. He’d be fine. He had to be.

Ignoring the nagging pain, he pushed himself upright and started limping. Each step sent a jolt through his ankle, a constant reminder of his clumsiness. He picked up the pace, trying to mask his discomfort, but his efforts only made the limp more pronounced.

He finally made it to the access lane, slipping out onto the pit lane, the symphony of mechanical activity washing over him. He kept his head down, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible.

His limp was undeniably more visible now, his steps halting and uneven. He cursed under his breath, the pain intensifying with each stride. He needed to reach the Mercedes garage, get some ice, and pray that it was nothing serious.

Suddenly, he had to stop. A figure stood directly in his path, blocking his way.

Kimi looked up, his breath catching in his throat. Nico Hülkenberg.

The veteran driver, now with Sauber, stood with his arms crossed, a single eyebrow arched in that characteristic way of his. He looked…concerned?

"You're limping," Nico stated, his voice calm and measured.

Kimi forced a smile, trying to downplay the situation. “I’m fine. Just tripped. Barely hurts.”

Nico’s expression didn’t change. “Barely still means it hurts.”

Kimi sighed inwardly. He didn’t have time for this. He needed to get to the mechanics, not explain his clumsiness to a rival driver. "Seriously, I'm okay."

But Nico wasn’t buying it. He leaned down slightly, offering a steadying hand without a word.

Against his better judgment, Kimi gratefully looped his arm over Nico’s shoulder, a silent admission that he wasn’t nearly as fine as he was pretending to be.

Nico gently wrapped an arm around Kimi’s waist, providing much-needed support. The pain in his ankle lessened slightly with the reduced weight-bearing. He noticed the distinct scent of motor oil and cologne clinging to Nico.

They moved slowly through the pit lane, the Mercedes garage looming ahead. Kimi leaned heavily against Nico, feeling a strange sense of vulnerability. He was used to projecting an image of confidence and control. Showing weakness, especially to a competitor, was not part of the plan.

As they made their way towards the Mercedes area, the contrast between Nico's Sauber uniform and Kimi's own attire became increasingly obvious. Heads turned, eyes widening in curiosity and speculation. The sight of the young prodigy being supported by a rival driver was a spectacle in itself.

The murmur of conversation intensified as they approached the Mercedes garage. Mechanics stopped what they were doing, their faces etched with a mixture of concern and confusion. Engineers paused over their data, their foreheads furrowed.

And then, he appeared.

Toto Wolff, the imposing team principal, strode towards them, his face a mask of controlled concern. He had obviously heard about Kimi being late and now this?

"Kimi, what happened?" Toto asked, his voice a low rumble.

Kimi, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him, started to stammer, "It's fine, Toto. Really, I just…"

Nico’s grip on Kimi tightened slightly. He looked directly at Toto, his gaze unwavering. “He said he tripped, and he's obviously hurt his ankle because he was limping through the pit lane. He was trying to brush it off, but I saw him wince, he’s clearly in pain."

Kimi glared at Nico, a mix of gratitude and annoyance warring inside him. He appreciated the help, really, but the last thing he wanted was a fuss. He needed to be out there, proving himself.

Toto’s eyes narrowed, assessing the situation. He looked from Kimi’s pale face to Nico’s resolute one. “Get him inside please," he instructed, his voice losing some of its edge. "The medical team needs to take a look."

Two mechanics hurried over, practically peeling Kimi away from Nico. He offered the veteran a quick, mumbled "Thanks," before being ushered into the relative privacy of the Mercedes garage.

Nico watched them go, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He knew what it was like to have a season hanging in the balance, the crushing weight of expectation on your shoulders. He turned and walked back towards the Sauber garage, the image of the young rookie, struggling to hide his pain, imprinted in his mind.

Inside the Mercedes garage, Kimi was perched on a stool, his left ankle propped up on a cushion. Dr. Elena Rossi, the team’s physiotherapist, was gently probing the area, her touch firm but careful.

"Okay, Kimi," she said, her voice calm and reassuring. "Tell me where it hurts."

Kimi pointed to the side of his ankle. "There, and a little bit around the back."

Elena's brow furrowed. "Can you rotate your foot?"

He attempted the movement, a sharp pain shooting through his ankle. He winced, biting back a groan.

Elena stopped him. "Okay, that's enough. There's definitely some swelling. I'm going to get an ice pack and we'll take a closer look after that. Let's just hope that it's only a sprain."

The dreaded word hung in the air. Sprain. It could mean missing the qualifier, missing the race. It could mean a dent in his reputation, a setback in his career.

Toto entered the room, his face grave. "How bad is it?"

Elena looked at him. "Too early to tell, Toto. There's swelling, and he's in pain. We need to ice it, keep it elevated, and then assess it properly. Best-case scenario, it's a mild sprain. Worst case..." She trailed off, leaving the unspoken words hanging in the air.

Toto turned to Kimi. "Don't push yourself, Kimi. We need you at your best. If you're not fit to race, you're not fit. We'll figure something out."

Kimi fought back a surge of panic. "I'll be fine, Toto. It's just a little twist. I'll be ready for the qualifier."

Toto studied him, his gaze intense. He knew Kimi was driven, ambitious, desperate to prove himself. But he also knew the importance of caution.

"We'll see, Kimi," he said finally. "We'll see."

As the ice pack numbed his throbbing ankle, Kimi stared out at the track, the cars blurring past in a symphony of speed and power. The weight of those wings, the weight of expectation, suddenly felt heavier than ever before. His dream, his chance, hung precariously in the balance, all because of one clumsy step.

Chapter Text

The roar of the engine was Kimi Antonelli's lifeline. At eighteen, he was living a dream most could only imagine: a seat at Mercedes, a legend in the making, a future painted with the vibrant colours of podium finishes and championship titles. He’d arrived in Formula 1 with a bang, his raw talent undeniable, his name echoing whispers of the next Schumacher.

But the spotlight, as Kimi was quickly discovering, had a darker side. The praise was intoxicating, yes, but the scrutiny was relentless. Every move, every word, every breath was dissected, analysed, and often, weaponized.

He’d been scrolling through his social media feed, a habit he knew was toxic but couldn't quite break, when he saw them. The comments, buried beneath a deluge of supportive messages, but nonetheless, they burrowed deep.

“Antonelli’s looking a bit chunky for an F1 driver, isn’t he?”

“All that cake to celebrate the seat probably went straight to his thighs. Needs to hit the gym, not the buffet.”

“Mercedes really scraping the bottom of the barrel. Clearly, talent isn’t everything if they’re letting someone that heavy drive, isn’t there supposed to be a weight limit.”

He slammed his phone down, the words echoing in his mind. He wasn't stupid. He knew he wasn't built like some of the other drivers, their physiques honed to perfection, every muscle sculpted for optimal performance. But he was strong, he was fit, he was more than capable of handling the demands of a race.

Yet, the comments gnawed at him. They whispered insecurities he hadn’t even realized he harboured. He caught himself staring at his reflection, pinching at the skin around his stomach, questioning whether he was, in fact, too heavy.

The pressure was immense. To perform. To win. To be the ‘next big thing.’ And now, apparently, to be impossibly thin.

He started small, skipping dessert. Then, a smaller portion at lunch. Then, he’d find himself pushing food around his plate, telling himself he wasn’t hungry, when in reality, his stomach was screaming. He told himself it was for performance, for his dream. But somewhere deep down, he knew it was fuelled by the cruel words of faceless strangers.

~~~~~

Two weeks passed, two weeks of calorie counting, silent meals, and a growing unease that shadowed Kimi even on the track. He was still performing well, qualifying high, scoring points, but the joy had begun to leach out of the experience.

It was lunchtime and Kimi was sat in the open hospitality area for all drivers and staff. The usual buzz of conversation filled the air, engineers huddled over data, mechanics grabbing quick bites, and team members catching up on the morning’s events.

Kimi sat across from Max Verstappen, their rivalry on the track momentarily suspended for the sake of a shared meal. Usually, they were trading jokes and playful insults, but today, Kimi was unusually quiet, his focus solely on the plate in front of him.

He was toying with his pasta, pushing the strands around with his fork, creating little piles that he promptly dismantled. He hadn't taken a single bite.

Max, who had been happily demolishing his own plate, noticed. He'd seen Kimi's spark dim slightly over the past few days. This lack of appetite, this subtle shift in demeanour, only confirmed his suspicions.

"Everything alright, Kimi?" Max asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

Kimi looked up, startled. He plastered a quick, forced smile on his face. "Yeah, fine. Just not that hungry."

Max didn’t buy it for a second. He’d been around the paddock long enough to recognize the signs. He'd seen drivers buckle under pressure, succumb to the toxic environment, and he hated seeing it happen to someone as young and talented as Kimi. He remembered his own difficult beginnings, the relentless criticism he'd faced as a teenager thrust into the spotlight.

He recalled other instances from the past week: Kimi subtly avoiding the dessert table, opting for a small salad when everyone else was piling their plates high, declining to join the team for pizza night. It all added up.

He pushed his plate away, the half-eaten pasta suddenly unappetizing.

"Come on," Max said, standing up abruptly. He reached across the table and gently took Kimi’s hand, pulling him to his feet.

Kimi looked at him, confused. “Where are we going?”

“Just… come with me,” Max said, his voice soft but firm.

He led Kimi out of the crowded hospitality unit, through a maze of corridors, until they reached a small, empty office. Max closed the door behind them, the sound a heavy punctuation mark in the sudden silence.

The room was sparsely furnished, a small couch, a desk, a few framed photographs of racing triumphs. Max sat down on the couch and gestured for Kimi to join him.

Kimi hesitated, then sat down beside him, tucking his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them defensively. Max noticed the gesture, the way he seemed to be trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable. His heart ached.

He took a deep breath. "Kimi," he said gently, "are you trying to lose weight?"

Kimi tensed, his body stiffening beside Max. He avoided eye contact, his gaze fixed on the floor. The question hung in the air, heavy and accusatory.

"Why?" he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. "Do you think I need to? Do you think I'm… fat?"

The words were like a punch to the gut for Max. He could see the raw insecurity shimmering in Kimi's wide, vulnerable eyes. The carefully constructed facade of confidence had crumbled, revealing the fragile boy beneath.

He remembered the scrutiny, the merciless judgment he’d endured when he was just seventeen, thrust into the unforgiving world of Formula 1. He’d been lucky to have his father to guide him, to shield him from the worst of it. Kimi, although a year older, seemed so much younger in this moment, so utterly alone.

He couldn’t let him go through what he had. He wouldn't.

Without a word, he wrapped his arms around Kimi, pulling him close. "Oh, kiddo," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Kimi stiffened for a moment, then seemed to melt against him. He curled up against Max’s side, hugging him back tightly, his grip desperate.

Max wasn't usually a touchy person. He preferred to keep his emotions guarded; his personal space fiercely protected. But there was something about Kimi, a vulnerability that resonated with him, a raw talent that deserved to be nurtured, not crushed under the weight of expectations. And he saw the fragility beneath the bravado.

He pressed a soft kiss to the top of Kimi’s dark hair, holding him tighter. He felt Kimi’s shoulders begin to shake.

He didn't say anything, just held him, offering a silent comfort that transcended words. He knew Kimi needed to cry, to release the pent-up pressure, the fear, the insecurity that had been building within him.

For a long moment, they remained like that, Max holding Kimi close, the silence broken only by Kimi’s quiet sobs.

Slowly, Kimi’s shaking subsided, and he pulled back slightly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He looked up at Max, his face streaked with tears, his eyes filled with a mixture of shame and gratitude.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse.

Max cupped his face in his hands, his thumbs gently wiping away the lingering tears. "There's nothing to thank me for, Kimi," he said softly. "Just… talk to me, okay? Don't keep this stuff bottled up."

Kimi nodded, unable to meet his gaze.

"What's been going on?" Max asked, his voice gentle. "Why are you skipping meals?"

Kimi hesitated, then took a deep breath. The truth spilled out of him in a rush, a torrent of insecurities and anxieties. He told Max about the comments, the fear of being judged, the pressure to conform, the insidious voice in his head that kept telling him he wasn't good enough.

Max listened patiently, his expression unwavering. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t judge, just listened.

When Kimi finally finished, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Sharing his burden, even with someone he considered a rival, had been a relief.

"I get it," Max said quietly. "Trust me, I get it. This sport is brutal. They'll pick you apart, criticize everything you do, everything you are. But you can't let them define you, Kimi. You can't let their words dictate your worth."

He paused, his eyes filled with a fierce intensity. "You're an incredible driver, Kimi. You have talent that most people can only dream of and I can tell you with complete certainty that you aren’t fat. Don't let some idiots on the internet steal that from you. Don’t let them steal your joy."

Kimi looked at him, his eyes searching. "But… what if they're right? What if I'm not good enough?"

Max shook his head. "Bullshit. You are good enough. You're more than good enough. You just need to believe it. And you need to take care of yourself. This isn't about weight, Kimi. It’s about health, about fuelling your body so you can perform at your best. Starving yourself is not the answer."

He took Kimi's hands in his. "Promise me you'll talk to someone about this. Talk to your trainer. Talk to Toto. Talk to me. Hell, even talk to George. He may be an asshole sometimes but he clearly cares for you. Don't keep this bottled up inside. It's not a weakness to ask for help, Kimi. It's a strength."

Kimi hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Okay," he whispered.

Max squeezed his hands. "Good. Now, how about we go back in there, and you actually eat something? I'll even share my dessert with you."

A small, watery smile flickered across Kimi's face. "You hate sharing your dessert."

"For you," Max said, his own lips curving into a smile, "I'll make an exception."

As they walked back to the lunchroom, Max kept his arm around Kimi’s shoulders, a silent reassurance. He knew this wasn't a magic fix, that the insecurities wouldn't vanish overnight. But he also knew that Kimi wasn't alone. He had someone in his corner, someone who understood, someone who wouldn't let him fall. And that, Max hoped, was enough to start. He made a mental note to reach out to Toto Wolff later. He even vowed to talk to George, no matter how awkward that would be, it’s to protect Kimi. Kimi needed professional support, and Max was determined to make sure he got it. This kid, young and talented and vulnerable, deserved better than the cruel whispers of the online world. He deserved a chance to thrive. And Max was going to do everything in his power to help him get it.

Chapter Text

The air in the Mercedes garage hung thick with the scent of rubber and anticipation. The digital screens flickered, displaying the ominous weather radar that painted a picture of a downpour refusing to relent. Free practice was officially postponed.

Eighteen-year-old Kimi Antonelli, the F1 world’s newest, and arguably most hyped, sensation, huddled closer to the makeshift campfire of tyre stacks. The rain drummed relentlessly against the garage roof, a rhythmic counterpoint to the nervous energy thrumming through him. This was his first season, his first time in a real Formula 1 car, and the pressure felt immense. To be in Mercedes was a dream - but a scary one.

Around him, chaos reigned – a familiar kind of controlled chaos. Charles Leclerc, radiating an effortless charm even in the cramped space, was mid-joke, his Monegasque accent thick. Max Verstappen, perpetually serious, stood with his arms crossed, though a faint smile played on his lips. Ollie Bearman, another young gun, albeit one who had already experienced the white-knuckle ride of a race weekend, listened intently, his eyes sparkling with amusement. And then there was George Russell, Kimi's teammate, a whirlwind of restless energy and a surprising mentor figure.

“And then Seb just looked at the steward, deadpan, and said…” Charles trailed off, delivering the punchline with perfect timing. George erupted in laughter, a loud, genuine sound that reverberated through the garage. He leaned back, his hand instinctively reaching for support.

That's when everything went wrong.

George’s hand connected with the tyre stack, a subtle nudge, almost imperceptible. But Kimi, hyper-aware of his surroundings, his senses heightened by the constant adrenaline, saw it. He saw the slight wobble, the precarious lean, the silent threat of cascading rubber.

Instinct took over. He lunged forward, a blur of motion fuelled by pure, unadulterated panic. He shoved George, hard, sending him stumbling sideways into Max, who instinctively catches him (then cringes and pushes him away).

The roar of falling rubber filled the air. Kimi felt a sharp, blinding pain explode behind his eyes. Then, darkness.

~~~~~

The world tilted. One moment, Ollie was grinning at Charles' joke; the next, a tyre was hurtling towards George, and Kimi was a human shield. He screamed, a high-pitched sound swallowed by the echoing garage as he sees Kimi drop. He dropped to his knees, his hands scrambling to cradle Kimi’s head.

“Kimi! Kimi, wake up!” His voice was trembling, laced with a fear he couldn't mask.

Around him, pandemonium. George, eyes wide with terror, stumbled backwards and forwards "Oh my god, oh my god, I just killed Kimi!” he kept repeating, his voice cracking.

Ollie's breath hitched. He stared at Kimi's still face and his eyes welled up but Charles landed heavily beside him, a wince momentarily flickering across his face as his knee slammed against the floor. He quickly placed a reassuring hand on Ollie's shoulder. “He’s not dead, Ollie. He’s just knocked out.”

He turned his attention to George, whose panic was escalating rapidly. "George, pull it together, man!"

"Pull it together?" George's voice rose an octave, teetering on the edge of hysteria. "Kimi is knocked out right now, Charles! He’s unconscious because he had a tire fall on him, one that was supposed to hit me! Don't tell me to calm down! I am as calm as I can be right now!"

Max, ever the pragmatist, had been busy checking Kimi's pulse. Relief washed over his face. "It's okay," he announced, his voice surprisingly calm despite the chaos unfolding around him. "Russell didn't get my kid killed. I think he's just knocked out."

George bristled. “Your kid? Kimi is on my team. He’s my kid.”

Ollie, still cradling Kimi's head, whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “You two are never defeating the divorced parents allegations.”

Then, a groan. A low, guttural sound that cut through the tension like a knife. Everyone’s attention snapped back to the unconscious figure on the floor.

Kimi stirred, his eyelids fluttering. He slowly pushed himself up, his hand flying to the back of his head. Another groan escaped his lips.

“Kimi, are you okay?” Ollie’s voice was gentle, filled with concern.

Kimi blinked, trying to focus. The world swam in and out of focus, a kaleidoscope of colours and faces. “My… my head hurts,” he mumbled, his voice slurred.

Charles reached out and carefully probed the back of Kimi’s head, his fingers gentle. "Just a small bump, thankfully. No blood.”

George, still visibly shaken, knelt beside Kimi. "I'll take you to the medics. You might have a concussion.”

Max shook his head. "I’ll take him. You were the clumsy one who got him hurt in the first place.”

George opened his mouth to retort, but Kimi, still dazed, cut him off.

“Can… can you both take me?” he asked quietly, his voice barely audible.

George and Max exchanged a fleeting glance, a silent battle of wills. Then, they both looked back at Kimi, their expressions softening.

"Yeah," George said quickly.

"Of course," Max added, equally eager.

Ollie and Charles gently helped Kimi to his feet, supporting him as he swayed slightly.

~~~~~

The walk to the medical centre felt like a mile. Kimi leaned heavily on George and Max, his head throbbing with each step. The rain had stopped, leaving the air thick with humidity and the lingering smell of wet asphalt. He could feel the eyes of the mechanics on him, a mixture of concern and morbid curiosity.

The medical centre was a sterile white box, a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos of the paddock. A stern-faced doctor, Dr. Muller, examined Kimi with practiced efficiency.

"Concussion," she stated matter-of-factly, after a series of tests. "Mild, but a concussion nonetheless."

"No racing today, obviously," Max added, shooting a pointed look at Kimi.

Kimi sank back into the examination chair. No racing. It meant no qualifying, no practice, no chance to prove himself. His stomach clenched with disappointment.

"He needs rest," Dr. Muller continued, addressing George and Max. "Quiet environment, no screens, plenty of fluids. And someone needs to keep an eye on him for the next 24 hours."

George and Max exchanged another glance. The thought of spending 24 hours together, babysitting the rookie, filled them both with a mixture of dread and a strange, unspoken sense of responsibility.

"I'll do it," George said immediately, his voice firm.

"Absolutely not," Max countered, his tone equally resolute. "I'm the one who checked his pulse and declared him not dead, so he clearly trusts me more."

“Bullshit, I’m his favourite,” George said.

Kimi sighed inwardly. The divorced parents were back at it again.

"Guys," he interrupted, his voice weak. "Can we not do this right now? I just want to sleep."

The bickering stopped abruptly. They both looked at Kimi, their expressions softening.

"Okay," George said, relenting. "We'll figure it out. You just focus on getting better.”

Max nodded in agreement. "We'll take you back to your hotel. Get you settled in."

The walk back to the paddock felt even longer than before. Kimi was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. The reality of Formula 1, with its inherent dangers and the intense pressure to perform, was starting to sink in.

As they reached the Mercedes hospitality unit, Toto Wolff, the team principal, was waiting for them. His face was etched with concern.

"Kimi, how are you feeling?" he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

"Head hurts," Kimi mumbled. "They said it's a concussion."

Toto sighed. "Rest is the most important thing now. Don't worry about the race. Your health comes first."

He then turned to George and Max, his gaze piercing. "Make sure he gets the best possible care. We need him back on track as soon as possible."

That evening, tucked away in his hotel room, Kimi felt the weight of the day settling on his shoulders. The rain had stopped, and the setting sun cast long shadows across the room. He was alone, sidelined, and feeling more vulnerable than ever.

His phone pinged. A message from Ollie.

“Hey, how are you feeling? Don’t worry about today, we’ll all be thinking of you. Get some rest, legend!”

A small smile crept across Kimi’s face. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t entirely alone in this madhouse after all.

~~~~~

The next 24 hours were a strange, surreal experience. George and Max, true to their word (and Toto’s implied threat), took turns babysitting Kimi.

George, the organized and responsible one, took the first shift. He transformed Kimi’s hotel room into a zen-like sanctuary: blackout curtains drawn, soft music playing, and a constant supply of hydration. He read aloud from a boring-sounding book about race car engineering, which, ironically, lulled Kimi to sleep.

Max, on the other hand, was a force of chaos. He arrived armed with board games, energy drinks, and a relentless stream of sarcastic commentary. He tried to teach Kimi how to play chess (which ended in disaster), and insisted on ordering pizza despite George's protests about healthy eating.

The dynamic between George and Max was fascinating. They bickered constantly, their rivalry simmering just beneath the surface. But beneath the surface, there was also a grudging respect, and even a hint of camaraderie. They both genuinely cared about Kimi, and they were determined to make sure he recovered quickly.

Kimi, for his part, found the whole situation incredibly amusing. He lay in bed, watching the two Formula 1 titans squabble over the remote control, and couldn’t help but laugh. He was starting to understand the complex, often absurd, world he had entered.

As the hours ticked by, the tension in the room eased. They started to talk, not about racing, but about their lives, their families, their hopes and fears. Kimi learned that Max, despite his gruff exterior, had a surprisingly soft spot for his step-daughter. He learned that George, behind his polished façade, was driven by a deep-seated desire to prove himself.

He started to see them not just as rivals, but as people. Flawed, complex, and surprisingly human.

Chapter Text

The tension in the Mercedes hospitality suite was thick, a strange cocktail of pre-race nerves and camaraderie. Kimi, his youthful energy a stark contrast to the seasoned faces around him, bounced slightly on the balls of his feet. He’d been nervously picking at a plate of fruit, but the light-hearted chatter had finally coaxed him out of his shell.

Lando, ever the instigator, had lobbed the conversational grenade. "Okay, seriously guys, zombie apocalypse hits. Who's surviving the longest?"

Max scoffed, "Me, obviously. Preparedness is key. I've already got a bunker picked out.”

Charles, ever the gentleman, offered a more philosophical take. "I'd try to find a cure, obviously. Fighting is a last resort." Pierre, predictably, launched into a rambling explanation of his survival skills, learned from various extreme sports documentaries.

Kimi, who had been quietly listening, suddenly perked up, his eyes shining with an unexpected intensity. "Oh, oh! Zombie apocalypse? I've been planning for this since I was, like, ten!"

A collective silence fell over the group. Lewis, who had been idly scrolling through his phone, looked up, a gentle smile playing on his lips. Max stopped mid-sentence, a flicker of amusement in his usually fierce gaze. Lando, ever the entertainer, leaned forward, his eyes wide with mock seriousness. “Go on, Kimi. Enlighten us.”

Kimi didn’t need any further prompting. He launched into a detailed explanation, his hands flying as he painted a picture of his apocalyptic strategy. “Okay, first, immediate lockdown. You can't risk any early bites. We need a secure location. My family has this old hunting cabin in the Dolomites. It’s remote, got a generator, and a decent supply of non-perishable food. Plus, altitude is your friend! Zombies are slow, they'd struggle with the thin air.”

He paced back and forth, his voice rising with excitement. “Next, weapon acquisition. Forget guns! Too loud, attracts unwanted attention. We need melee weapons: katanas, machetes, crowbars. Silent and deadly! We can scavenge from the local sports shop – they have a surprisingly good selection.”

Lewis chuckled softly, captivated by the sheer enthusiasm radiating from the young rookie. He’d seen Kimi cool and composed behind the wheel, but this – this unbridled passion for zombie survival – was a completely different side to him.

“And what about food, Kimi?" Charles asked, his brow furrowed slightly in genuine concern. “The non-perishables won't last forever.”

Kimi beamed. “That’s where the chickens come in! We need to establish a sustainable food source. The cabin has a pre-existing chicken coop. Plus, eggs! Think of the omelettes!”

He continued, outlining his plans for gathering resources, establishing communication lines (through modified HAM radios, naturally), and even touching upon the complexities of zombie herd management. He spoke about creating barricades, setting traps, and the importance of maintaining morale.

As Kimi spoke, the expressions on the faces of the other drivers were a study in adoration. Lando was practically vibrating with suppressed laughter, but his eyes were filled with genuine affection. Max, notorious for his bluntness, was openly grinning, clearly finding Kimi’s passion endearing. Charles watched with a soft, almost paternal smile, clearly charmed by the rookie's youthful exuberance. Pierre, who fancied himself a survival expert, looked slightly deflated but still wore a fond expression. Lewis, ever the mentor, seemed to be absorbing every word, his eyes fixed on Kimi with a mixture of pride and amusement.

The truth was, they were all completely smitten. Not just by his talent on the track, but by this unfiltered, unadulterated enthusiasm that he brought to everything he did. It was infectious, a bright spark in the sometimes-jaded world of Formula 1.

Kimi, oblivious to the rapt attention he was receiving, finally wound down, taking a deep breath. “So, yeah… that’s my plan. What do you guys think?”

A beat of silence hung in the air before Lando burst out laughing. “Mate, you’ve clearly put more thought into this than you have into race strategy sometimes! You’ve sold me. Dolomites with the chickens it is!”

Max clapped Kimi on the shoulder. “I still think my bunker is better, but I’ll admit, the omelettes are tempting.”

Charles added, “If there’s a zombie apocalypse, I’m definitely sticking with you, Kimi. You’ve got a plan for everything!”

Lewis smiled warmly. “I like your resourcefulness, Kimi. You’ve definitely thought outside the box.”

He stood up, stretching his arms. “Alright, zombie preppers. Time to focus on the living dead we’re actually facing on the track. Let's go win this race.”

As the seasoned drivers began to peel off, preparing for the race ahead, Kimi felt a surge of confidence. He might be a rookie, but he was ready. He was ready for anything. Especially zombies. And the knowledge that he had the unspoken support of his rivals, the admiration glowing in their eyes, gave him an extra boost.

He might be the youngest on the grid, but if the zombie apocalypse ever hit, he knew, with absolute certainty, that he'd be leading the charge. And somehow, even if they were joking, these hardened veterans, these world champions, would be right there beside him, wielding katanas and defending the chicken coop. Because Kimi Antonelli, the 18-year-old Formula 1 rookie, had a plan, and they were all in.

Chapter Text

The roar of the engines faded, replaced by a ringing silence in Kimi Antonelli's ears. His first Formula 1 qualifier. Finished. He'd managed only to get P16, a result that barely registered amidst the adrenaline still coursing through him. He peeled off his sweaty racing suit, the Mercedes logo digging into his skin, a constant reminder of the immense pressure that came with driving for the Silver Arrows.

Eighteen years old. The youngest driver on the grid. Thrust into the spotlight, a whirlwind of cameras, interviews, and expectations pressing down on him. He missed the relative anonymity of F2, the comfortable bubble he'd lived in just months ago.

He grabbed his gear bag, the weight of it a comforting familiarity. A Mercedes staff member, a man he barely recognized, approached him with a clipped voice. "Antonelli, I’m your chauffeur, the car is waiting. I'll take you back to the hotel."

Kimi, still disoriented from the race and overwhelmed by the constant barrage of new faces, didn't question it. He assumed this was normal. He'd been so focused on the racing, the details of the periphery, the logistics, had been a blur of briefings and hurried instructions. He nodded, mumbled a thank you, and followed the staff member through the bustling garage towards the sprawling parking lot.

A sleek, black SUV idled in the designated driver's area. The staff member gestured towards it, his expression tight, almost impatient. "Hurry up, I’m waiting."

Kimi reached for the door handle, a flicker of exhaustion pulling at his eyelids. He just wanted to shower, order room service, and maybe replay the race highlights a hundred times, dissecting every corner, every gear change.

"Kimi!"

The sound of his name, laced with a mixture of surprise and urgency, stopped him in his tracks. He turned to see a cluster of familiar faces approaching, a group of drivers peeling off from the post-race interviews. Lando Norris, his perpetually mischievous grin slightly subdued, was in the lead, followed by George Russell, his own teammate, and Max Verstappen, the reigning world champion.

"Where are you heading off to?" Lando asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Back to the hotel," Kimi said, a little confused. "This gentleman said he’s taking me back."

Lando’s grin vanished. "The afterparty is just getting started, mate. You can't miss it. It's tradition."

Kimi blinked, completely unaware. "Afterparty? No one told me. I thought I was supposed to be driven back to the hotel."

George frowned, his gaze shifting between Kimi and the staff member standing rigidly by the driver's side door of the SUV. He hadn't seen that man before.

"Who's your driver, Kimi?" George asked, his voice laced with a subtle caution.

Kimi gestured towards the man. "He said he was from Mercedes. He said he was driving me back."

A heavy silence descended on the group. Max, his normally impassive face etched with a grim understanding, exchanged a look with Lando and George. The air crackled with unspoken tension.

Lando, his eyes narrowed, reached out and gently gripped Kimi's wrist, pulling him close to him. He kept a sturdy arm around his waist, holding him close. "We don't have our own drivers who drive us back, mate. It's usually one of the mechanics, or… well, sometimes even Toto. Not some random staff member."

He could feel the subtle tremor in Kimi's hand. The realization, the dawning horror, was palpable.

Max stepped forward, his voice low and dangerous. "Who are you?" he demanded, his gaze fixed on the staff member by the SUV.

The man remained silent, his face a mask of simmering resentment. His eyes flickered nervously, betraying the cool facade he was trying to maintain.

"Look," George intervened, his voice firm but controlled. "We don't know what your game is, but you need to leave. Now."

The man didn't move. His silence was more damning than any confession.

"Kimi," Lando said, his grip tightening on Kimi's wrist. "We need to go. Now. We'll call the police."

The threat, though unspoken, hung heavy in the air. The staff member finally seemed to understand the game was up. He mumbled something unintelligible, turned abruptly, and got into the car, speeding off.

Kimi stood there, frozen, the weight of what could have happened pressing down on him. He felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. He had been so naive, so trusting.

"You okay, Kimi?" George asked, his voice laced with concern.

Kimi swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure. "Yeah… yeah, I think so. Thank you. Truly."

Lando squeezed his shoulder. "Don’t mention it, mate. We just wanted to make sure you were safe."

Max nodded, his eyes holding a rare glimmer of warmth. "We all look out for each other, especially the rookies."

~~~~~

There was actually a party, one that was a cacophony of sound and light. The thumping bass vibrated through Kimi's chest, the flashing strobes reflecting off the polished floor. It was a world away from the sterile, adrenaline-fueled environment of the track, a deliberate release of tension after a gruelling race.

But Kimi couldn't shake the feeling of unease that clung to him like a shroud. The music was too loud, the lights too bright, the faces too familiar and yet still somehow alien.

He found himself standing on the edge of the dance floor, a half-empty glass of sprite clutched in his hand, watching the other drivers celebrate. He saw Lando and George, laughing and joking with mechanics and engineers. He spotted Max, surprisingly subdued, talking quietly with his team principal.

He felt profoundly alone.

George, noticing his discomfort, detached himself from the group and came over to him. "You alright, mate? You seem a bit… rattled."

Kimi took a deep breath. "I just… I can't stop thinking about it. What if you guys hadn't shown up? What if I'd just gotten in that car?"

George put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Don't dwell on it, Kimi. You're safe now. We're watching out for you."

"But why? Why would someone try to… to kidnap me?" The word hung in the air, raw and terrifying.

George sighed. "Look, F1 can be a cutthroat world. There's a lot of money, a lot of pressure, and a lot of people with their own agendas. You're a valuable asset, Kimi. A huge talent. And sometimes, people try to exploit that. Or worse."

Kimi shivered. He'd known F1 was competitive, but he hadn't realized the extent to which it could be dangerous.

"I don’t mean to scare you. The important thing is that you're okay," George continued. "And that you learn from this. Be careful who you trust. Don't go anywhere alone. And if you ever feel uneasy, reach out. We're all here for you."

Kimi nodded slowly, absorbing his words. He realized, with a surge of gratitude, that he wasn't as alone as he thought he was. He had George, Lando, even Max, who had proven themselves willing to protect him.

"Thanks, George," he said, his voice a little stronger. "I appreciate it."

George smiled. "Now, come on. Let's get you something stronger than sprite. You need to loosen up."

He steered Kimi towards the bar, the music momentarily drowning out the fear that still lingered in the back of his mind. He took a sip of the stronger drink George handed him, the fiery liquid burning a path down his throat.

He still didn't feel like celebrating. But he felt… safer. He had stumbled into a viper's nest, but he had also discovered that he wasn't entirely defenceless. He had allies, even friends, in this crazy, complex world of Formula 1.

~~~~~

The next day at the track, the atmosphere was noticeably different. There was an unspoken tension in the air, a sense of heightened security. Kimi noticed more security personnel than usual, discreetly positioned around the paddock.

The Mercedes team was noticeably protective of him. Toto Wolff, the team principal, pulled him aside for a private conversation.

"Kimi," Toto said, his voice serious. "What happened last night… it's unacceptable. We are taking this very seriously. We have launched a full investigation to identify the individual involved."

Kimi nodded, grateful for the support. "Thank you, Toto. I appreciate it."

"We will ensure your safety," Toto continued. "You will have a dedicated security detail with you at all times. And if you see or hear anything suspicious, you report it immediately. Understood?"

"Understood," Kimi replied.

The incident had cast a shadow over his debut weekend. He felt like he was constantly being watched, a feeling that was both comforting and stifling. He wanted to focus on the racing, on learning and improving, but the weight of what had happened, the knowledge that someone had targeted him, made it difficult to concentrate.

Later that day, he was approached by a detective, a woman with a sharp gaze and an air of quiet authority.

"Mr. Antonelli," she said, "I'm Detective Davies. I understand you had an incident last night."

Kimi recounted the events of the previous evening, as accurately as he could remember. He described the staff member, his demeanour, the black SUV. He also mentioned the intervention of Lando, George, and Max.

Detective Inspector Davies listened intently, taking detailed notes. "Thank you, Mr. Antonelli. Your cooperation is invaluable. We are doing everything we can to identify this individual and bring him to justice. In the meantime, please be vigilant and report anything that seems unusual or suspicious."

As he walked away from the detective, Kimi couldn't shake the feeling that he was being hunted. He was a rookie, a prodigy, a rising star. But he was also a target.

He looked around the paddock, searching for a familiar face, someone he could trust. He saw Lando, waving at him from across the garage. He smiled, a small, genuine smile. Despite everything that had happened, he knew he wasn't alone. He had allies, even in the cutthroat world of Formula 1.

He just hoped that would be enough.

Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd was a tangible thing, a vibration that pulsed through Kimi Antonelli's very bones. Imola.. His seventh Formula 1 race, driving for the legendary Mercedes-AMG Petronas team. At eighteen, he was the youngest driver on the grid, a fact that was both a blessing and a curse.

The blessing: he was living his dream. The curse: the world was watching, scrutinizing every move, every mistake.

He'd finished a respectable P6, battling veterans and former champions alike. Relief washed over him as he climbed from his car, the sweat plastering his dark hair to his forehead. He allowed himself a small smile, the adrenaline still coursing through him.

The media scrum was waiting, a ravenous pack eager for a soundbite. Kimi braced himself, adjusting his earpiece. He knew the drill. Answer the questions, be polite, don't say anything stupid. Easy, right?

Wrong.

He was almost through the routine questions about the race, the car, the strategy, when a different interviewer stepped forward. A woman, maybe in her late thirties, with a practiced smile and eyes that felt a little…too intense.

"Kimi," she purred, the microphone hovering a little too close to his face. "Congratulations on your result. And Happy belated 18th, by the way. Quite the milestone, isn't it? Officially a man."

Kimi shifted uncomfortably. The comment felt…personal. Not only that, but she was about ten months too late. He forced a polite smile. "Thank you. It's good to be here."

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a confidential whisper that the microphone amplified for the world to hear. "You're quite the sensation, you know. So young, so…cute. The fans are going wild for you."

"I appreciate the support," Kimi mumbled, his cheeks flushing. He glanced at the Mercedes team representatives hovering nearby, hoping for a lifeline. They seemed oblivious, focused on their own clipboards.

"The maturity you've shown on track is incredible," she continued, completely ignoring his attempt to steer the conversation. "Especially for someone so…fresh." She reached out and squeezed his arm, her touch lingering a beat too long. "I bet you're celebrating tonight, aren't you?"

Kimi felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach. He didn't like this. He didn't like the way she was looking at him, the way she was talking to him. This was wrong.

"Just catching up with the team, I think," he said quickly, trying to pull his arm away subtly.

She just tightened her grip. "Oh, come on. Don't be boring. You deserve to let loose. Imola is known for its…hospitality."

Desperation clawed at him. He needed an out. He scanned the crowd, his eyes darting from face to face. And then he saw him. Charles Leclerc, walking towards the Ferrari garage, a grim expression on his face.

"Charles!" Kimi called out, relief flooding him. "Hey, great drive out there!"

Charles stopped, his expression softening as he recognized Kimi. "Grazie, Kimi. You too. A solid result." He offered a brief, friendly nod.

Kimi’s heart hammered in his chest. He prayed Charles wouldn’t keep walking but he did, obliviously. Kimi was about to call out again but the interviewer, sensing her prey slipping away, wasn't about to let him.

"Anyway, Kimi," she continued, her voice regaining its syrupy sweetness. "We were just talking about how you should celebrate your 18th. I have a lovely suite at the hotel, plenty of room… perhaps you'd like to join me?"

The blood drained from Kimi's face. He felt utterly trapped, exposed under the harsh glare of the cameras. He didn't dare look at the Mercedes team. He could feel their attention on him like a physical weight.

That's when a deep, resonant voice cut through the tension.

"That's enough."

Charles Leclerc stepped forward, having turned around at what he heard, his face like thunder. He loomed over the interviewer, his usually charming smile replaced with a chilling glare.

"That is incredibly unprofessional," Charles said, his voice low and dangerous. "You should be ashamed of yourself, you’re over double his age."

The interviewer sputtered, her carefully constructed facade crumbling. "Charles, I –"

"No," Charles interrupted, his eyes burning into hers. "You don't get to 'I'. This interview is over." He turned to Kimi, his expression softening slightly. "Come on, Kimi. You don't need to deal with this."

He reached out and took Kimi's arm, gently but firmly pulling him away from the stunned interviewer and the hushed crowd.

"I'm sorry," Kimi mumbled, his voice barely audible. "I didn't…"

"Don't apologize," Charles said, his grip tightening reassuringly. "You did nothing wrong. Let's get you back to your team."

Charles marched Kimi through the paddock, his tall frame a shield against the curious stares. He steered him towards the Mercedes hospitality unit, his face still a mask of controlled fury.

"Toto!" he called out, pushing open the door.

Toto Wolff, the Mercedes team principal, looked up, his eyebrows raised in surprise. Beside him sat Bono, Kimi’s engineer.

"Charles! What's going on?" Toto asked, his voice laced with concern.

Charles didn't mince words. He recounted the interview, his voice growing tighter as he described the interviewer's inappropriate behaviour and her predatory advances towards Kimi.

Toto's face darkened. He exchanged a grim look with James. "Thank you, Charles," he said, his voice tight. "We appreciate you stepping in." He turned to Kimi, his expression softening. "Are you alright, Kimi?"

Kimi nodded, still feeling the tremors of the encounter shaking him. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just…surprised."

"We'll handle this," Toto assured him, his voice firm. "This is completely unacceptable. We'll make sure something like this never happens again." He turned back to Charles. "Again, thank you, Charles. You did the right thing."

Charles nodded curtly. "Of course. I'll leave you to it." He squeezed Kimi's shoulder briefly. "Take care, Kimi."

As Charles left, Toto and Bono descended on Kimi, their concern palpable. They asked him questions, making sure he hadn't been physically harmed, offering words of reassurance.

"This is not your fault, Kimi," Toto emphasized, his eyes locking with Kimi's. "You did nothing wrong. This woman acted completely inappropriately, and we will be taking action against her."

Bono added, "We'll also make sure you have a designated team member present at all future interviews. Someone to act as a buffer, just in case."

Kimi felt a wave of gratitude wash over him. He was surrounded by people who cared, who had his back. He wasn't alone.

The incident, however, left its mark. He was more cautious, more guarded. He found himself replaying the interview in his mind, second-guessing his own reactions.

That night, he couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned in his hotel room, the image of the interviewer's predatory smile burned into his memory. He felt vulnerable, exposed.

He picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts. He stopped at "Eli," his girlfriend. He hesitated. She was studying for her exams, he didn't want to bother her.

But he needed to talk to someone.

He hit the call button.

Eli answered on the third ring, her voice groggy. "Tesoro? What's wrong? Is everything okay?"

He hesitated, unsure how to explain. "I…I had a weird interview today." He told her about the woman, her inappropriate comments, her suggestive advances.

Eli listened in silence, her silence more comforting than any words could have been. When he finished, she simply said, "That's disgusting, Kimi. I'm so sorry."

He felt a lump form in his throat. "I just…I didn't know what to do. I was scared to make a scene."

"You did the right thing," Sofia said firmly. "You didn't engage. You protected yourself. Don't let her make you feel ashamed."

They talked for another hour, Eli patiently listening as he processed his emotions. She reminded him of his strengths, his talent, his unwavering determination. She reminded him that he was not defined by this incident.

~~~~~

The next day at the track, Kimi found Charles waiting for him outside the Mercedes garage.

"Hey," Charles said, his voice casual. "How are you holding up?"

Kimi shrugged. "Better. Thanks to you."

Charles smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. "Don't mention it. I just…I couldn't stand by and watch that happen. No one should have to deal with that, especially not someone as young as you."

He paused, then added, "This paddock can be a tough place. There will always be people who try to take advantage. You need to learn to trust your instincts, to stand up for yourself."

"Easier said than done," Kimi muttered.

"I know," Charles admitted. "It takes time. But you'll get there. And remember, you're not alone. There are people who will support you. Real friends."

He looked Kimi in the eye, his gaze intense and sincere. "And don't ever let anyone make you feel like you're just a cute kid. You're a racer, Kimi. A damn good one. Focus on that."

Chapter Text

The air inside the small, privately chartered bus vibrated with the low hum of anticipation. A week. A whole week away from the relentless pressure cooker of Formula 1. A week of sun, sand, and (hopefully) minimal media intrusion.

Kimi stared out the window, watching the trees pass by. The Italian countryside blurred into a green and brown canvas as they sped towards the coastal resort deemed the perfect escape for the F1 circus. He should be buzzing with excitement, but exhaustion gnawed at him. The last three races had been a brutal baptism by fire. The Mercedes, while promising, was still a beast to tame, and Kimi was throwing everything he had into wrestling it. Late nights in the simulator, endless debriefings, and the constant anxiety of living up to the expectations that came with filling Lewis Hamilton’s legendary shoes were taking their toll.

Around him, the other drivers were in full vacation mode. Laughter bounced off the close confines. Charles Leclerc was engaged in a heated debate with Carlos Sainz about the merits of various Italian ice cream flavours. George Russell, Kimi’s teammate, was regaling Esteban Ocon with a story that involved a questionable karaoke performance and a misplaced trophy. Max Verstappen, reigning world champion, was sat beside Kimi, dominating a handheld racing game, his thumb twitching with practiced precision.

Kimi tried to smile, to engage, but he felt like he was wading through treacle. He closed his eyes for a moment, just a moment, he promised himself. The rhythmic rumble of the engine and the gentle swaying of the bus were surprisingly soothing.

He didn't even realize he was falling.

His head lolled to the side, the world tilting precariously. He braced himself, but before he could regain control, his head contacted something firm and...warm?

He drifted deeper into sleep, his cheek resting against… Max Verstappen’s shoulder.

~~~~~

Max paused his game, his usually laser-focused attention disrupted by a soft weight against his shoulder. He glanced down. Kimi Antonelli, usually all sharp angles and intense focus, was fast asleep, his dark hair tousled and his expression surprisingly peaceful.

A wave of something unexpected washed over Max. Fondness? Protective instinct? He wasn't sure but looking at the sleeping form of the young rookie, he felt a stirring of something beyond the competitive rivalry that typically defined their interactions.

He cleared his throat, careful not to jar Kimi awake. "Hey, guys," he said, his voice lower than usual. "Take a look at this."

The noise level immediately dropped. Charles, Carlos, and George cautiously shuffled over, craning their necks for a better view. Lando, who was across the isle, stood up and glanced over as well.

“Aww, how cute!” Charles whispered, his usual booming voice barely audible.

Carlos chuckled silently, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. "Looks like someone's been burning the candle at both ends."

Even George, usually focused on his own endeavours, wore a soft smile. "Poor kid. He's been pushing himself really hard."

Max felt a pang of sympathy. He remembered the pressure he had felt as a young driver, the relentless scrutiny, the constant need to prove himself. He had been unlucky to not have experienced, supportive people around him. The other drivers didn’t really treat him well when he was a rookie. Kimi… seemed to be navigating this world alone, a young wolf thrown into a pack of seasoned hunters. Max refused to let him go through what he did.

"Someone get him a blanket," Max murmured.

George, always the thoughtful one, removed his Mercedes jacket and gently draped it over Kimi’s shoulders. The rookie stirred slightly, burrowing further into Max’s shoulder but didn’t wake.

“He’s out cold,” George confirmed.

The bus continued its journey, the atmosphere subtly shifting. The playful banter subsided, replaced by a quiet camaraderie. The other drivers seemed to collectively acknowledge the vulnerability of the sleeping rookie, the unspoken understanding of the shared pressure they all faced and quietened down.

After an hour, the effects of multiple coffees and the bumpy road caught up with Max. He needed to use the restroom at the back of the bus. The problem? Kimi was still sound asleep against his shoulder.

He glanced across the aisle at Lando, who caught his eye and gave a knowing nod. "Alright, mate. I got this."

With meticulous care, Lando switched places with Max, manoeuvring Kimi away from Max's shoulder and gently easing him to lean against him instead. It was a delicate operation, executed with surprising grace. Kimi mumbled something in his sleep but didn’t wake.

Max mouthed a silent “thanks” to Lando and disappeared down the aisle.

When he returned, Lando was wearing a weary but fond expression. "He's surprisingly heavy for such a small guy," he whispered.

Max grinned. "He's all muscle. Remember that video where he was hugging George shirtless and totally dwarfed him.”

The group fell silent, lost in their own thoughts. They all knew how talented Kimi was. They had seen glimpses of his potential, flashes of brilliance that hinted at greatness. But they also saw the strain, the exhaustion, the weight of expectation.

"We need to make sure he actually relaxes this week," Carlos said, breaking the silence.

"Yeah," Charles agreed. "No pressure, no racing talk. Just fun."

Max nodded, a rare, genuine smile spreading across his face. "Agreed. Let's make sure the rookie has a good time."

A silent consensus was reached. They would look out for Kimi, offer him a helping hand, and remind him that even in the cutthroat world of Formula 1, there was still room for camaraderie and maybe, just maybe, even friendship.

~~~~~

The resort was exactly what they all needed. Sparkling turquoise water, pristine white sand, and palm trees swaying gently in the warm breeze. The drivers dispersed, some heading straight for the beach, others to the bar, eager to taste a cocktail unburdened by the restrictions of race weekend.

Kimi, however, remained slumped in his bus seat, still fast asleep. George gently shook his shoulder.

"Kimi? We're here."

Kimi blinked blearily, his eyes struggling to focus. He sat up, stretching and yawning. "Already?"

"Yeah, man. We're here. Paradise awaits." George grinned.

Kimi glanced around, taking in the scene with a slow dawning awareness. The tiredness still clung to him, but a flicker of excitement sparked in his eyes.

"Right," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "Paradise it is."

He stepped off the bus, feeling the warm sun on his face. The air smelled of salt and sunscreen, a welcome change from the fumes of the racetrack.

The others were already unloading their bags, their laughter echoing across the parking lot. Kimi hesitated, unsure where to go or what to do. He felt a hand clap him on the shoulder.

"Hey, Kimi! Come on, let's get you settled in." Max's voice was surprisingly friendly.

He led Kimi to the cluster of villas reserved for the drivers, pointing out Kimi's assigned room.

"Get yourself unpacked and then meet us down at the beach," Max said. "We're going for a swim."

Kimi nodded, feeling a strange mix of relief and apprehension. He was used to being the outsider, the new kid on the block. He had always been fiercely independent, relying only on himself. But the genuine warmth he had sensed from the other drivers on the bus, the unspoken offer of acceptance, was something he hadn't expected.

He unpacked quickly, throwing his racing overalls and team gear into a corner and pulling out a pair of swimming trunks and a t-shirt. He looked at himself in the mirror, noticing the dark circles under his eyes. He needed this break. He needed to recharge.

He took a deep breath and headed towards the beach, hoping he could learn to relax, to let go, and maybe, just maybe, have some fun.

The sun was already starting its descent, casting long shadows across the sand. He spotted the other drivers splashing in the water, their laughter carrying on the breeze. He hesitated again, unsure if he should approach.

Then, Lando waved him over, his smile wide and welcoming. "Kimi! Get in here! The water's amazing!"

He took a tentative step towards the water, feeling the cool sand between his toes. And for the first time in a long time, Kimi allowed himself to smile. The rookie was finally ready to relax, and maybe, just maybe, find his place in the F1 paddock, not just as a driver, but as a friend.

Chapter Text

Kimi peeled off his sweaty racing suit, the weight of the silver star on his chest feeling heavier than ever. Expectations were astronomical. Lewis had left, a legend departing, and Kimi was thrust into the spotlight, tasked with filling shoes that seemed impossibly large.

He packed his bag, the silence of the empty garage a stark contrast to the frenzy of the race. Toto Wolff had given him a paternal pat on the back, praising his composure, but Kimi knew he could do better. Much better. He needed to.

"Everything okay, Kimi?" Valtteri Bottas's familiar Finnish accent cut through the quiet. Valtteri, the experienced veteran, a former Mercedes driver himself, now relegated to reserve. He was a welcome presence, a calm in the storm that Kimi’s life had become.

"Yeah, Valtteri, all good," Kimi replied, forcing a smile. "Just heading back to the hotel."

Valtteri nodded, his eyes assessing. "You walking? It's getting dark."

"It's only fifteen minutes," Kimi said, waving a hand dismissively. "Need the fresh air."

Valtteri hesitated. "You sure? I could give you a ride, I’m leaving now as well."

Kimi shook his head. "Thanks, Valtteri, but I'm good. See you tomorrow."

He hoisted his bag over his shoulder and headed out of the paddock, the flashing lights of the grandstand painting the sky in streaks of red and white. He relished the solitude, the chance to decompress after the adrenaline-fueled chaos of the race.

The walk started pleasantly enough. The evening air was cool, and the city was slowly winding down. He passed a few other fans, offering polite nods, their faces lit up with recognition. He understood the excitement. He remembered being that kid, wide-eyed and dreaming of racing in Formula 1.

Then, about ten minutes into his walk, a man stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

"You're Kimi Antonelli, right?" The man's voice was loud, a little too enthusiastic.

Kimi stopped, a flicker of unease tickling the back of his neck. He nodded, forcing a smile. "Hi." He assumed it was just another fan wanting an autograph or a quick photo. It came with the territory.

"Can I get a picture?" The man held up his phone.

Kimi obliged, leaning in, positioning his head next to the man's. He hated taking selfies, but he knew it made people happy.

Then, it happened. The man lunged forward, his lips aimed for Kimi's. Reacting on instinct, honed by years of split-second decisions on the racetrack, Kimi jerked his head back, narrowly avoiding the unwanted kiss.

"What the hell are you doing?" Kimi demanded, his heart pounding in his chest.

The man smirked. "Come on, just a kiss. I've always wanted to kiss a Formula 1 driver, and you're the next big thing."

Kimi's politeness evaporated, replaced by a growing sense of fear. He was alone, on a dimly lit street, with a stranger who clearly had no respect for boundaries. "I'm not interested," he said firmly, taking a step back.

The man matched his movement. "Of course you're interested. You're a young boy, you love this stuff."

Kimi shook his head, panic tightening his throat. "I just want to get back to my hotel."

The man's grin widened, and Kimi saw a glint in his eyes that sent a shiver down his spine. He was trapped. He dropped his bag, the thud echoing in the sudden silence. He turned and ran.

His legs pumped, adrenaline surging through his veins. He was a racing driver, accustomed to high speeds and intense pressure, but this was different. This was primal, a desperate fight for safety.

He could hear the man behind him, his heavy footsteps pounding the pavement. Kimi glanced over his shoulder; the man was gaining on him. He focused on getting to the hotel, running quickly. its warm, inviting lights a beacon of hope in the growing darkness.

He turned a corner and ran down the next street where he saw the hotel, its warm, inviting lights a beacon of hope in the growing darkness. He could practically feel the safety of its walls closing in around him.

Then, the world tilted. A sharp pain shot through his leg as he was tackled to the ground, the air forced from his lungs. He landed hard, scraping his hands and knees on the rough asphalt.

The man was on top of him, pinning him down. Kimi struggled, kicking and thrashing, but the man was heavier, stronger.

Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision. He scanned the street, desperately searching for help. His eyes landed on the hotel entrance, and his heart leaped.

Valtteri.

He was standing outside, scrolling on his phone, oblivious to the nightmare unfolding just a few hundred feet away.

"Val!" Kimi screamed, his voice hoarse and desperate. "Val!"

~~~~~

Valtteri hadn't wanted to let Kimi walk alone. There was something about the kid, a fragile vulnerability masked by a fierce determination, that triggered a protective instinct in him. He'd told himself he was being ridiculous, that Kimi was a grown man, capable of taking care of himself, but the feeling had lingered, so once he got back to the hotel, he stayed outside and waited for him.

He was lost in the endless scroll of social media when he heard it. A scream. A desperate, terrified cry that cut through the evening air.

"Val!"

He recognized the voice instantly. Kimi.

His head snapped up, his eyes scanning the street. He saw them – Kimi pinned to the ground, a man looming over him.

Without thinking, Valtteri reacted. Years of disciplined training, of split-second decisions made at 200 miles per hour, kicked in. He sprinted towards them, a surge of adrenaline coursing through him.

He roared like a wounded bear, a primal sound of rage that startled the man pinning Kimi down. Valtteri launched himself forward, tackling the man off Kimi and onto the pavement.

The man yelped in surprise, scrambling to his feet. Valtteri stood between him and Kimi, his fists clenched, his eyes burning with fury.

"Get away from him," Valtteri growled, his voice low and menacing. "Get the hell away from him now."

The man, realizing he was outmatched, hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering between Valtteri's enraged expression and the frightened, shaking figure of Kimi huddled on the ground.

Then, he turned and ran, disappearing into the shadows.

Valtteri didn't chase him. He turned his attention to Kimi, his anger instantly replaced by concern as Kimi latched onto him.

Valtteri held Kimi tightly, feeling the young driver tremble against him. "You're okay, Kimi. You're safe now. I'm here," he murmured, running a hand through Kimi's hair. He could feel the rapid beat of Kimi's heart against his chest, a frantic rhythm that mirrored the fear he saw etched on the boy's face.

Kimi clung to Valtteri like a lifeline, his knuckles white as he gripped the older driver's shirt. "He...he chased me," he stammered, his voice thick with tears he was desperately trying to hold back. "He said... he said..."

"Shhh, it's okay. You don't have to talk about it right now," Valtteri soothed, pulling Kimi closer. The rage he felt towards the man who had dared to frighten Kimi was simmering just beneath the surface, but he pushed it down, focusing on the immediate need: calming Kimi.

He gently detached Kimi, holding him at arm's length. "Look at me, Kimi. It's over. He's gone. I won't let anything happen to you." He searched Kimi's eyes, trying to convey the sincerity of his words. He saw the fear still lingering there, but he also saw a flicker of trust beginning to replace it.

"Let's get you inside," Valtteri said, his voice firm but gentle. He kept a protective arm around Kimi as they walked into the hotel lobby, his eyes scanning the surroundings, alert for any sign of the man.

Inside the lobby, the bright lights and relative bustle felt like a small sanctuary. Valtteri led Kimi to a quiet corner, away from prying eyes. "Do you want me to call anyone, Kimi? Your parents, your manager?"

Kimi shook his head, still overwhelmed. "No...no, I just... I want to stay here. With you."

Valtteri understood. Kimi needed someone he trusted, someone who made him feel safe. "Okay, I'm not going anywhere. Let's get you some water."

He fetched a bottle of water from the hotel bar and handed it to Kimi. He watched him take a hesitant sip, his hands still shaking slightly.

"Can you tell me what happened, Kimi? Only if you feel comfortable," Valtteri said softly. He knew it was important for Kimi to talk about it, to process the experience, but he didn't want to push him.

Slowly, haltingly, Kimi recounted the encounter. He described the man's words, the unwanted advance, the terrifying chase. As he spoke, Valtteri listened intently, his anger growing with each word. He made sure to maintain eye contact, offering small nods of reassurance.

When Kimi finished, he looked utterly drained. Valtteri wrapped an arm around him again, offering a silent hug.

"Kimi, what that man did was wrong. It wasn't your fault, and you did the right thing by running away. Don't ever think otherwise," Valtteri said firmly.

Kimi nodded, but Valtteri could see the uncertainty still lingering in his eyes. "I... I just want to race. I don't want this kind of attention."

"I know, Kimi. And you deserve to just focus on racing. We'll make sure that happens." Valtteri knew he couldn't promise that Kimi would never encounter unwanted attention again, but he could promise to do everything in his power to protect him.

"I think we should report this to the police," Valtteri said. "They can help make sure this man doesn't bother anyone else."

Kimi hesitated. "I don't know... I just want it to be over."

"I understand, but it's important. And I'll be with you every step of the way. I'll handle everything. You just need to tell them what happened."

After a long silence, Kimi nodded slowly. "Okay. Okay, I'll do it."

Valtteri squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "That's brave, Kimi. I'm proud of you."

Over the next few hours, Valtteri stayed with Kimi, helping him navigate the process of reporting the incident to the local police. He made sure Kimi felt safe and supported, answering his questions and offering constant reassurance. He stayed in Kimi's hotel room that night, just to ensure he slept soundly, the memory of the day still too raw for the young driver to be alone.

As Kimi drifted off to sleep, Valtteri sat by his bedside, a silent guardian. He knew this incident would leave a mark on Kimi, but he also knew that Kimi was stronger than he seemed. And Valtteri was determined to be there for him, to help him navigate the complexities of fame and the pressures of Formula 1, and to protect him from those who would try to take advantage of his youth and naivety. He was more than just a reserve driver; he was Kimi's friend, his mentor, and, in that moment, his protector. The fire to protect him burned intensely within Valtteri, a protective shield against the harsh realities of the world Kimi was now navigating. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he would do everything in his power to keep Kimi safe.

Chapter Text

The roar of the Mercedes engine was a familiar comfort to Kimi Antonelli. At eighteen, he was living a dream most could only fantasize about – a Formula 1 seat with the most dominant team of the past decade. But the dream came with a price. Replacing a legend like Lewis Hamilton, who had traded silver for the prancing horse of Ferrari, put immense pressure on young Kimi.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter, navigating the treacherous corners of the Silverstone circuit. The British Grand Prix was looming, and the pressure was mounting. He had shown flashes of brilliance, undeniable talent that hinted at a future champion. But consistency eluded him. Mistakes crept in, born of exhaustion and the sheer weight of expectation.

Back in the Mercedes garage, the debrief was a blur of technical jargon and telemetry data. Kimi nodded, absorbing the information, but his mind was already racing to the next session, the next opportunity to improve. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"You're pushing too hard, Kimi," George Russell said, his voice laced with concern. George, his teammate, was everything Kimi wasn't – experienced, composed, and seemingly immune to the pressures of F1 and extremely consistent.

Kimi shook his head, dismissing the comment. "Just trying to get up to speed, George. I have a lot to learn."

"I know, but you're burning the candle at both ends. You're still finishing your high school exams while racing in F1. It's too much, even for you."

Kimi bristled. "I can handle it, I’m 18, not a child. I have to handle it. I can't afford to slow down." He pulled out of the garage, heading towards the quiet solitude of his driver's room. He needed to focus, to analyse the data, to find that extra tenth of a second that separated him from the front of the grid. George watched him walk away, biting back a retort that Kimi was pretty much still a child.

Kimi barely noticed Lewis Hamilton enter the room behind him. Lewis, now clad in Ferrari red, still felt like a mentor, a brother even. He watched Kimi with a knowing eye, the young driver practically vibrating with nervous energy.

"Hey Kimi," Lewis said gently, leaning against the doorframe. "How's it going?"

"Fine," Kimi replied, not looking up from the laptop illuminating his face. "Just going over the data."

Lewis pushed off the frame and walked further into the room, his eyes flickering around to take in the discarded textbooks and energy drink cans. "You know, back when I was your age, I used to think pushing myself to the limit was the only way to succeed. But I learned the hard way that it's just as important to know when to rest."

Kimi sighed, finally turning his attention to Lewis. "Easier said than done, Lewis. I feel like I'm constantly playing catch-up. Everyone expects so much."

Lewis stepped closer, a familiar warmth radiating from him. He placed a hand on Kimi's shoulder, his touch surprisingly grounding. "The expectations are there, sure. But you don't need to carry them alone. We're all here to support you, you know?"

Kimi nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Thanks, Lewis. I appreciate it."

Lewis smiled, that genuine, million-watt smile that could disarm anyone. "No problem, kiddo. Now, how about you close that laptop and we grab some food?"

Kimi hesitated. "I really should keep working…"

"Food first," Lewis insisted gently. "Then maybe… a movie? Just to relax a bit."

Kimi, weary and reluctant, found himself agreeing. He knew he needed to rest, but the thought of simply switching off felt impossible. Maybe a movie wouldn't hurt, especially with a seven time world champion.

~~~~~

The movie, a light-hearted animated comedy, did little to soothe Kimi’s racing mind. He found himself analysing the animation techniques, the pacing of the jokes, anything to avoid dwelling on the upcoming race. Lewis and George, on either side of him on the couch, exchanged knowing glances. It was clear he was still wound tight.

Lewis subtly increased the warmth of the room, adjusting the thermostat without saying a word. He then casually draped an arm around Kimi's shoulders, a friendly gesture that Kimi didn't protest. The warmth and the comforting presence of Lewis started to seep into him, loosening the knots in his shoulders.

George, meanwhile, started a gentle conversation, steering it away from racing and towards Kimi’s schoolwork. He asked about his favourite subjects, his upcoming exams, anything to distract his racing mind. Kimi, initially hesitant, found himself drawn into the conversation. He enjoyed talking about physics and mathematics, subjects that offered the same challenge and precision as racing.

As the movie continued, Lewis subtly nudged Kimi closer, pulling him into a comforting side hug. The physical contact, combined with the warmth and the soothing conversation, began to have an effect. Kimi's eyelids started to feel heavy.

He fought it at first, trying to stay awake, to follow the plot of the movie. But the combined effects of exhaustion and the unexpected comfort were too much to resist. His head started to droop, eventually coming to rest on Lewis's shoulder.

Lewis tensed for a moment, then relaxed as he felt Kimi's breathing deepen. He was asleep.

He glanced at George, a silent communication passing between them. George’s lips twisted into a small smile, a mixture of relief and amusement.

Carefully, Lewis shifted, gently pulling Kimi further into his lap. He cradled him, feeling the slight weight of the young driver against him. He brushed a stray strand of hair from Kimi's forehead, watching his peaceful face. He looked so much younger, so much less burdened, when he was sleeping.

George quietly rose and retrieved a soft blanket from a nearby cupboard. He carefully draped it over Kimi, tucking it in around him.

They sat in silence, watching Kimi sleep. The movie continued to play on the screen, a meaningless backdrop to the quiet scene. The weight of Formula 1, the pressure of expectations, seemed to melt away in that moment.

Lewis continued to hold Kimi, his gaze fixed on the sleeping figure in his arms. He remembered his own early days in Formula 1, the relentless pressure, the overwhelming desire to prove himself. He wished he'd had someone to guide him, to offer the kind of support he was now providing to Kimi.

He looked at George, who was watching him with a thoughtful expression. "He's going to be something special, isn't he?" Lewis whispered, not wanting to disturb Kimi.

George nodded. "He is. But he needs to learn to take care of himself. He can't burn out before he even reaches his potential."

"We'll help him," Lewis said, his voice firm. "We'll make sure he doesn't and we’ll teach him."

They sat in comfortable silence, a silent promise passing between them. They were rivals on the track, competing for the same championship, but in that moment, they were united by a shared concern for the young driver they had seen grow and both taken under their wing.

The movie ended, the credits rolling silently across the screen. George reached for the remote, turning off the television. The room was plunged into a soft darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow of the city lights outside the window.

Lewis shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable without disturbing Kimi. He felt a pang of protectiveness towards the young driver, a desire to shield him from the harsh realities of Formula 1.

He knew that Kimi would face immense challenges in his career, setbacks and disappointments along the way. But he also knew that Kimi possessed the talent, the dedication, and the sheer grit to overcome them. And he knew that he and George would be there to support him, to guide him, to help him navigate the treacherous waters of Formula 1.

As he held Kimi close, Lewis felt a renewed sense of purpose. He might be wearing Ferrari red now, but he still felt a responsibility towards the young talent he had left behind at Mercedes. He would do everything in his power to ensure that Kimi Antonelli had the chance to shine, to fulfill his potential, to become the champion he was destined to be.

And for now, all he could do was hold him, keep him warm, and let him sleep. Let him rest, knowing that he was cared for, supported, and believed in. Because sometimes, that was all a young driver needed – a moment of peace, a sense of belonging, and the unwavering belief of those who had been there before.

Chapter Text

The Miami sun beat down on Kimi as he navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the hospitality suites. The air, thick with the aroma of espresso and anticipation, buzzed with pre-race energy. It was his first Miami Grand Prix, and the kaleidoscopic colours and pulsating music were a world away from the quiet karting tracks of his past. Just eighteen, and already a Mercedes driver, replacing the legendary Lewis Hamilton, who had made the shocking move to Ferrari.

The weight of expectation felt heavier than ever. Hamilton’s shadow loomed large, and every move Kimi made was scrutinized, dissected, and amplified by the unforgiving lens of the media. He tried to block it out, to focus on the race ahead, to prove to himself, and to the team, that he deserved to be here.

He was almost to the sanctuary of the Mercedes garage when it happened. A hand, rough and forceful, clamped down on his wrist, halting him in his tracks. Kimi froze, his heart leaping into his throat. He turned to face his assailant, a man with a flushed face and angry, bloodshot eyes.

"You," the man spat, his voice laced with venom. "You stole Mick's chance. A chance he deserved!"

Kimi’s mind raced. Mick… Mick Schumacher. The name was a constant echo in the paddock, a reminder of the pressures and the what-ifs that haunted every young driver. He winced at the man’s tightening grip. "Please," he stammered, "you're hurting me. Please let go."

The man’s grip only intensified. "He deserved that seat! Not you. You're nothing!"

Panic began to bubble in Kimi’s chest. He was surrounded by people, yet utterly alone. He didn't know what to do, how to escape the man's rage. Years of racing hadn't prepared him for this – the raw, unfiltered anger directed at him.

Then, just as the world started to tilt, a figure moved with lightning speed. The man’s hand was ripped from Kimi's wrist, and a solid form positioned itself between them. He instinctively recoiled, finding himself safely tucked behind a protective barrier.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" The voice, sharp and laced with fury, was instantly recognizable. It was Mick.

Mick reached back, his hand finding Kimi’s hip, subtly shifting him further behind, shielding him completely. "He's an eighteen-year-old kid, and you're, what, forty? You have no right to put your hands on him, especially when you're claiming to do it in my name."

The man sputtered, his anger momentarily deflated by Mick’s unexpected intervention. " You deserved that seat."

Mick scoffed, a flicker of something sharp and dangerous in his eyes. "So did Kimi. Except, he deserved it more. He has more potential. That's exactly why he got the seat, and why he's doing so well, even as an eighteen-year-old rookie."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, menacing growl. "And let me make one thing perfectly clear: I never asked you, or anyone else, to get angry in my honour. I was never angry at Kimi nor Mercedes for the decision they made. It's their team, their choice, and they chose the driver they believe in. Yeah I’m bummed I didn’t get it but that’s just how life works. I certainly wouldn’t go attacking a kid about it.”

The man mumbled something incoherent, his bravado crumbling under Mick's intense gaze. He clearly hadn't expected this reaction. With a disgruntled grunt, he turned and hurried away, disappearing back into the throng.

Mick turned his attention to Kimi, his anger instantly replaced with concern. He gently cradled Kimi's arm, examining the red mark already blossoming on his wrist. "Are you alright?"

Kimi swallowed hard, the adrenaline still coursing through him. "Yeah," he managed, his voice barely a whisper. "Thanks, Mick."

Mick shook his head, his expression softening. "You don't deserve that. You earned your seat, Kimi. And I was never mad about it."

Kimi, still shaken, looked up at Mick, his eyes searching for any hint of resentment or insincerity. "Are you sure?"

Mick smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes. "Absolutely. I'm looking forward to watching your future, Kimi. Now, get back to the garage. You have a race to win." He gave Kimi a reassuring pat on the shoulder, a silent message of support.

Kimi nodded, a small smile finally breaking through his fear. "Okay." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "Thanks again, Mick. Really."

Mick just waved a dismissive hand. "Don't mention it. Just focus on the race." He turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd as easily as he had appeared.

Kimi stood there for a moment longer, gathering himself. The encounter had left him shaken, but also strangely invigorated. Mick's unexpected defence had been a lifeline, a reminder that not everyone saw him as an undeserving replacement. He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and walked towards the Mercedes garage, his purpose renewed.

He reached the familiar confines of the garage, the chaos and focus a welcome distraction. Toto Wolff, the team principal, immediately noticed his slightly pale face and asked him if everything was alright. Kimi simply nodded, offering a tight-lipped smile. He didn't want to burden the team with unnecessary drama.

But as he slipped into his racing suit, the image of Mick standing between him and the angry fan replayed in his mind. The weight of expectation hadn't lessened, but now it was accompanied by a newfound sense of gratitude, and a quiet determination to prove not only to himself, but also to Mick, that he deserved to be here. He had a race to win, a future to build, and a debt to repay, even if Mick didn't see it that way. The Miami Grand Prix was no longer just about proving himself; it was about proving that Mick's faith in him wasn't misplaced. The lights were about to go out and Kimi Antonelli was ready.

Chapter Text

The roar of the engine vibrated through Kimi bones, a familiar symphony that both energized and exhausted him. He gripped the steering wheel, the Mercedes responding to his every touch as he navigated the high-speed chicane. This was it, his first year in Formula 1, a dream he’d chased since he was a boy karting around his local track. At just eighteen, he was the youngest driver on the grid, a prodigy thrust into the shark-infested waters of motorsport’s elite.

He wasn't alone in this daunting new world. Ollie Bearman, his best friend and former teammate from their Formula 2 season with Prema, was also making his debut, driving for Haas. Ollie was a year older, a bit more grounded, and a constant source of support. Their shared experience navigating the brutal world of junior formula had forged a bond that went beyond the track.

Their friendship had deepened further when Ollie discovered a secret Kimi had kept hidden: a recurring condition that manifested as nosebleeds and dizzy spells, sometimes even leading to fainting. The first time it happened, during a late-night study session in their shared apartment during F2, Ollie had been terrified. Kimi had simply slumped over, a trickle of blood staining his textbook.

Kimi’s dad, a former racing driver himself, had explained the situation to a wide-eyed Ollie. It was a combination of exhaustion, pressure, and neglecting his health. Kimi pushed himself too hard, juggling racing with studies, sponsorships, and the relentless demands of his burgeoning career. Ollie, with his inherent nurturing instinct, quickly learned how to help: keep Kimi calm, get him seated, tilt his head forward, and wait it out.

~~~~~

The tension in the air was thick even off the track. Free practice had just concluded, and the drivers were gathering in the common room, a temporary sanctuary away from the prying eyes of the media and the relentless pressure of their teams. Kimi leaned against a wall, listening to Max and Charles debate the merits of the latest tire compound. Ollie was nearby, engaged in a lively conversation with Oscar about their qualifying strategies. Lance, Esteban, and Yuki completed the small gathering.

Kimi felt a sudden wave of dizziness wash over him. He stumbled, his hand reaching out instinctively for support. He collided with Esteban, who turned, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face before it turned to worry. "Careful there, Kimi. You okay?"

Everything seemed to slow down. The sounds of the room faded, and the lights seemed too bright. He blinked, trying to focus, but his vision swam. He could feel a trickle of warmth on his upper lip.

Then, a hush fell over the room. All eyes were on him.

A drop of blood landed on the floor. Another followed. Then, a steady stream gushed from his nose.

A collective gasp filled the room. "Oh my god, is he dying?" Lance blurted out, his voice laced with panic.

Before anyone else could react, Ollie moved with practiced efficiency. He was already by Kimi's side, his arm wrapping around him, providing steady support. "Hey, hey, easy there, Kimi," he murmured, guiding him gently to the floor.

"Yuki, tissues! Now!" Ollie commanded, his voice calm and authoritative. Yuki, startled but responsive, scrambled to retrieve the box from the nearby table, fumbling slightly in his haste.

Ollie eased Kimi into a sitting position, leaning him heavily against his side. Kimi’s eyes fluttered, unfocused and distant and Ollie quickly pressed a wad of tissues under his nose, tilting his head forward slightly.

Then, Kimi’s body went limp. He had passed out.

Another wave of panicked gasps rippled through the room. Ollie ignored them, his focus solely on Kimi. He stabilized his friend against his side, ensuring his head remained tilted forward.

"He's okay," Ollie said, his voice firm, cutting through the rising anxiety. "This has happened before. He gets nosebleeds, sometimes he even passes out. It's nothing to freak out about."

Max frowned, his usual competitive edge softening with concern. "What causes it?"

"He gets burned out," Ollie explained, his tone laced with frustration. "He doesn't look after himself properly. Too much pressure, too much work, not enough rest. School, racing, everything all at once."

He paused, adjusting the pressure on the tissues. "He'll come around in a second."

And he did. Kimi stirred, his eyelids fluttering open. His gaze met Ollie's, and a faint, almost apologetic smile touched his lips.

Ollie grinned back, a silent reassurance passing between them. He pulled away the blood-soaked tissues, checking the flow. It had slowed considerably.

"Are you okay, Kimi?" Charles asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

Kimi nodded weakly, leaning against Ollie for support. "Yeah, just… tired."

Ollie addressed the others again, his gaze sweeping over their faces. "Look, there's no need to panic if this happens. Just get him to the ground, make sure his head is tilted forward so the blood doesn't go down his throat. He'll be fine."

The room remained quiet, the tension slowly dissipating. The other drivers, initially shocked and bewildered, seemed to relax, reassured by Ollie's calm competence.

Max, ever the pragmatist, spoke first. "So, what do we do now? Just… wait for him to recover?"

"Pretty much," Ollie replied. "He just needs to rest, a proper sleep."

He looked down at Kimi, whose eyes were closed again, his breathing shallow. "Come on, let's get you back to the paddock."

Oscar carefully helped Ollie get Kimi to his feet, so he could lift him into his arms. Ollie glanced around the room, a silent thank you to the others for their concern.

As he walked out of the room with Kimi snuggled in his arms, leaving behind the hushed whispers and lingering unease, Kimi rested his head on Ollie’s chest, the weight of his ambition momentarily overwhelming him. He knew he needed to be more careful, to listen to his body, but the lure of the track, the adrenaline of the race, was too strong to resist.

He also knew that he wasn’t alone. He had Ollie, his friend, his protector, his anchor in the turbulent sea of Formula 1. He might be the driver, but Ollie was the steady hand on the wheel, guiding him through the storm. And for that, Kimi was eternally grateful. The unspoken trust between them was a bond stronger than any rivalry, a friendship forged in the crucible of competition, and tested under the most intense pressure. It was a bond that would see them through the highs and lows of their rookie year, and beyond. The weight of the wheel felt a little lighter, knowing Ollie was there.

Chapter Text

Kimi felt the familiar prickle of sweat on his palms as he navigated the Miami paddock. At eighteen, he was the youngest driver on the Formula 1 grid, a prodigious talent thrust into the unforgiving world of racing with the Mercedes-AMG Petronas team. The pressure was immense, the expectations crushing.

He spotted a familiar mop of brown hair bobbing amidst the throng. Ollie Bearman, his best mate since their karting days, was a year older and currently driving for Haas. A wave of relief washed over Kimi – a friendly face, a shared history, a reminder of a life beyond the blinding spotlight.

“Kimi! You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Ollie grinned, slapping him on the back.

“Just feeling the pressure cooker, you know?” Kimi managed a weak smile. “Miami’s always intense.”

“Tell me about it,” Ollie chuckled. “This track… it’s a beast. But hey, we’re here, right? Living the dream!”

Kimi nodded, trying to mirror Ollie’s enthusiasm, but the words felt hollow. Since the start of the season, a dark cloud had been gathering around him, a storm brewing within his own mind. It came in the form of his trainer, a man hand-picked by Mercedes to mould him into a champion. But instead of building Kimi up, he seemed determined to tear him down.

Subtle jabs, veiled criticisms, constant reminders of his shortcomings – they chipped away at Kimi’s confidence, day by day. He was constantly second-guessing himself, afraid to make mistakes, paralysed by the fear of disappointing everyone.

“Hey, you okay?” Ollie’s brow furrowed with concern. “You seem… quiet. More than usual.”

“Yeah, yeah, just tired,” Kimi mumbled, avoiding eye contact. He couldn’t tell Ollie. He was ashamed, embarrassed to admit that he was struggling. Besides, his trainer had explicitly warned him against confiding in anyone. "This is between us, Kimi. We're just trying to make you the best you can be. Don't go running to mommy and daddy."

Ollie wasn't buying it. "Come on, Kimi. We've been friends for years. You can tell me anything."

"Really, I'm fine. Just need to focus on qualifying tomorrow." Kimi forced a smile and excused himself, leaving Ollie staring after him with a worried expression.

~~~~~

The next few weeks were a blur of races and relentless training. Kimi’s performance on the track was suffering, a direct consequence of his declining self-esteem. He was hesitant, uncertain, lacking the killer instinct that had brought him this far.

Ollie watched from a distance, his concern growing with each passing race. Kimi was becoming withdrawn, isolating himself from the other drivers, always accompanied by his intense, watchful trainer. He saw the shadows under Kimi’s eyes, the forced smiles that didn’t reach them, the way Kimi flinched at even the slightest criticism.

He knew something was wrong, desperately wrong, but he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t confront Kimi directly – he’d just clam up. He needed help, someone with experience, someone Kimi trusted.

His eyes landed on Max Verstappen, the reigning world champion. Max, despite his on-track dominance and fierce rivalry with Mercedes, had always seemed to have a soft spot for Kimi. He remembers seeing Max offering Kimi advice at races, a rare display of kindness from the notoriously competitive Dutchman.

It was a long shot, but Ollie was desperate.

He found Max in the Red Bull hospitality unit, reviewing data on his laptop. He hesitated for a moment, then steeled himself and approached.

“Max? Can I have a word?”

Max looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Bearman. What do you want?”

“It’s about Kimi,” Ollie said, his voice laced with urgency. “I think… I think something’s wrong. He’s not himself. He’s quiet, withdrawn, and always with his trainer. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m worried.”

Max stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he closed his laptop. “Tell me everything,” he said, his voice low and serious.

~~~~~

The Monaco Grand Prix weekend was in full swing, the air thick with anticipation and the roar of engines. Max, acting on Ollie’s concerns, began to subtly observe Kimi. He noticed the constant presence of his trainer, the way he seemed to hover over Kimi, the intense, almost possessive way he looked at him.

During a break between practice sessions, Max decided to investigate. He knew Kimi often took a few minutes to himself behind the Mercedes paddock, a quiet, secluded area away from the prying eyes of the media.

He found Kimi there, standing in the shadows, his shoulders slumped. His trainer was facing him, his voice low and agitated. Max stayed quiet, peering around the corner, trying to understand what was happening.

Then, he heard the words.

“…you’re not pushing hard enough, Kimi. You need to be more aggressive, more ruthless. You’re letting the team down.”

“I’m trying,” Kimi mumbled, his voice barely a whisper.

“Trying isn’t good enough. You have the talent, the potential, but you’re wasting it. You need to listen to me, Kimi. Trust me. I’m the only one who can help you.”

“But… I’m so tired,” Kimi said, his voice cracking and Max clenched his fist.

“Tired? This is Formula 1, Kimi! There’s no room for tired! You need to toughen up, to be stronger.” Then came the sickeningly sweet tone, the calculated manipulation. "Remember, Kimi, this is just tough love. We're just trying to help you reach your full potential. Don't go telling anyone, they wouldn't understand. They'd think I'm being too hard on you, but you know I'm just looking out for you."

Max’s blood ran cold. He recognized the manipulation, the subtle, insidious erosion of Kimi’s self-worth. He’d seen it before, in other drivers, in other contexts. It was a form of psychological abuse, and it was devastating.

He’d heard enough. Fury surged through him, a primal urge to protect the young driver who was being systematically broken down. He stormed around the corner, his face a mask of barely controlled rage.

He grabbed Kimi by the arm, pulling him away from his trainer.

“You’re fired,” Max growled, his voice dangerously low. “You’re not to go near Kimi ever again.”

The trainer scoffed, a smug look on his face. “You can’t fire me Verstappen. You aren’t even under Mercedes.”

Max tightened his grip on Kimi, his hand protectively resting on his shoulder. “Maybe not. But I’m telling Toto exactly what I just saw, and he’ll be furious that you ever hurt Kimi. He’s like a second son to Toto.”

The trainer’s face paled slightly. “I never touched him, right Kimi? Tell him I never hurt you. And don't you dare lie."

Kimi flinched at the trainer's raised voice, his eyes wide with fear. Max growled, placing his other hand on the back of Kimi’s head, gently pushing it down to hide it in his neck, shielding him from the trainer’s gaze.

“You may not have hurt him physically, I don’t know,” Max said, his voice dripping with venom. “But if I find out you did, there will be hell to pay. You definitely have been hurting him emotionally, and we won’t stand for that. You stay the fuck away from him.”

He then gently guided Kimi away, towards the sanctuary of the Mercedes hospitality unit.

~~~~~

Their entrance into the Mercedes garage didn’t go unnoticed. Heads turned, eyes widened, curiosity piqued. Max Verstappen, a Red Bull driver, in the Mercedes garage, with Kimi Antonelli practically clinging to his side? It was unheard of.

Kimi, overwhelmed by the attention, burrowed further into Max’s side, his face hidden against his shoulder. He felt a strange mix of relief and shame. Relief that Max had intervened, that someone had finally seen what was happening. Shame that he hadn’t been strong enough to stop it himself.

They found Toto Wolff, the Mercedes team principal, alone in his office, his brow furrowed in concentration as he stared at his computer screen. He looked up in surprise as they entered, his expression shifting from confusion to concern.

Max didn’t waste any time. He explained, in detail, what he had witnessed, his voice tight with anger. He spared no detail, painting a stark picture of the psychological manipulation Kimi had been subjected to.

Toto listened intently, his face growing darker with each word. When Max finished, he was silent for a moment, his eyes filled with a mixture of disbelief and fury.

“Kimi,” he said softly, his voice filled with remorse. “I am so sorry. I had no idea this was happening. I should have noticed. I promise you, this will be dealt with immediately.”

He rose from his chair, his jaw set in a grim line. “I need to go and have a word with this… individual.” He left the room with a purposeful stride, his anger palpable.

Max turned his attention back to Kimi, who was sitting huddled in a chair, his eyes downcast. He knelt in front of him, cupping his face gently in his hands.

Kimi sniffled, his voice barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

Max shook his head, his thumbs wiping away the tears that were starting to well in Kimi’s eyes. “It’s not your fault at all, kiddo. Don’t you dare apologize.”

He looked at Kimi, really looked at him, and saw the fear, the exhaustion, the crushing weight of expectation that had been slowly suffocating him.

“You’ve been doing so well so far, Kimi. Really well, especially for a rookie. Don’t listen to your trainer.”

Kimi swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. “I still need to improve.”

Max nodded slowly, acknowledging the pressure Kimi was under. “So do I. Everyone does. Nobody is ever perfect. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t doing good. You’re learning, you’re growing, you’re getting better every day.”

He tugged Kimi down into a hug, holding him tight. “I’m proud of you, Kimi. You’re achieving so much, and you’re making your family so proud.”

Kimi clung to Max, his body trembling slightly. He felt safe, protected, like he finally had someone on his side. He knew the road ahead would still be challenging, but for the first time in a long time, he felt a flicker of hope.

~~~~~

The aftermath of the incident was swift and decisive. Toto, true to his word, fired Kimi’s trainer immediately, launching an internal investigation into his conduct. He apologized profusely to Kimi, promising to provide him with a new training team that would support him, not tear him down.

Ollie, relieved and grateful, thanked Max profusely for his intervention. He promised to be there for Kimi, to support him through this difficult time.

The process of rebuilding Kimi’s confidence was slow and arduous. He struggled with self-doubt, haunted by the trainer's insidious words. But with the unwavering support of his family, friends, and his new training team, he slowly began to heal.

Max continued to offer his support, checking in on Kimi regularly, offering advice and encouragement. He saw a spark of the old Kimi slowly returning, the talent and passion that had made him a rising star.

Chapter Text

The desert air shimmered, distorting the already hallucinatory heat radiating off the asphalt. Kimi Antonelli, all of eighteen years old, wrestled with a steering wheel that felt like it was trying to melt in his hands. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring the rapidly approaching Turn 16. He braked late, a move born of desperation and the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and slotted his Mercedes W16 into the apex, the car gripping the track with a defiant yowl.

He'd done it. He'd held off Leclerc's Ferrari, securing a sensational fourth-place finish in Qatar. The air crackled with celebration, the roar of the crowd a tangible force reverberating through his helmet.

Just moments ago, the checkered flag had waved, signalling the end of what felt like the longest, hottest, and most physically demanding hour and a half of his life. He’d pushed himself, and the car, to the absolute limit. P4. Unbelievable.

But as he slowed down, the adrenaline began to wane, replaced by a wave of dizziness. He steered onto the run-off area, the engine sputtering and dying. He fumbled with the radio switch, trying to acknowledge his team's ecstatic shouts, but his head felt like it was filled with cotton wool.

“Kimi, incredible job! The pace was fantastic, absolutely…” the voice of his race engineer, Bono, crackled in his ear.

Kimi tried to reply, but his throat was parched, his tongue thick and unresponsive. He reached for his drinks bottle, a lifeline in this inferno. Empty. He cursed inwardly. He'd noticed the system failing around lap 30, but in the heat of battle, with Leclerc breathing down his neck, there hadn't been a chance to report it.

He unbuckled his seatbelt, his movements sluggish. He needed to get out, to get some air. As he swung his legs out of the cockpit, the world tilted violently. He reached for the halo, but his grip failed. Then, everything went black.

~~~~~

He woke up to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the gentle beeping of machines. His head throbbed, a dull, persistent ache. He blinked, trying to focus on the blurry figure hovering above him.

“Easy, Kimi. You gave us all a scare.” It was Dr. Matthews, the FIA's medical delegate. His face was etched with concern.

“What… what happened?” Kimi croaked, his voice raspy.

“Dehydration and heat exhaustion. The drinks system failed, and you pushed yourself too hard. Textbook case, really. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

Kimi closed his eyes, relief washing over him. It could have been so much worse. A heavy crash, a bigger injury... It was his first season, and he'd already managed to land himself in the medical centre.

He was hooked up to an IV drip, the cool liquid slowly rehydrating him. He’d been told he needed to stay for observation for a few hours. The race had been a triumph, but the aftermath felt lonely. His parents couldn’t make it to Qatar; their work commitments in Italy had been too demanding. They’d promised to be at the next race in Spa, but right now, he felt acutely aware of their absence. He was just a kid, thrown into the deep end of the most demanding sport in the world, and he was doing it alone.

He lay back against the pillows, the silence of the room amplifying his anxieties. Doubts gnawed at him. Had he pushed too hard? Was he good enough to be here? Replacing a legend like Lewis Hamilton was a monumental task, and the pressure felt suffocating.

Suddenly, the door swung open. Kimi tensed, expecting a nurse or a doctor. Instead, two familiar figures filled the doorway. Lewis Hamilton, clad in his Ferrari team gear, and George Russell, still wearing his Mercedes polo shirt, stood smiling at him.

“Hey, kiddo,” Lewis said, his voice warm and reassuring. “Heard you decided to take a nap after the race. Thought we’d keep you company.”

George nodded, his grin equally genuine. “We know your folks couldn’t make it, so we figured you might be feeling a bit… isolated.”

Kimi was stunned. Lewis, the man he idolized, the man whose seat he now occupied, was here, concerned about him. And George, his new teammate, had come to lend his support too.

He scrambled to sit up straighter, a blush creeping up his neck. “Lewis, George… what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

Lewis chuckled. “Celebrating can wait. This is more important.” He pulled up a chair beside Kimi’s bed. “You know, a P4 in your debut race and now again in Qatar as an 18 year old is something to celebrate, Kimi. Don’t let this little hiccup overshadow it.”

George settled into the other chair, his eyes meeting Kimi’s. “He’s right. You were brilliant out there. Aggressive, fast, and you kept your cool under pressure. That’s a rare talent.”

Kimi felt a flicker of warmth spread through him, chasing away the chill of his anxieties. “Thanks,” he mumbled, feeling his cheeks flush again. “It… it was tough. The heat, the car… everything felt so intense.”

Lewis nodded understandingly. “It is. F1 is a different beast. But you tamed it today. Remember that.” He leaned forward, his expression serious. “And don’t be afraid to ask for help, Kimi. We’re all here for you, especially George. He's been through the rookie experience himself most recently.”

George playfully punched Lewis on the arm. “Hey! You’ve been through it too.” He turned back to Kimi, his expression softer. “Seriously though, don't hesitate to reach out. I know what it’s like to feel overwhelmed, we both do. We’ll get you through this.”

Kimi felt a wave of gratitude wash over him. He wasn't as alone as he thought. He had Lewis, who, despite being his predecessor, was offering his support and wisdom. And he had George, a teammate who seemed genuinely willing to guide him.

He looked from Lewis to George, a genuine smile finally breaking through his weariness. "Thanks, guys. It means a lot."

As Lewis and George began to recount anecdotes from their own early racing days, filling the sterile hospital room with laughter and camaraderie, Kimi felt the tension in his shoulders ease. The doubts began to fade, replaced by a renewed sense of determination. He was Kimi Antonelli, a Formula 1 rookie, and he was here to stay. He had a long road ahead, filled with challenges and uncertainties. But he wasn't alone. He had the support of his team, and even more surprisingly, the support of two legends of the sport.

Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd was deafening. A sea of Italian flags painted the grandstands in a vibrant wave of green, white, and red. Kimi Antonelli, all of eighteen years old, gripped the steering wheel of his Mercedes, his heart pounding in sync with the throbbing engine. Imola. His home race. His dream.

Just last year, he was tearing up the Formula 2 circuit, a prodigy whispered about in hushed tones. Then, the bombshell dropped. Lewis Hamilton, the legend, the seven-time world champion, was leaving Mercedes for Ferrari. And Kimi, the rookie, was chosen to fill his seat. The weight of that announcement had settled on his young shoulders, but he’d carried it with a quiet determination.

He'd qualified thirteenth on the grid, not a great start to his home race but made him more determined. The race began with a flurry of adrenaline, a chaotic ballet of carbon fibre and roaring engines. He held his own, battling seasoned veterans, learning with every lap..

Then, on lap 38, it happened. A sudden stutter, a hesitation in the engine's response. He radioed the team, his voice tight with anxiety. They instructed him to try various settings, but the issue persisted. The throttle was sticking, unresponsive. Each corner became a gamble, a terrifying leap of faith.

Finally, on lap 42, approaching the Tamburello chicane, it became impossible. The car lurched forward unexpectedly, forcing him to brake hard and swerve to avoid the wall. He wrestled with the unresponsive machine, but it was no use. The car bogged down, losing power. He coasted to the side of the track, the dream imploding in a cloud of dust and disappointment.

The marshal waved him off, his face sympathetic. Kimi cut the engine, the silence amplifying the crushing weight of failure. He unbuckled, his hands shaking. The world outside his cockpit was a blur of cheering fans, unaware, or perhaps uncaring, of his personal tragedy.

He trudged back to the Mercedes garage, the faces of his team etched with concern. Toto Wolff put a hand on his shoulder, a rare display of outward emotion. "Head up, Kimi. Mechanical fault. Nothing you could have done."

But the words were hollow. He felt the eyes of the entire nation on him, judging him, finding him wanting. He had let them down. He had let his family down, who had sacrificed everything to get him here. He had let Mercedes down, giving him this incredible opportunity.

He mumbled a thank you to Toto and retreated to his driver's room, the sanctuary now a prison. He slammed the door shut, the sound echoing in the small space. And then, he broke.

He sank onto the small sofa, burying his face in his hands. The sobs ripped through him, violent and uncontrollable. He was just a kid, eighteen years old, thrust into the unforgiving world of Formula 1. He was supposed to be the next big thing, the hope of Italy. And he had failed.

~~~~~

The tears streamed down his face, hot and stinging. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He was trapped in a vortex of self-recrimination and despair.

A gentle knock echoed on the door. He ignored it, the sobs shaking his body. He didn't want to see anyone, didn't want to face the pitying glances, the platitudes.

The door creaked open anyway. He didn't look up.

"Kimi?" A hesitant voice.

He remained silent, curling tighter into himself.

He heard the soft click of the door closing, followed by the sound of footsteps approaching.

He finally looked up, his vision blurred by tears. Standing before him was Lewis Hamilton.

His face was etched with a mixture of sadness and understanding. He was no longer a Mercedes driver, a rival, but something more, something akin to a mentor.

Lewis sighed, a sound heavy with experience. He sat down beside Kimi, the sofa dipping under his weight. He didn't say anything, just sat there, offering a quiet, unspoken comfort.

Then, gently, he reached out and pulled Kimi into a hug.

The dam broke. Kimi's sobs intensified, shaking him even harder. He clung to Lewis, burying his face in his shoulder. The warmth and solidity of the older driver were a lifeline in the storm of his emotions.

Lewis just held him, his hand stroking his hair. He murmured soothing words, too low to be clearly understood, but their intent was clear: reassurance, empathy, support.

Slowly, gradually, the sobs began to subside. The violent tremors lessened. Kimi was still crying, but the tears were flowing a little less fiercely.

After what felt like an eternity, Lewis gently eased him back. He kept his arm around Kimi's shoulders, his grip firm and reassuring.

"Okay, kid," Lewis said softly, his voice calm and steady. "Take a breath."

Kimi sniffled, trying to follow his instruction.

"That's it. Just breathe."

He took a few shaky breaths, struggling to regain control.

Lewis waited patiently, his presence a calming anchor in the midst of the storm.

Once Kimi's breathing had evened out, Lewis spoke again, his voice low and gentle.

"It's okay to be upset, Kimi. It's your home race. You had high hopes. Anyone would be devastated."

Kimi shook his head, tears welling up again. "I let everyone down. My family, the team, Italy…"

Lewis squeezed his shoulder. "No, you didn't. Kimi, you've been doing amazing. You're eighteen years old, driving in Formula 1 for Mercedes! You've been outperforming expectations every single race. One little mishap, a mechanical issue, does not erase all that."

"But…" Kimi started, his voice cracking.

Lewis cut him off gently. "No buts. This is Formula 1, Kimi. Things break. Cars fail. It happens to everyone. Even me."

He paused, a flicker of memory crossing his face. "I've had races where I wanted to disappear, where I felt like I'd let everyone down. But you learn from it. You pick yourself up. You come back stronger."

He looked Kimi directly in the eye, his gaze intense and sincere. "Don't let this one race define you. Don't let it crush your spirit. You have so much talent, so much potential Kimi. Don't waste it on self-pity."

Kimi remained silent, listening intently. He could feel the weight of Lewis's experience, the truth in his words.

"You think I haven't faced criticism? You think I haven't made mistakes?" Lewis chuckled softly. "Believe me, I've had my fair share. The key is to learn from them. Analyse what went wrong, understand why, and then move on. You are so good at doing that, you always learn from any mistakes you make. Don't dwell on the past. Focus on the future."

He continued, "Nobody expects you to be perfect, Kimi. They expect you to try your best. They expect you to learn. And they expect you to get back up when you fall."

He paused, studying Kimi's face. "Do you understand?"

Kimi nodded slowly. He was starting to feel a glimmer of hope, a faint light piercing through the darkness.

"Good." Lewis smiled, a warm, genuine smile that reached his eyes. "Now, dry your eyes. Go talk to your team. They're probably worried sick. And remember, this is just one race. There are plenty more to come. You'll get your chance to shine, Kimi. I know you will."

He stood up, his presence still radiating strength and reassurance. "And hey," he added with a wink, "I'll be watching. I'll be cheering you on. Even from Ferrari."

He clapped Kimi on the shoulder one last time and headed towards the door.

Before leaving, he turned back. "And Kimi? Don't ever forget that you belong here. You deserve this. Believe in yourself. That's the most important thing."

He smiled again and slipped out of the room, leaving Kimi alone with his thoughts.

~~~~~

The silence that followed was different this time. It wasn't the oppressive silence of despair, but a quiet hum of reflection. Lewis's words had seeped into his soul, planting seeds of hope and determination.

He wiped his eyes, took a deep breath, and looked around the room. It was still the same small, uninspiring space, but it felt different now. It was a place of recovery, a place to regroup.

He stood up, his legs still a little shaky, and walked to the mirror. He stared at his reflection, at the red-rimmed eyes, the puffy cheeks. He looked like a kid who had just lost his favourite toy.

But he wasn't a kid anymore. He was a Formula 1 driver, a Mercedes driver. And he had a responsibility, not just to himself, but to his team, his family, and his country.

He splashed water on his face, trying to wash away the remnants of the tears. He took another deep breath, squared his shoulders, and opened the door.

He walked out of the room, a new sense of purpose filling his veins. He would face his team, answer their questions, and learn from his mistakes. He would analyse the telemetry, understand what went wrong with the throttle, and work with the engineers to prevent it from happening again.

He would prove to himself, and to the world, that he belonged here. He would show them that he was worthy of the Mercedes seat.

He found Toto and the team huddled around a set of monitors, their faces grim. He walked towards them, his head held high.

"Sorry for taking so long," he said, his voice still a little rough. "I needed a moment."

Toto looked up, his expression softening. "Are you alright, Kimi?"

He nodded, determined. "I will be. I just need to understand what happened."

Chapter Text

The Singapore Grand Prix. They called it the ultimate test of endurance. Kimi Antonelli, all of eighteen years old and barely out of his karting boots, was finding that out the hard way.

He’d dreamt of this moment, of piloting a Mercedes F1 car under the floodlights of Marina Bay, since he was a kid. He'd visualised the roar of the engine, the precision of the turns, the electric thrill of speed. But nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for the brutal reality.

The heat was a physical entity, pressing down on him like a damp, heavy blanket. The humidity clung to him, turning his racing suit into a second skin of sweat. Every muscle screamed in protest with each lap. He fought against the rising tide of nausea, the creeping exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him.

He crossed the finish line in P8, a respectable result for a rookie, but all he could think about was getting out of the infernal machine.

He stumbled out of the car, his legs shaky, his head swimming. He ripped off his helmet and balaclava, gasping for air. The air was thick and heavy, but it was marginally better than the suffocating atmosphere inside the cockpit. He closed his eyes, willing the dizziness to subside. Just breathe, he told himself, just breathe.

He managed to stay upright, leaning heavily against the car. Deep breaths, slow and steady. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the rising panic.

"Kimi, you alright?"

The voice, familiar and laced with concern, cut through the fog in his brain. It was George Russell, his teammate, the seasoned veteran who had taken him under his wing.

Kimi nodded, trying to force a smile. "Yeah, just… hot," he managed to croak out. The Singapore heat was infamous, but it was something else experiencing it firsthand.

As he spoke, a warm trickle ran down his face. He instinctively reached up to wipe it away and his fingers came back red. He blinked, confused.

Then he felt it. The unmistakable gush of blood.

"Oh, for…" he started, exasperated.

"Jesus, Kimi!" George's voice was sharp with alarm. He was beside him in an instant, his blue racing glove cupped under Kimi's nose, catching the rapidly dripping blood.

"Oh my god, George, I'm ruining your beautiful blue gloves," Kimi blurted out, mortification washing over him even amidst the discomfort. He could already imagine the headline: "Rookie Antonelli Bleeds on Russell's Gloves!"

George chuckled nervously. "I'm not worried about the gloves right now, I'm more worried about the fact that you've got a blood nose. Just relax, okay?"

The situation was quickly attracting attention. The mechanics, still buzzing from the race, stopped their work and glanced their way.

Then, another familiar face appeared. Oscar Piastri, McLaren's young star and a surprisingly calm presence in the chaotic paddock.

"Keep his head forward, George," Oscar said, his voice calm and decisive. He gently tilted Kimi's head down. "Best to keep the blood from going down his throat."

George winced. "Right, I knew that," he mumbled, feeling a surge of self-consciousness. He should have known that.

Oscar ignored him, his focus entirely on Kimi. "Someone get the medic!" he yelled, his voice cutting through the noise. He turned back to Kimi, his eyes full of genuine concern. "It's going to be okay, Kimi. It's just a nosebleed. Happens to the best of us in this heat."

Kimi just nodded, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over him. He was grateful for Oscar's calm efficiency and George's unwavering support. But beneath the gratitude, a surge of frustration gnawed at him. He was supposed to be a Formula 1 driver, a machine of precision and speed. Not a sweaty, bleeding rookie.

The medic arrived quickly, a wiry woman with a no-nonsense attitude. She efficiently assessed Kimi, her touch gentle but firm. She packed his nose with gauze and instructed him to keep his head tilted forward.

"Heat exhaustion," she declared, her voice brisk. "You need to hydrate, young man. And get out of that suit."

Kimi nodded, relieved that it was nothing more serious. The blood had already started to slow, and the dizziness was receding. He allowed the medic to guide him towards the Mercedes hospitality unit.

Inside, the atmosphere was a contrast to the chaos of the paddock. Cool air circulated, and a quiet hum of conversation filled the room. He was immediately ushered to a sofa, where he was handed a bottle of ice-cold water. Toto Wolff, the team principal, arrived a moment later, his expression a mixture of concern and curiosity.

"Kimi, how are you feeling?" he asked, his Austrian accent thick.

"Better, Toto. Thanks," Kimi replied, taking a large gulp of water. "Just overheated, I think."

"The Singapore Grand Prix is always a challenge," Toto acknowledged, his eyes scrutinizing Kimi. "But you finished P8. A good result."

Kimi managed a weak smile. He knew it was a good result, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he had let the team down. He wanted to be more than just "good." He wanted to be great.

"We need to monitor you closely, Kimi," Toto continued, his voice firm. "This is your first season, and the physical demands of Formula 1 are significant. We will adjust your training program accordingly."

Kimi nodded, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach. He knew he was under pressure, that every move he made was being scrutinized. He was the youngest driver on the grid, the next big thing, the heir apparent to the Mercedes throne. The expectations were immense, and he felt the weight of them pressing down on him.

Over the next few days, Kimi was subjected to a battery of tests. His hydration levels were monitored, his sleep patterns analysed, his training regime dissected. Every aspect of his life was under the microscope.

He understood the team’s concern. He was an investment, a raw talent that needed to be nurtured and protected. But he also felt like a lab rat, a subject of constant observation.

He missed the freedom he had before he joined Formula 1, the ability to just go out and drive without the constant pressure of expectation. He missed the anonymity, the relative obscurity of the junior categories.

He confided in George, who listened patiently, offering words of encouragement and advice.

"It's tough, mate," George said, leaning back against the sofa in their shared hotel room. "But you'll get used to it. Just remember why you're here. You're here to race, to push yourself to the limit, to achieve your dreams."

George's words resonated with Kimi. He couldn't let the pressure overwhelm him. He had to focus on the driving, on the thrill of the race. He had to prove that he deserved to be here.

He also confided in Oscar, surprisingly. The other young driver was approachable. He was able to give Kimi advice based on experience.

"The media will get to you if you let them," Oscar said. "The pressure is hard, but you deserve to be here, so don't let people tell you different. Believe in yourself, it'll help you get through the tough times."

That night, Kimi lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He knew he had a long road ahead of him, a steep learning curve to navigate. But he also knew that he was capable of anything he set his mind to. He just needed to find his rhythm, to find his confidence, to find his place in this high-stakes world. He was Kimi Antonelli, and he was here to stay. And he would be a force to reckon with.

Chapter Text

The theatre, not with the usual Oscar-night frenzy, but with the high-octane energy of Formula 1. Every driver was here for the premiere the year's most anticipated F1 movie. Riveting crashes, cutthroat rivalries, and behind-the-scenes drama promised to fill two hours of screen time, appealing to both die-hard fans and casual moviegoers.

Kimi Antonelli, the boy wonder of motorsport, felt completely out of his element. At just eighteen, he’d been thrust into the Mercedes seat after Lewis Hamilton's shocking move to Ferrari announcement, a move that sent shockwaves through the sport. He was a rookie, a prodigy, yes, but also undeniably a kid, surrounded by titans he'd only seen on TV a year ago.

The bright lights of the red carpet, the cacophony of camera clicks, the press of unfamiliar faces – it was all a sensory overload. He'd managed to make it through the initial greetings, shaking hands with Toto Wolff and the Mercedes team, and even offering a polite nod to Christian Horner, who eyed him with a mix of curiosity and calculation.

Now, inside the theatre, Kimi was trying to navigate the social minefield of assigned seating. He found his row, a prime spot right in the front, and discovered he was sandwiched between Yuki Tsunoda, the energetic Red Bull driver, and Franco Colapinto, the new Alpine driver. He offered a quick, shy smile to both of them before settling into his plush seat.

The movie started with a roaring engine and a montage of heart-stopping overtakes. Kimi tried to focus, desperately wanting to appear interested and engaged. He knew the cameras were on him, capturing his every reaction. But the combination of pre-premiere nerves, the hum of the air conditioning, and the surprisingly comfortable seat was working against him.

His eyelids felt heavy. He blinked, trying to force them open, but the images on the screen blurred. He was fighting a losing battle. He blinked again, slower this time, and then… darkness. His head, deprived of its battle with gravity, lolled to the right, landing gently on Yuki’s shoulder.

Yuki froze. His eyes widened, nearly popping out of his head. The weight, slight though it was, was unexpected and baffling. He glanced down, saw the mess of dark curls nestled against his racing suit, and his carefully constructed composure shattered. His mind screamed: What the hell is happening?

He was trapped. Trapped between a sleeping teenager and the pressure of appearing cool and collected in front of over half the Formula 1 grid. Panic fluttered in his chest.

He risked a quick, furtive glance around, hoping for a lifeline. Behind him, Liam was practically vibrating with suppressed laughter.

Liam leaned forward, practically invading Yuki’s personal space. “Dude,” he whispered, barely audible over the movie soundtrack. “He’s just asleep, not trying to kill you. Don’t be so tense.”

Yuki’s jaw tightened. “What the fuck do I do?” he hissed back, his voice laced with desperation.

Liam just snorted, shaking his head. “Deal with it,” he mouthed before leaning back, disappearing behind Yuki’s wide shoulders.

Yuki felt abandoned. He was on his own.

But then, movement on the other side of Kimi. Franco, with a quiet grace that belied his fierce on-track persona, carefully shifted Kimi, angling him so he was leaning more comfortably against Yuki’s shoulder. It was a small adjustment, but it made a world of difference to keep Kimi from getting muscle pain.

Lando Norris, the McLaren driver known for his mischievous grin and genuine kindness, leaned over from his seat behind Franco. He ran a hand lightly through Kimi’s dark curls, a soft, playful gesture. Kimi sighed in his sleep, snuggling closer to Yuki.

Lando’s smile softened. He leaned closer to Yuki. "You okay there, dude? Want me to switch places with you?" he whispered.

Yuki, still tense, glanced down at Kimi. The boy looked peaceful, almost innocent, lost in the land of dreams. He took a deep breath, the panic slowly receding.

He looked up at Lando, his voice barely a whisper. "I… I will look after the child."

Lando grinned, clapping Yuki lightly on the shoulder. "Atta boy." He leaned back, catching Fernando’s eye. Fernando, seated between Lando and Liam, had been observing the situation with a quiet amusement, seemingly more interested in the sleeping rookie than the movie unfolding on the screen.

Lando leaned over, whispering in Fernando's ear, "Might get a little nippy in here."

Fernando sighed, a sound that spoke volumes. He was a man of routine, of comfort, and being asked to sacrifice his carefully chosen outfit was clearly a minor inconvenience. But he knew Lando was right. The air conditioning in the theatre was notoriously aggressive, and the last thing they needed was for Kimi to wake up shivering.

With a subtle shrug, Fernando unbuttoned his sleek brown button-up jacket, carefully shrugging it off his shoulders. He gently draped it over Kimi, tucking it around his small frame.

Kimi, still asleep, stirred slightly, burying his face further into Yuki's shoulder. Yuki, surprisingly, didn’t tense this time. He just sat there, a bizarre combination of internal panic and reluctant protectiveness warring within him.

The movie continued to play, explosions thundering on the screen, but for a small group in the front row, the real drama was unfolding in the quiet moments between laps, between the roar of the engine and the flash of the cameras on screen. Kimi Antonelli, the prodigy, was asleep, and a handful of his rivals, some begrudgingly, had become his unlikely guardians.

Fernando leaned back, satisfied that the rookie wouldn't catch a chill despite the air conditioning blasting through the theatre. He subtly adjusted the jacket so it covered Kimi's shoulders more effectively, a small gesture of protection. He wasn't usually one for sentimentality, but something about the situation – the kid's exhaustion, his obvious discomfort with the immense pressure of F1, and the almost panicked look on Yuki's face – had stirred something in him.

The movie continued, explosions and dramatic overtakes filling the screen, but around Kimi, a small, silent drama was unfolding. Yuki, still rigid, occasionally glanced down at the dark head resting on his shoulder. He was acutely aware of the soft weight, the faint scent of something clean and almost childlike that clung to Kimi. He found himself unconsciously adjusting his posture to provide a more comfortable pillow.

Lando, ever the observer, noticed the subtle shift in Yuki's demeanour. He stifled another chuckle and offered a thumbs-up to Fernando, who simply raised an eyebrow in response.

A few rows behind, George, Kimi’s teammate, had been subtly watching the scene unfold. He nudged Carlos on his left, who was engrossed in the film. "Look," George murmured, nodding towards the front row.

Carlos followed his gaze, his lips twitching into a small smile. He understood the pressure Kimi was under. Joining Mercedes straight from lower formulas was a massive jump, and the constant scrutiny, the relentless schedule, were bound to take their toll.

Back in the front row, the tension in Yuki's shoulders seemed to ease ever so slightly. He wasn't sure why, but the small act of kindness from Franco and Lando, the unexpected warmth from Fernando's jacket, had a calming effect. Maybe looking after the kid wasn't so bad after all.

As the movie neared its end, the lights began to dim in preparation for the credits. Kimi stirred slightly, a small groan escaping his lips. Yuki tensed again, unsure of what to do.

Lando, ever the proactive one, leaned forward again. "Hey, Kimi," he murmured softly. "Movie's almost over. Time to wake up, buddy."

Kimi blinked, his eyes fluttering open. He looked around, disoriented, before his gaze landed on Yuki. A look of mortification washed over his face.

"Oh my god," he mumbled, his cheeks flushing crimson. "I am so sorry, Yuki. I didn't mean to…"

Yuki, still a little flustered, waved his hand dismissively. "It's okay. Just tired, right?"

Kimi nodded sheepishly, avoiding eye contact. He caught sight of Fernando's jacket draped over him and his embarrassment deepened.

"Mr. Alonso, I… thank you," he stammered, trying to pull the jacket off.

Fernando stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. “Don’t call me Mr, it makes me feel old. You can keep it. You looked cold. Besides," he added with a hint of a smirk, "it'll probably look better on you than it does on me."

Kimi managed a weak smile. As the lights came up, he quickly folded the jacket and handed it back to Fernando anyway. He mumbled his apologies again to Yuki and Franco before making his way to George who was stood in the aisle waiting for him.

"Sorry I missed the end," he said, a little quieter than usual.

George clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Kimi. We all understand. Just get some rest."

As the theatre emptied, Fernando watched Kimi walk away, a thoughtful expression on his face. He didn't know why he had felt compelled to offer the jacket, but he didn't regret it. He glanced at Yuki, who was still looking slightly bewildered.

"He's got a lot to learn," Fernando said, more to himself than to Yuki. "But he's got potential."

Yuki nodded slowly, still processing the events of the past few hours. Maybe Formula 1 wasn't quite as cutthroat as he thought. Maybe, just maybe, there was room for a little human connection amidst the high-speed drama. And maybe, he wouldn't completely freak out the next time a sleepy rookie decided to use his shoulder as a pillow. The child. He would look after the child - at least for today. He wondered if he'd have to do it again tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd still thrummed in Kimi Antonelli's ears, a chaotic symphony that both excited and overwhelmed him. Just hours ago, he was strapped into the cockpit of a Mercedes Formula 1 car, hurtling around the Albert Park Circuit at speeds that defy comprehension. Now, he was standing in the post-race media pen, the flashing cameras a dizzying strobe against the Australian twilight.

Eighteen years old. Eighteen years old and fourth place in his debut Formula 1 race. It felt surreal.

He answered the questions, the same ones he'd rehearsed a thousand times in his head, the same ones his media coach had drilled into him. "The car felt great," he said, forcing a smile. "The team did an incredible job preparing me. There's still a lot to learn, but I'm happy with the result."

He was tired. The race had been physically and mentally draining. The pressure had been immense. He wanted nothing more than to collapse into a chair and drink a gallon of water.

But the questions kept coming, a barrage from the hungry media pack. "Kimi, what was it like battling with Albon in the last laps?" "Kimi, do you think you can challenge for the championship this season?" "Kimi, how does it feel to be the youngest driver to finish in the points on debut?"

He dodged the championship question with a polite, if vague, response about taking it race by race. He explained how honoured he was to be on the grid with drivers he’d idolised growing up.

Then, a reporter asked, "Kimi, you've had incredible support from Mercedes throughout the junior categories. What would you say is the biggest piece of advice they've given you?"

He hesitated. He couldn't say what Toto Wolff had told him privately, about handling the pressure and staying grounded. Instead, he said, "To just focus on driving. To trust the car and trust the team. And, most importantly, to have fun."

He tried to sound confident, but a tremor of nervousness ran through him. Formula 1 was a shark tank, and he was the new fish in the pond.

Suddenly, his eyes caught on something beyond the sea of reporters. A small group stood just outside the media pen, separated by a thin barrier, but impossible to miss.

Lewis Hamilton. Charles Leclerc. Pierre Gasly. Alex Albon.

They were all watching him.

And they were smiling.

Not the polite, professional smiles he was used to seeing. These were warmer, softer, almost...fond. Proud, even.

His face went instantly hot. He could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks, a blush blooming across his face like a runaway fire. Damn it. He was mortified. He'd always been prone to blushing, a curse he'd thought he’d outgrown, but apparently, the pressure cooker of F1 was bringing it back with a vengeance.

He stumbled over his next sentence, his meticulously crafted answer dissolving into a jumbled mess of words. "Um... uh... it's... great... the advice is great... thanks."

He could feel their eyes on him, and the intensity of their gaze was almost overwhelming. Lewis was giving him a small, almost imperceptible nod of encouragement. Charles was chuckling softly, his smile wide and genuine. Pierre had an arm slung around Alex's shoulder, both of them clearly amused by his flustered state.

He wanted to disappear. To be swallowed whole by the asphalt and never seen again.

The reporter, sensing his discomfort, moved on to the next question, thankfully about the car's setup. He rallied, pulling himself together with a monumental effort of will. He finished the interview in a shy manner, his answers shorter and more concise, his focus solely on getting through it.

As he was finally released from the media pen, he walked quickly towards his debrief with the team, desperate to escape the burning sensation in his cheeks. He risked a quick glance back. They were still there. Still watching. Still smiling.

He rushed into the Mercedes garage, the cool air a welcome relief against his flushed skin. He tried to attribute his reaction to nerves, to fatigue, to the overwhelming sensation of having just completed his first Formula 1 race.

But deep down, he knew it was more than that. Those smiles. Those gazes. They were different. They were… something else.

And he had no idea what it meant.

~~~~~

The debrief was a blur of technical jargon and data analysis. Kimi listened intently, absorbing every detail, trying to pinpoint areas where he could improve. His race engineer, Bono, was patient and thorough, pointing out nuances in his driving that he hadn't even been aware of.

Despite his initial success, Kimi knew he had a mountain to climb. He was surrounded by seasoned veterans, drivers who had been honing their skills for years. He had the raw talent, the speed, but he lacked the experience, the cunning, the ability to read the nuances of a race.

After the debrief, he walked back to his driver's room to change. He stripped off his fireproof suit, feeling the sweat clinging to his skin. He caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked young. Too young. He wondered if anyone would ever take him seriously.

He slumped onto the couch, running a hand through his already tousled hair. The weight of expectation was crushing him. He was the chosen one, the next big thing, the driver who was supposed to bring Mercedes back to the top, to replace Lewis Hamilton. But what if he failed? What if he couldn't live up to the hype?

He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his messages. His parents had sent him a flurry of excited texts. His friends back in Italy were already planning a massive celebration. He smiled, a genuine smile this time. Their support meant the world to him.

He saw a new notification. It was from Lewis.

“Great drive today, Kimi. P4 is a fantastic result. Welcome to F1.”

He stared at the message for a long time. A wave of warmth washed over him. It was just a simple message, but it meant so much. He typed back a quick reply, thanking Lewis for his support.

He debated whether to mention the smiles, the gazes, the awkward encounter in the media pen. But he decided against it. He didn't want to make things weird.

He put his phone down and closed his eyes. He needed to sleep. He needed to clear his head. He needed to prepare for the next race.

But as he drifted off to sleep, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. Not in a creepy way, but in a watchful, protective way.

And he couldn't help but wonder why.

~~~~~

The time between the Australian Grand Prix and the Chinese Grand Prix felt like a lifetime. Kimi spent hours in the simulator, learning the track, perfecting his lines, trying to shave off fractions of a second. He worked with the engineers, analysing data, exploring different setups.

He also spent time with his trainer, pushing his body to its limits, building the strength and endurance he needed to survive the gruelling demands of Formula 1.

During the lunch break after FP1, he was sitting in the Mercedes hospitality unit, scrolling through his tablet, when he heard a familiar voice.

"Mind if I join you?"

He looked up. It was Charles Leclerc.

His heart skipped a beat. He tried to keep his composure. "Uh, sure. Please."

Charles pulled up a chair and sat down, a friendly smile on his face.

"How's everything going?" he asked.

"Good. Really good. I'm learning a lot," Kimi replied, trying to sound casual.

"You looked quick in Melbourne," Charles said. "P4 in your debut race is impressive."

"Thanks," Kimi mumbled, feeling his cheeks heat up again.

"Don't let the pressure get to you," Charles said, his voice softening. "It's easy to get caught up in the hype but just focus on your driving. Enjoy it."

"I'm trying," Kimi said, honestly.

Charles took a sip of his water. "You have a lot of talent, Kimi. Don't waste it."

He paused, then added, "And if you ever need anything, you know where to find me."

He winked, then got up and walked away, leaving Kimi speechless.

What was that all about? Why was Charles being so...nice? He had a feeling it wasn't just kindness. There was something else there, something unspoken.

He watched Charles walk back to the Ferrari garage, then turned his attention back to his tablet. But his mind was racing. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being drawn into something bigger than himself, something he didn't fully understand.

~~~~~

The next day, a couple hours before FP3, Alex Albon approached him in the paddock.

"Hey Kimi, fancy a coffee?" Alex asked, his ever-present grin radiating warmth.

Kimi, surprised, agreed. They walked to a nearby coffee stand, Alex placing the order.

"So, Melbourne," Alex started, after taking a sip. "Impressive. Really threw down the gauntlet for a rookie."

"Just trying to learn as fast as possible," Kimi replied, feeling a bit more comfortable around Alex than he did with Charles. Alex had always seemed approachable, down-to-earth, especially as he was George’s best friend.

"You've got a good head on your shoulders," Alex said. "Listen to your engineers, trust your instincts, and don't let the politics get to you. This paddock can be a viper's nest."

Kimi nodded. He'd already seen glimpses of that.

"But," Alex continued, lowering his voice slightly, "don't be afraid to lean on us old timers." He chuckled. "Lewis, Charles, Pierre, George... we've all been where you are. We know the drill."

Kimi raised an eyebrow. "And why would you guys want to help me?"

Alex shrugged. "Maybe we're just feeling sentimental. Maybe we see a bit of ourselves in you. Maybe," he grinned, "we just want to see if we can turn you into a proper F1 driver."

Kimi laughed. "I appreciate that. But I don't want to be a burden."

"Don't be ridiculous. We're racers, Kimi. We respect talent. And you've got plenty of it." He clapped Kimi on the shoulder. "Just remember, you're not alone in this."

That conversation stayed with Kimi throughout the rest of the day. He started to see the paddock in a different light. Maybe it wasn't just a cutthroat competition. Maybe there was also a sense of camaraderie, a shared understanding of the pressures and challenges of Formula 1.

He started to pay more attention to the interactions between the drivers. He noticed Lewis offering advice to George after a session. He saw Pierre chatting animatedly with Yuki in the garage. He observed Fernando giving Oscar a knowing nod after qualifying.

The paddock was a complex ecosystem, a delicate balance of rivalry and respect. And he was starting to find his place within it.

~~~~~

The Qualifying and race were a different beast entirely. The pressure was immense. The entire world was watching him, waiting to see if he could repeat his Melbourne performance.

He tried to block out the noise, to focus on the task at hand. But the pressure was relentless.

During qualifying, he made a mistake, locking up his brakes at one point. He qualified P8, a disappointing result.

He was furious with himself. He knew he could have done better. He knew he had let the pressure get to him.

He walked back to the Mercedes garage, head hung low. He could feel the eyes of the crowd burning into him.

He saw Lewis standing near the entrance to the garage, his Ferrari red suit standing out. He looked concerned.

"Rough session?" Lewis asked, his voice gentle.

Kimi nodded, not meeting his eye.

"Don't beat yourself up too much," Lewis said. "China is a tough track. Qualifying here can be tricky."

"I know, but I messed up," Kimi said, his voice laced with frustration.

Lewis stepped closer, putting a hand on Kimi's shoulder. "Listen, everyone makes mistakes. It's how you respond to them that matters. Tomorrow is the race. That's where you can make amends."

He paused, then added, "Don't let the pressure get to you. Remember why you're here. Remember the joy of driving."

Kimi looked up, finally meeting Lewis's gaze. He saw genuine concern in his eyes.

"Thanks, Lewis," Kimi said, feeling a flicker of hope.

"Anytime, Kimi. We're all in this together."

As Lewis walked away, Kimi felt a surge of determination. He wasn't going to let one mistake define him. He was going to fight back. He was going to show everyone what he was capable of.

~~~~~

The race was a chaotic affair. Kimi drove with a maturity beyond his years. He kept his cool, managed his tires, and navigated the track  with precision, ending P6, a good result.

As he climbed out of the car, he saw Lewis, Charles, Pierre, and Alex leaving their own, helmets off. They were all smiling, cheering, giving him thumbs up.

He felt a wave of gratitude wash over him. These were his rivals, his competitors, but they were also his mentors, his allies, his friends.

He walked over to them, his face beaming.

"Good job, Kimi," Lewis said, clapping him on the back. "That was an impressive drive."

"You were fantastic out there," Charles added. "You really showed your talent."

"I almost had you," Alex said, grinning. "But you were too quick."

"Don't worry, I'll get you next time too," Kimi replied shyly.

Alex put an arm around Kimi's shoulder. "Welcome to Formula 1, kid. You're one of us now."

Kimi looked at them, his heart swelling with emotion. He was finally starting to understand. These gazes, these smiles, they weren't just about pride or fondness. They were about acceptance.

He was accepted into a community, a brotherhood, a family of racers. And he was ready to embrace it, with all its challenges, its pressures, and its incredible rewards.

He still blushed, of course. He still got flustered and shy around them. He was still young, still learning.

But he knew, deep down, that he wasn't alone.

And that made all the difference in the world.

Chapter Text

Racing was everything to Kimi. It had been since he could barely reach the pedals in his first go-kart. But it was also pressure, relentless and unforgiving. To unwind, to silence the roaring engines in his head, Kimi had an escape. A secret.

He closed the door of his hotel suite, the plush carpet absorbing the sounds of the busy city. A sigh of relief escaped his lips. Finally, quiet. He shrugged off his Mercedes team jacket, the crisp white fabric feeling almost suffocating.

In the corner of the room, bathed in the soft glow of a standing lamp, stood his easel. A canvas, nearly complete, was propped up against it. He smiled. This was his sanctuary. It was a tradition after media day, leading into the race weekend.

Kimi approached the canvas, his gaze softening. It was George. George Russell, his teammate, mentor, (his big brother in a way) and the subject of his current artistic endeavour. The painting captured George's iconic "T-pose" atop his car, a victory stance after his shocking win at the Austrian Grand Prix. Kimi had been captivated by the sheer joy radiating from the photograph he'd used as reference.

He’d already blocked out the major shapes, capturing the angular lines of the car and the powerful silhouette of George himself. Now, he focused on the details. The matte black of the race suit, the way it clung to every muscle. The vibrant blue of the helmet and gloves, a splash of colour against the monochrome backdrop. He added subtle highlights, exaggerating the way the light caught the fabric, injecting a personal touch that transformed the image from a mere copy into something uniquely his.

Painting wasn't about fame or recognition. It was about control. About finding the beauty in the chaos. It was about the quiet satisfaction of creating something from nothing. He had a collection of these pieces back home in Imola, a secret gallery of Formula 1 history rendered in oils and acrylics. Iconic moments, forgotten heroes, and even a few portraits, all captured through his own artistic lens. No one had ever seen them, save for the digital copies he kept in a hidden album on his phone.

He dipped his brush into a pool of ultramarine and carefully painted the visor of George’s helmet, capturing the faint reflection of the crowd. He lost himself in the work, the world outside the hotel room fading away. The sounds of Monaco, the pressure of the upcoming race, all evaporated as he focused on the strokes of his brush.

An hour, maybe more, passed. Time became fluid, irrelevant. He was a conductor, manipulating colours and textures to create his own symphony on the canvas.

Suddenly, a sharp rap on the door jolted him back to reality. He instinctively flinched, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. He quickly placed his brush on the tray, shrugged off his paint-splattered apron, and took a deep breath. Who could it be?

He opened the door, and his breath caught in his throat.

Standing there, grinning casually, was George Russell.

“Sorry, mate,” George said, stepping past Kimi without waiting for an invitation. “The air con is out in my room, which is ridiculous considering it’s a five-star hotel, but I don't want to fry, so I’m going to chill he-“

He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening as they landed on the canvas in the corner of the room. The grin vanished from his face, replaced by an expression of utter surprise and, Kimi thought with a sinking feeling, a hint of something else he couldn't quite decipher.

George's sentence hung in the air, unfinished. His eyes were glued to the canvas, his grin slowly fading into a look of stunned disbelief. Kimi felt a wave of panic and embarrassment wash over him. He instinctively moved to block George's view, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"Uh, George," Kimi stammered, "what are you doing here?"

George, however, was oblivious. He took a few steps closer to the painting, his eyes scanning every detail. "Is… is that… me?" he finally asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Kimi knew there was no point in denying it, it was very obviously George. He shifted uncomfortably, his cheeks burning. "Yeah," he mumbled, "It's, uh… it's a painting."

George let out a low whistle. "A painting? Kimi, this is incredible!" He turned to face the younger driver, his eyes wide with genuine admiration. "You painted this? Seriously?"

Kimi shrugged, trying to downplay the situation. "It's just a hobby. Something I do to relax."

George wasn't buying it. He walked closer to the painting, running a hand lightly over the textured brushstrokes. "Relax? This is way beyond a hobby, Kimi. This is… this is art. The way you've captured the light on the helmet, the intensity in the blue… it's amazing."

Kimi suddenly felt incredibly exposed. He'd always kept his painting a secret, afraid of what people would think. Now, here was George Russell, one of the most respected drivers on the grid, practically gushing over his work.

"I, uh… I have a few others," Kimi admitted, his voice barely audible. "Just… iconic moments from F1. Stirling Moss at Monza, Senna at Donington…"

George's eyes lit up. "You've got more? Can I see them?"

Kimi hesitated. Showing someone his work felt incredibly vulnerable, like stripping bare a part of himself he usually kept hidden. But the genuine excitement in George's voice, the undeniable appreciation in his eyes, was disarming.

"They're at my place in Imola," Kimi said, reluctantly. "I have photos on my phone, though."

He pulled out his phone, his fingers fumbling slightly as he opened the album. He braced himself, expecting George to lose interest, to realize it was all just a silly infatuation. But instead, George was captivated. He scrolled through the photos, his face animated with enthusiasm.

"Wow," he breathed, "This is incredible. The Prost-Senna collision at Suzuka! The Schumacher jump at Eau Rouge! You've captured the essence of these moments so perfectly. The tension, the drama… It's unbelievable."

He stopped at a photo of a painting depicting Niki Lauda’s Ferrari engulfed in flames at the Nürburgring. "The emotion you've conveyed here is almost tangible. It's hauntingly beautiful."

Kimi, emboldened by George’s genuine praise, felt a flicker of confidence. Maybe his painting wasn’t just a silly hobby. Maybe it was something more.

"I never show them to anyone," Kimi confessed. "I just… I thought people would laugh. Or think it was weird."

George shook his head emphatically. "Weird? Kimi, this is amazing! You have a real talent. You should show these to the world. Seriously."

He paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "You know, we have a team building exercise coming up next month. Art therapy, apparently. Maybe you could… I don't know, give a demonstration? Show the others your work?"

Kimi's eyes widened in horror. "Absolutely not! I can't… I can't do that." The thought of showing his vulnerability to the entire Mercedes team, especially Toto Wolff, was terrifying.

"Just think about it," George urged, his voice soft. "You don't have to decide now. But you have a gift, Kimi. Don't hide it away."

The air in the room suddenly felt different. The tension had eased, replaced by a strange sense of camaraderie. George's initial reason for being there – escaping the broken air conditioning – seemed insignificant now.

George grinned again, a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes. "So, about that air conditioning," he said, winking. "You wouldn't happen to have a spare couch I could use, would you?"

Kimi chuckled, feeling the weight on his shoulders lighten. "I think I can manage that. But no staring at the painting all night."

As George settled onto the sofa, Kimi couldn't help but steal a glance at the painting of him standing triumphantly on his car. He felt a surge of pride, mixed with a healthy dose of nervousness. Maybe, just maybe, he could let go of his fear and share his passion with the world.

Chapter Text

The roar of the Australian crowd was deafening, a tidal wave of sound crashing over Kimi Antonelli as he navigated his way through the paddock. At eighteen, he was the youngest driver on the Formula One grid, a rookie sensation thrust into the pressure cooker of Mercedes AMG Petronas. His first race, here at Albert Park, felt surreal, a dream teetering on the edge of reality.

He tugged at the collar of his silver race suit, the heat already building even before he stepped into the cockpit. The cameras followed him like hungry predators, their lenses reflecting the anxiety swirling within him. He'd spent years honing his skills in karting and feeder series, pushing his limits, sacrificing everything. Now, the world was watching.

Toto Wolff, the Mercedes team principal, clapped him on the shoulder, his gaze sharp but reassuring. "Relax, Kimi. You've earned this. Just drive your race, focus on the car, and trust your instincts."

Kimi nodded, trying to absorb the words. Trust his instincts. Easier said than done when every corner felt like a potential disaster, every overtake a risk that could jeopardize his entire career.

Qualifying had been a mixed bag. He'd managed P16, but he knew he could have done better. The pressure to prove himself, to justify Mercedes' faith in him, was immense.

As he climbed into the cockpit, the familiar scent of fuel and rubber filled his nostrils. He buckled in, the straps tightening around him like a comforting embrace. This was it. This was what he'd worked for his entire life.

The race was a blur of adrenaline and precision. Kimi fought hard, battling seasoned veterans, navigating the treacherous corners of Australia with a mix of boldness and caution due to the rain. He made a few mistakes, locked up his brakes once, and momentarily lost control and spun but he recovered quickly.

By the final lap, he was running in P5, a remarkable achievement for a rookie in his first race. He crossed the finish line P4 with a surge of elation, the cheers of the crowd washing over him once more. He'd done it. He'd survived.

The post-race interviews were a whirlwind of questions and flashing lights. Kimi tried to answer as best he could, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and excitement. He felt a surge of pride, but also a nagging sense of self-doubt. He knew he had a long way to go, this was just one race.

~~~~~

The celebrations were subdued. Kimi was still too new, too unproven, to warrant wild fanfare. He joined the team for a quiet dinner, grateful for the normalcy of the atmosphere. Toto reiterated his encouragement, pointing out areas where he could improve.

Exhausted, Kimi retreated to his hotel room. He scrolled through his phone, a mixture of congratulatory messages and critical comments flooding his notifications. He ignored them, trying to shut out the noise and focus on the present moment.

He took a shower, letting the hot water wash away the grime and stress of the race. As he wrapped himself in a towel, he heard a knock on the door. He glanced at the time – almost midnight. Frowning, he opened the door a crack.

A man stood there, someone he didn't recognize. He was tall and burly, with a slicked-back hairstyle and a predatory glint in his eyes.

"Kimi Antonelli, right?" the man asked, his voice rough.

Kimi hesitated. "Yes?"

"Big fan," the man said, his tone insincere. "Heard you had a good race today."

"Thank you," Kimi replied, feeling uneasy.

"Mind if I come in for a quick chat?" the man asked, pushing the door slightly.

Kimi instinctively stepped back. "I'm kind of tired. Maybe another time?"

The man's smile vanished. "Don't be like that, kid. I just want to congratulate you properly." He pushed harder on the door.

Kimi resisted, his heart pounding in his chest. "I'm really not interested. Please, leave."

The man's grip tightened on the door. "Come on, Antonelli. Don't be shy." He forced the door open further, shoving Kimi backwards into the room.

Kimi stumbled, fear surging through him as he hurriedly tightened his grip on the towel wrapped around his waist. The man stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He was much bigger than Kimi, his presence filling the small space.

"What do you want?" Kimi asked, his voice trembling.

The man smirked. "Just a little bit of your time, kid. You owe it to your fans, right?" He took a step closer, his eyes raking over Kimi's body.

Kimi knew he was in trouble. He was alone, vulnerable, and this man clearly had bad intentions. He tried to keep his voice steady. "Please, just leave. I'll call security.”

The man laughed, a harsh, guttural sound. "Security? You think they'll believe you? It's just you and me now, kid." He reached out and grabbed Kimi's arm, his grip tight and painful.

Kimi struggled, trying to pull away. "Let go of me!"

The man pulled him closer, his breath hot and stale on Kimi's face. "Don't fight it, kid. You'll like it."

Kimi screamed, a desperate cry for help. He kicked and struggled, but the man was too strong. He felt a wave of panic wash over him, the realization that he was truly in danger.

~~

Fortunately, Kimi wasn't as alone as he thought.

Lando Norris, who was staying in the room next to Kimi, heard the commotion through the thin hotel walls. He’d been playing video games, but the raised voices and Kimi’s scream cut through the digital noise. He bolted to his feet, a cold dread gripping his chest.

Without hesitation, Lando wrenched open his door and sprinted towards Kimi's room. He could hear the muffled sounds of a struggle, and his heart hammered in his chest. He didn't know what was happening, but he knew he had to intervene.

As Lando reached Kimi’s door, he heard another voice – George Russell, who was down the hallway. George, ever the responsible teammate, had been checking up on Kimi when he heard the commotion. The two of them simultaneously threw themselves against the door, the flimsy lock giving way with a splintering crack.

The scene inside was horrifying. The man had Kimi pinned against the wall, his hand clamped over Kimi’s mouth. Kimi’s eyes were wide with terror, pleading for help, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.

Lando reacted instantly, propelled by adrenaline and a fierce protectiveness. He launched himself at the man, tackling him with a force that surprised even himself. George joined the fray, landing a solid punch to the man’s jaw.

The man, caught off guard, stumbled backwards, releasing Kimi. He roared in anger, turning his attention to Lando and George.

"Get out of here, you little shits!” he snarled, swinging wildly.

Lando, despite his smaller frame, was surprisingly agile. He dodged the man’s clumsy placed attacks and landed a few well- punches of his own. George, with his boxing experience, was more methodical, delivering controlled blows that quickly wore the man down.

The fight was short and brutal. The man, realizing he was outnumbered and outmatched, decided to cut his losses. He shoved Lando and George aside and scrambled towards the door.

“You haven’t seen the last of me!” he yelled, before disappearing into the hallway.

Lando and George, panting and bruised, turned their attention to Kimi. He was slumped against the wall, shaking uncontrollably. His face was pale, and tears streamed down his cheeks.

"Kimi, are you okay?" Lando asked, his voice filled with concern.

George knelt beside Kimi, his expression gentle. "We got him, Kimi. You're safe now."

Kimi didn't respond, his body wracked with sobs. Lando carefully pulled him into a hug, holding him tight. He could feel Kimi trembling in his arms.

Kimi clutched Lando’s arm, burying his face in Lando’s shoulder. “H-He tried to-.”

“I know kiddo, I know.” Lando held him tighter while George rushed further inside the room and grabbed clothes. He knelt beside Kimi and Lando, Lando helping him to quickly dress Kimi without looking.

Once Kimi was dressed, Lando pulled him back down into his lap while George stepped outside to call the police.

~~~~~

The police arrived quickly. Lando and George gave their statements, describing the man and what had happened. They were commended for their bravery, but their main concern was Kimi.

He was taken to the hospital for a check-up. He had a few bruises and scratches, but thankfully, no serious injuries. The emotional trauma, however, was significant.

Toto arrived at the hospital, his face etched with worry. He spoke to Kimi privately, assuring him that he had the full support of the team. He offered him time off, counselling, and whatever else he needed to recover.

Kimi was grateful for Toto's support, but he was determined to race. He didn't want to let this incident define him, to let fear control his life. He wanted to prove that he was stronger than this.

The next few days were difficult. Kimi struggled to sleep, plagued by nightmares. He felt constantly on edge, fearing that the man would return. But he refused to give in.

Lando and George stayed by his side, offering their friendship and support. They understood what he was going through, having experienced their own share of challenges in the cutthroat world of Formula One. They talked, they laughed, they distracted him with video games and silly jokes. Slowly, Kimi began to heal.

The race weekend in China arrived. The atmosphere was electric, the streets buzzing with excitement. Kimi felt a surge of anxiety as he entered the paddock, the memory of the attack still fresh in his mind.

But he also felt a renewed sense of determination. He had a point to prove, not just to himself, but to everyone who had doubted him. He wanted to show them that he was more than just a rookie, more than just a survivor. He was a racer.

Chapter Text

Kimi missed his family. He missed the familiar chaos of his childhood bedroom, the comfort of his dog, the smell of his mother's cooking. He was alone in this sterile hotel room, the silence amplifying the doubts that whispered in his ear. Was he good enough? Could he handle this pressure? What if this was his peak, and it was all downhill from here?

He glanced at the clock. 1:47 AM. He’d been trying to sleep for hours, a desperate, losing battle against his racing mind. Desperation, a feeling he was quickly becoming acquainted with in the cutthroat world of Formula One, gnawed at him.

He knew what he had to do, though it was embarrassing.

With a sigh, he threw off the covers, pulled on a Mercedes hoodie, and crept out into the hallway. Number 6 was his room. Number 8, just a few doors down, was occupied by George Russell, his Mercedes teammate and, more importantly, a friendly face in this overwhelming circus.

He hesitated outside the door, his knuckles hovering, suddenly embarrassed. George was an adult. He had a life. He probably didn’t want to be bothered by a sleepless rookie at this hour. But the alternative – another sleepless night alone with his anxieties – was worse.

Taking a deep breath, Kimi knocked.

The door swung open almost instantly, revealing a scene that made his stomach plummet. George stood there, grinning, holding a controller, but he wasn't alone. Lando, Oscar, and Pierre were sprawled on the floor, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and energy drink cans. A racing game blared from the television.

“Kimi! What’s up?” George’s welcoming smile faltered slightly as he registered Kimi’s sheepish expression. “Everything okay?”

Kimi's carefully constructed facade of maturity crumbled. “Um, hi,” he mumbled, shuffling his feet. “Sorry to bother you. I was… I was just having trouble sleeping. I heard some noise and… I thought I’d say hi.”

He wanted the floor to swallow him whole. He’d completely misread the situation. This was private time, a rare moment of camaraderie amidst the fierce competition of the track. He was intruding and that was even more embarrassing.

"Trouble sleeping?" Lando piped up, his trademark mischievous grin softened with concern. “Race hangover, eh? Happens to the best of us.”

Oscar nodded sympathetically. “Monza is tough. The adrenaline keeps you wired for ages.”

Pierre, ever the gentleman, stood up. "Come in, Kimi. Plenty of room."

Kimi’s face burned. "No, no, it's alright. I'll just… I'll just go back to my room. Sorry again." He turned to leave, mortified.

"Wait!" George's voice stopped him. He stepped closer, his hand gently grabbing Kimi’s. "Look, don't be silly. Come on in. We're just messing around. But if you're having trouble sleeping… is it, like, a bad dream thing? Because we can totally help with that."

Kimi hesitated. He didn't want to burden them. But the warmth in George's voice was strangely comforting.

"It's just… I feel a bit… overwhelmed," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Being alone in that room where it’s so empty and quiet… it just makes it worse."

George’s expression softened. "I get it. Look, how about this? You can crash in here, on the couch. We won’t be too loud but there will be some noise, and you can just… be here. With us."

The invitation was surprisingly genuine. Kimi peeked past George. Lando, Oscar, and Pierre were all looking at him with varying degrees of concern and understanding.

He swallowed hard. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Absolutely sure,” George insisted, ushering him into the room. “Come on. We'll get you settled.”

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. The energy drink-fuelled banter died down, replaced by a surprising wave of attentiveness.

"Right," Lando declared, clapping his hands together. "Operation Get Kimi to Sleep is now in effect." Kimi’s cheeks tinted pink.

Oscar grabbed a throw blanket from the armchair and meticulously folded it into a comfortable pillow. "Head here," he instructed, patting the spot on the couch.

Pierre, ever the practical one, dimmed the lights and turned off the television. "Less stimulation," he explained. "Good for the brain."

George rummaged through a drawer and pulled out another light blanket. "This will keep you warm," he added, draping it over Kimi.

Kimi felt a lump forming in his throat. He was surrounded by some of the fiercest competitors on the grid, rivals who would fight tooth and nail for every tenth of a second on the track. And yet, here they were, doting on him like he was a lost puppy.

He sat down on the couch, overwhelmed by the unexpected kindness. "Thank you," he mumbled, feeling incredibly grateful.

Lando sat down next to him, bouncing his leg nervously. "So, what's keeping you up? Thinking about the race? That crazy overtake on Alonso?"

Kimi shook his head. "It's just… everything. The pressure. The expectations. Knowing everyone is watching."

"Yeah, that's tough," Lando said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "But you're doing great, Kimi. You got on P4 today. That's huge."

"He's right," Oscar added. "You're incredibly talented. Don't let the pressure get to you."

Pierre chimed in, "Remember to breathe, Kimi. Focus on what you can control. The rest will fall into place."

George knelt down beside the couch, his eyes level with Kimi. "Look, we all get it. This is a crazy world. But you're not alone. We're all here. We've all been through it. If you ever need to talk, just… talk."

Kimi nodded, feeling a wave of warmth wash over him. These guys understood. They knew what it was like to carry the weight of expectation, to navigate the treacherous waters of Formula One.

George squeezed his shoulder. "Okay, enough pep talk. Let's get this rookie to sleep."

He grabbed a bottle of water from the side table and handed it to Kimi. "Drink this. Helps calm you down."

Lando started humming a soft, almost tuneless melody. "My mum used to sing this to me when I couldn't sleep," he explained sheepishly.

Oscar picked up a book and started reading aloud in a soothing voice. It was a children's book, something about a lost teddy bear.

Pierre sat quietly in the corner, his presence a comforting anchor.

Kimi closed his eyes, letting the gentle sounds and the feeling of genuine care wash over him. The tension in his shoulders gradually began to ease. The racing thoughts began to slow.

He felt safe. He felt… protected.

Within minutes, Kimi's breathing deepened. His body relaxed. He was asleep.

George looked at the others, a soft smile on his face. "He's out."

Lando stopped humming, his cheeks flushed. "Did it work?"

Oscar closed the book. "He's definitely asleep. He was out like a light."

Pierre nodded approvingly. "Good work, everyone. He needed that."

They all sat in silence for a moment, the unspoken understanding hanging in the air. They were rivals on the track, but off the track, they were a brotherhood. They understood the unique pressures and challenges of their profession, and they looked out for each other, especially the rookies.

George carefully adjusted the blanket around Kimi's shoulders. "He's got a bright future," he murmured. "He just needs a little help sometimes, reminding him he's not alone."

Lando grinned. "He's going to be a nightmare on the track though. He doesn't back down from anything."

Oscar chuckled. "That's for sure. But at least now we know he's a softie on the inside."

Pierre turned off the remaining light. "Let's keep it down, guys. He needs his rest."

Chapter Text

The air in Monaco thrummed with energy. The streets were a kaleidoscope of flashing lights, the roar of engines a distant echo replaced by the chatter of tourists and the clinking of glasses. Kimi, dressed casually in jeans and a plain t-shirt, felt surprisingly anonymous amongst the revelry.

He met George, Lando, Oscar, and Carlos at a trendy restaurant overlooking the harbor. The conversation flowed easily, a mix of friendly banter and insightful analysis of the season so far. They talked about racing lines, tire degradation, and the challenges of adapting to the new regulations. But they also talked about girls, music, and the pressures of living in the spotlight.

For Kimi, it was a welcome respite. He was often perceived as reserved, even aloof. The weight of expectation, the burden of being "the next big thing," often left him feeling isolated. These were his rivals on the track, but tonight, they were just mates, sharing a meal and a moment of normalcy.

After dinner, they wandered through the city, drawn by the pulsating rhythm of a nearby club. The neon lights painted their faces in vibrant hues as they walked, laughing and jostling each other like teenagers.

As they rounded a corner, a high-pitched screech cut through the night. A small hatchback, driven erratically, careened towards them, its headlights blinding.

"Look out!" George yelled, shoving Oscar out of the way.

Kimi didn't have time to react.

The car slammed into him, a brutal, sickening thud. He felt a searing pain explode in his leg, his body thrown violently against the cobblestones. The car, without slowing, roared off into the night, disappearing into the maze of Monaco streets.

For a moment, there was only silence, broken only by Kimi's ragged breathing. Then, chaos erupted.

George was kneeling beside him, his face etched with concern. "Kimi! Kimi, can you hear me?"

Lando was on the phone, barking instructions to the emergency services. Oscar was pale, his eyes wide with shock. Carlos was frantically trying to flag down a passing car, desperate for help.

Kimi blinked, his vision swimming. Pain throbbed through his leg, sharp and insistent. He tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea washed over him.

"Don't move, Kimi," George said, his voice firm. "Just stay still. Help is on its way, you’re going to be okay."

He felt a hand on his shoulder, a comforting pressure. He looked up and saw Carlos, his expression grim. "They're coming, Kimi. Just hang in there."

The next few minutes were a blur. The wail of sirens grew louder, closer. Faces swam into focus – paramedics with concerned expressions, policemen taking statements. They carefully immobilized him, securing him to a spinal board. The pain medication kicked in, dulling the sharp edges of his agony.

As they lifted him into the ambulance, Kimi saw George, Lando, Oscar, and Carlos standing together, their faces a mixture of relief and worry. George gave him a weak smile. "We'll see you at the hospital, Kimi. You're going to be okay."

The doors slammed shut, and the ambulance sped away, its sirens piercing the night. Kimi closed his eyes, the image of the speeding car burned into his mind. He was a Formula One driver, used to pushing his body to the limits, to flirting with danger at every turn. But this was different. This was senseless, brutal, terrifying and something he had no control over.

~~~~~

He woke up in a sterile white room, the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor his constant companion. His leg was encased in a cast, radiating a dull, throbbing pain. He tried to move, but a sharp jolt reminded him of his limitations.

A nurse entered the room, her smile warm and reassuring. "Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling, Kimi?"

"Sore," he croaked, his throat dry. "What happened?"

"You were in an accident," she said gently. "A hit-and-run. You're lucky to be alive. You have a fractured tibia and a few minor injuries, but you'll recover."

The weight of her words settled upon him. A fractured tibia. Monaco was in three days. His season, his chance to prove himself, might be over before it had even begun.

Toto appeared in the doorway, his face grave. He walked over to the bed and pulled up a chair.

"Kimi," he said, his voice low. "How are you?"

"I'll be fine," Kimi replied, despite the gnawing doubt in his gut. "But Monaco..."

Toto held up a hand. "Don't worry about Monaco. You are like a son to me Kimi, your health is the priority. We'll deal with the racing later."

Kimi searched his face, trying to gauge his true feelings. He knew Toto well enough to know that behind the calm facade lay a ruthless competitor. Toto had invested heavily in him, and this injury was a major setback.

"What about a replacement?" Kimi asked, the words heavy with dread.

Toto sighed. "We're considering our options. We have reserves, experienced drivers who can step in like Bottas. But we're not worrying about that yet. Focus on your recovery. That's all that matters right now."

He knew what that meant. His seat was in jeopardy. Every day he spent sidelined was an opportunity for someone else to prove themselves, to take his place in the Mercedes lineup.

Alone in the sterile hospital room, Kimi felt a wave of despair wash over him. He had dedicated his entire life to racing. He had sacrificed everything for this opportunity. And now, it might all be slipping away, not on the track, but in a senseless, random act of violence.

~~~~~

The following days were a blur of medical examinations, physiotherapy sessions, and endless hours alone in his hospital room. He replayed the accident in his mind, searching for answers, for some sense of reason in the chaos. But there was none.

He received a steady stream of visitors. His parents, flown in from Italy by Mercedes, hovered anxiously, their faces etched with worry. His engineers, led by Peter Bonnington, updated him on the team's progress and brought him reports to analyse. He forced himself to focus, to pretend that everything was still normal, but the pretence was exhausting.

George, surprisingly, visited every day, bringing him magazines, books, and updates from the paddock. He was supportive, encouraging, and genuinely concerned. Kimi appreciated his presence, but he couldn't shake the feeling that George was also aware of the opportunity this presented. He was now the sole Mercedes driver, the one carrying the team's hopes, the one in the spotlight.

Lando, Oscar, and Carlos also came, their banter light and reassuring. They brought him gifts, told him jokes, and reminded him of the camaraderie of the racing world. Their visits were a welcome distraction, a reminder that he wasn't alone.

One evening, a different visitor arrived. It was Lewis Hamilton. He stood in the doorway, his expression serious.

"Kimi," he said, his voice soft. "How are you holding up?"

Kimi was surprised. He hadn’t really known Lewis while in the junior program but they had become closer throughout the last year. He had always looked up to him, respecting his talent and his impact on the sport.

"I'm okay," Kimi replied, his voice hesitant. "Just… trying to process everything."

Lewis nodded. "It's tough. I know what it's like to face adversity. To have your dreams threatened."

He pulled up a chair and sat beside Kimi's bed. "Look, I know you're feeling down right now. But don't let this break you. You have talent, Kimi. Raw talent. Don't let this take that away from you."

He spoke about his own struggles, the challenges he had faced, the moments when he had almost given up. He spoke about resilience, about the importance of believing in yourself, about the power of never giving up.

His words resonated with Kimi. He had always admired Lewis's determination, his ability to overcome adversity. To hear him speak so openly, so honestly, was inspiring.

As Lewis left, he turned back to Kimi. "Get well soon, Kimi. The track needs you. And so does the sport."

His words stayed with Kimi long after he was gone. He had received a message of hope, a reminder that he still had a future, a chance to prove himself. He had to find the strength to fight back, to overcome this setback, to return to the track stronger than ever.

~~~~~

While Kimi focused on his recovery, the Monaco police were investigating the hit-and-run. The investigation was hampered by the lack of witnesses and the speed of the car's getaway. The only clue they had was a partial license plate number, captured by a security camera a few blocks away from the scene.

The police were exploring all possibilities, including the possibility of a random accident. But within Mercedes, suspicions were beginning to surface. The timing of the accident, the fact that it had happened the night before the Monaco Grand Prix, seemed too coincidental.

Toto Wolff, never one to shy away from controversy, hired a private investigator to look into the matter. He wanted to know if the accident had been deliberate, if someone had targeted Kimi, if someone wanted him out of the picture.

The investigator, a former intelligence officer, was discreet and relentless. He interviewed witnesses, reviewed security footage, and followed every lead, no matter how insignificant.

He soon uncovered a pattern of suspicious activity. The car used in the hit-and-run had been rented under a false name, using forged documents. The rental agency was located in Nice, a short drive from Monaco.

He tracked down the individuals who had forged the documents. They were petty criminals, known to the police but never caught. They claimed they had been paid a substantial sum of money to provide the false identification. They didn't know who had hired them, only that they had been instructed to drop the documents off at a specific location.

The investigator followed the money trail, delving into a web of offshore accounts and shell corporations. The trail led him to a wealthy businessman with ties to the racing world, a man known for his ruthless ambition and his willingness to do anything to win.

He presented his findings to Toto, his conclusion unequivocal: the hit-and-run had been deliberate. Someone had wanted Kimi out of the way, and they had been willing to pay to make it happen.

The implications were staggering. The racing world, already known for its intense competition and high stakes, had taken a dark turn. Someone had crossed the line, resorting to violence and intimidation to gain an advantage.

Toto was furious. He vowed to bring the perpetrators to justice, to expose their scheme and to protect his driver. He contacted the Monaco police, providing them with the investigators findings. The investigation intensified, focusing on the individual he had identified.

But the process would be long and arduous. In the meantime, Kimi was still recovering, unaware of the forces swirling around him, unaware of the danger he had faced, unaware of the lengths to which some people would go to win.

~~~~~

Weeks turned into months. Kimi endured gruelling physiotherapy sessions, pushing his body to its limits. He spent hours in the simulator, honing his skills, refining his technique. He was determined to return to the track, to prove that he was still a force to be reckoned with.

The doctors were impressed with his progress. His leg was healing faster than expected. They gave him the green light to start light training, to gradually increase his physical activity.

He returned to the Mercedes factory, eager to rejoin the team. He was greeted with warmth and enthusiasm. His engineers were excited to have him back, eager to resume their partnership. George was supportive, offering words of encouragement and sharing his insights from the races he had driven in Kimi's absence.

But Kimi knew that things had changed. He had been sidelined, replaced by Valtteri who had seized the opportunity and performed admirably. The team was now used to him, comfortable with him.

Kimi would have to prove himself all over again, to earn his place back in the lineup. He would have to be faster, more consistent, more determined than ever before.

The opportunity came sooner than expected. The upcoming race was in Singapore, a legendary circuit known for its unpredictable weather and its challenging corners. Valtteri had fallen ill, leaving an open seat.

Toto called Kimi into his office. "Kimi," he said, his voice serious. "We have a decision to make. Valtteri is out. We need someone to fill the seat."

Kimi's heart pounded in his chest. This was it. His chance to prove himself again.

"I'm ready," he said, his voice firm. "I'm fit, I'm prepared, and I'm ready to race."

Toto looked at him intently, searching for any sign of doubt. "Are you sure, Kimi? Singapore is a demanding track. It's a lot to ask after everything you've been through."

"I'm sure," Kimi replied, meeting his gaze. "I won't let you down."

Toto nodded. "Alright, Kimi. You're in. Singapore is your chance to show us what you've got."

He left Toto's office, his heart soaring. He was back. He was racing. He had a chance to reclaim his dreams.

He knew the road ahead would be difficult. He would have to overcome his own doubts, his own fears. He would have to prove to the team, to the fans, and to himself that he was still capable of competing at the highest level.

But he was ready. He was Andrea Kimi Antonelli, and he was back to win.

~~~~~

The atmosphere in Singapore was electric. The stands were packed with fans, eager to witness the return of Kimi Antonelli. The paddock buzzed with anticipation, the media eager to tell the story of the young driver's comeback.

Kimi felt the pressure, the weight of expectation. But he also felt a sense of excitement, a sense of purpose. He was back where he belonged, behind the wheel of a Formula One car, ready to race.

Qualifying was a mixed bag. Kimi struggled to find his rhythm, his timing off after months away from the track. He qualified in tenth place, a decent result but not what he had hoped for. George qualified in third, showing the true pace of the Mercedes car.

The race started under overcast skies, the threat of rain looming large. Kimi got a good start, gaining a position on the first lap. He began to settle into a rhythm, finding his pace, feeling the car respond to his commands.

The rain started on lap ten, turning the track into a treacherous skating rink. Cars began to slide and spin, the drivers struggling to maintain control.

Kimi excelled in the wet conditions. He had always been comfortable in the rain, his karting experience on slick tracks giving him an advantage. He began to climb through the field, passing car after car with precision and confidence.

He made daring overtakes, pushing the limits of the car, relying on his instincts.

He was up to fifth place when the safety car came out, bunching up the field. He used the restart to his advantage, gaining another position.

He found himself behind his teammate, George, who was struggling with his tires in the wet. Kimi saw an opportunity. He closed the gap, setting up a pass on the upcoming straight.

He pulled alongside George, the two Mercedes cars side-by-side. He held his nerve, braking late, taking the inside line. He emerged from the corner ahead of George, securing third place.

The crowd erupted in cheers, recognizing the brilliance of Kimi's move. He had overtaken his teammate, a seasoned veteran, in treacherous conditions.

He held onto his position, nursing his tires, managing his fuel. The rain intensified, making the final laps a test of endurance and skill.

He crossed the finish line in third place, securing his first Formula One podium. The joy was overwhelming. He had done it. He had overcome adversity, he had proven his doubters wrong, and he had returned to the track stronger than ever before.

As he stood on the podium, spraying champagne, he felt a sense of gratitude, a sense of accomplishment. He had faced his demons, he had conquered his fears, and he had emerged victorious.

Chapter Text

The roar was deafening, a symphony of finely-tuned engines screaming in unison. Kimi Antonelli, all of eighteen years old, clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the steering wheel of his Mercedes. The Italian Grand Prix. Monza. His second home race that he was determined to finish this time, to finish in the points.

He'd dreamt of this moment since he was a boy karting in the backfields of Bologna. He'd watched the greats, Schumacher, Senna, Hamilton, and now, here he was, sharing the grid with one of them. He felt a surge of adrenaline, a potent cocktail of fear and exhilaration.

Mercedes had taken a gamble on him, throwing him straight into the deep end after his meteoric rise through the junior ranks. They saw potential, an untapped well of raw talent. But potential was a fickle mistress in Formula One.

He slotted into P6 after a decent qualifying, not spectacular, but solid. He had to prove himself, show them they hadn't made a mistake. He had to show himself he belonged.

The lights went out, a blinding flash of red extinguished, and the world exploded into chaos. Cars jostled for position, weaving through the first chicane, a dangerous game of inches at blistering speeds. Kimi held his line, maintaining his position, focusing on the road ahead, filtering out the cacophony of the crowd and the frantic chatter on the radio.

He was finding his rhythm, gaining confidence with each lap. He overtook Charles, his Mercedes surging past the Ferrari with a satisfying roar. He was climbing the ladder.

Lap 27. The air hung heavy with the smell of burning rubber and high-octane fuel. Kimi was chasing down Lando Norris in the McLaren, the gap steadily closing. The Brit was defending aggressively, making Kimi work for every inch.

Then it happened.

A sickening screech of tires, followed by the unmistakable sound of metal tearing. A flash of orange ahead of him. Lando's McLaren had lost control, pirouetted violently, and slammed into the tire barrier. The car, mangled and smoking, bounced back onto the track, blocking the racing line in the middle of the Parabolica.

Kimi's heart leaped into his throat. He was already at full speed, committed to the corner. He registered the wreckage, the twisted metal, the ominous stillness of the McLaren, in a terrifying instant.

There was no time to brake. No time to react.

If he hit that car, at that speed, Lando would be dead.

His mind went blank. Instinct took over.

He cranked the steering wheel hard to the right, a desperate, last-ditch manoeuvre.

The world dissolved into a blur of green and white. The car bucked violently, then collided with the concrete wall at an unimaginable force and flipped. He felt a searing pain in his chest, a jarring impact that ripped the air from his lungs.

Then, silence.

~~~~~

Lando Norris watched in horror as his world imploded. He was strapped into his decimated McLaren, disoriented and in pain, but alive. He'd made a rookie mistake, pushed too hard, lost the rear, and paid the price. Now he was stranded in the middle of a turn on the racing line.

Then he saw it.

The silver Mercedes, a missile hurtling towards his mangled car. He closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable. He knew the laws of physics. He knew the consequences.

But the impact never came.

Instead, a deafening crash to his right. He opened his eyes and craned his head to see the Mercedes embedded in the wall upside-down, the front end crumpled like tinfoil.

He understood. He understood what Kimi had done.

He grabbed his radio, his voice a choked whisper. "Kimi...Kimi...What happened to Kimi?"

Silence.

"Will, do you read? Kimi…is he okay?" Lando's voice rose in pitch, panic creeping in.

"Lando, remain calm," Will said calmly. "We're assessing the situation. Try to stay focused."

Stay focused? How could he stay focused when he was staring at what looked like the aftermath of a disaster?

He knew. He knew Kimi had sacrificed himself. He knew he had taken the impact that would have killed him.

"No! He's not okay! He saved my life! What's happening? Someone tell me!" Lando screamed into the radio, hot tears streaming down his face.

The broadcast cut to aerial shots of the accident. Everyone in the paddock held their breath. The marshals swarmed the scene, a flurry of orange overalls against a backdrop of broken carbon fibre.

Lando was dragged from his car, shaken but relatively unharmed. He was escorted stumbling back to the McLaren garage, his legs feeling like lead. The faces he saw were grim, etched with concern.

Max and Charles, his rivals, but also his friends, rushed to his side. They said nothing, just wrapped their arms around him, offering silent comfort.

"He's gone," Lando sobbed, burying his face in Max's shoulder. "He saved me, and he's gone."

Max and Charles held him tighter, sharing the weight of his grief. They knew the dangers of their profession. They'd lost friends, competitors, heroes. But this…this was different. This was a young life senselessly cut short, a prodigious talent extinguished before it could truly shine.

The tension in the garage was palpable. Prayers were whispered; fingers were crossed. The world waited with bated breath.

Then, a shout. A voice, raw with emotion, cut through the silence.

"He's alive! Kimi's alive!"

The garage erupted. A collective gasp of disbelief swept through the room. Hope, fragile but vibrant, bloomed in the wake of despair.

Lando ripped himself free from Max and Charles, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn't register the pain in his bruised ribs, the throbbing in his head. He just ran.

He burst out of the garage and saw him.

Kimi was lying on a stretcher, being wheeled by medics towards the medical centre. His face was pale, streaked with dirt and blood. His eyes were closed.

Lando rushed to his side, reaching his hand out to clutch Kimi’s.

"Kimi! Kimi, can you hear me?"

Kimi's eyes fluttered open. He blinked, focusing on Lando's face. A weak smile touched his lips.

"Lando…okay" his voice was a raspy whisper.

"You saved me," Lando choked out, tears streaming down his face. "You saved my life. I...I don't know what to say."

He gave Kimi’s hand a tight squeeze, rubbing his thumb over the back of Kimi’s hand soothingly.

"Thank you," he sobbed. "Thank you for being alive."

Kimi squeezed his hand back, a faint pressure that sent a wave of relief through Lando's body.

"It was worth it," Kimi whispered, his eyes meeting Lando's. "You're alive. That's all that matters."

~~~~~

The headlines screamed of heroism and sacrifice. Kimi Antonelli, the eighteen-year-old rookie, had become an overnight sensation, a symbol of courage and selflessness.

Lando visited him in the hospital every day, the guilt gnawing at him. He felt responsible, burdened by the knowledge that Kimi had risked everything for him.

"Never do that again," Lando said, his voice thick with emotion, as he sat beside Kimi's bed. "Never, ever do that again."

Kimi just smiled, his hand reaching out to gently cup Lando's cheek. "It was worth it," he repeated softly. "You're my friend. I couldn't live with myself if I'd let anything happen to you."

Lando broke down, burying his face in Kimi's shoulder, his body wracked with sobs. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve Kimi's sacrifice.

~~~~~

The crash at Monza forged a bond between Lando and Kimi that transcended rivalry and competition. They were forever connected, bound together by a shared experience of unimaginable intensity.

Kimi's injuries were minor, thankfully. A few bruised ribs, a concussion, and a lot of other bruising. But the mental scars would take longer to heal. He knew he'd faced death, and he knew he'd stared it down for someone else.

Lando, too, struggled with the aftermath. The near-death experience had shaken him to his core. He was more cautious, more deliberate on the track. He was also more appreciative of the camaraderie and the friendships he'd forged in the cutthroat world of Formula 1.

Kimi returned to racing a few weeks later, a hero's welcome awaiting him. He was different, changed by the experience. He was still the same fiercely competitive driver, but he also carried a newfound sense of responsibility, a deeper understanding of the value of human life.

The rest of the season was a blur. Kimi struggled at times, still haunted by the memory of the crash. But he persevered, driven by a desire to prove himself, to honour the sacrifice he had made.

Lando, too, found a new level of performance. He was inspired by Kimi's courage and resilience. He pushed himself harder, driven by a desire to repay the debt he owed.

Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd still echoed in Kimi’s ears, a dull thrum beneath the pounding of his own heart. Mud clung to his pristine silver and black Mercedes suit, testament to a gruelling race fought in treacherous conditions. He'd finished seventh, a respectable result for an eighteen-year-old rookie, but the pressure felt immense. The weight of expectation, the scrutiny of the media, the relentless pace of Formula 1 – it threatened to crush him.

He navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the paddock, his vision swimming slightly, each step a monumental effort. He wasn't looking for the team debrief, or the mechanics offering congratulations. He was looking for Lewis.

Lewis Hamilton, seven-time World Champion, a legend, and to Kimi, something akin to a mentor, a confidant. He'd looked up to Lewis since he was a kid, idolizing his skill and his advocacy. Through the Mercedes Junior Program, the most surprising thing had happened, Kimi and Lewis became close, almost like brothers. Lewis had always been kind, offering advice, encouragement, and an understanding of Kimi’s needs as a kid. Right now, that was exactly what Kimi needed.

He found him in the Mercedes hospitality suite, surrounded by a small group of drivers: Max, Lando, and Charles. The casual atmosphere, the easy banter, grated on Kimi's frayed nerves. He didn’t even acknowledge their presence properly, his focus solely on the familiar figure in a Mercedes polo shirt.

Without a word, Kimi stumbled towards him. He was beyond embarrassment, beyond protocol. He just needed the anchor of Lewis's presence.

Lewis was sitting on a low, plush sofa. Kimi stopped directly in front of him, swaying slightly. Then, defying formality and racing etiquette, he did the only thing that felt right. He sank.

He didn't ask, didn't explain. He simply climbed onto Lewis's lap, burying his face in the soft fabric of his shirt. The world swam back into focus, the noise receding slightly, replaced by the comforting scent of Lewis's cologne and the steady beat of his heart.

Almost instantly, he drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

A beat of silence hung in the air. Lewis, momentarily surprised, froze. He glanced down at the young driver nestled in his lap, his brow furrowed in concern. Kimi looked so young, so vulnerable in that moment.

Then, a familiar warmth spread through him. It had been years since Kimi had done this, but the memory was vivid. He remembered a skinny, awkward kid, battling nerves and sleep deprivation, seeking solace in his presence. It wasn't unusual for Kimi to seek Lewis out for a nap in his lap during Karting events and early Formula racing.

He gently wrapped an arm around Kimi, supporting his weight. "He's exhausted," Lewis said, his voice soft, breaking the silence.

The other drivers stared, their expressions a mixture of shock and amusement. Max snorted, trying to hide a smile. Lando, always quick with a quip, was momentarily speechless. Charles, ever the gentleman, looked concerned.

"Is he... alright?" Charles asked, his voice laced with genuine worry.

Lewis chuckled quietly. "Perfectly fine. He used to do this all the time when he was younger. Big day, lots of pressure. He just needs to recharge."

He looked down at Kimi, a fond smile playing on his lips. "He used to have trouble sleeping sometimes, especially before big races. He'd sneak over and crawl into my lap, all tiny and endearing. Said it helped him relax."

"That's... adorable," Lando blurted out, unable to contain himself. He looked at Kimi again, his face now relaxed in sleep. He looked so much younger than eighteen.

"He looks like a baby," Max grumbled, although the edge in his voice was tempered by amusement.

"He is still practically a baby," Lewis retorted, a protective glint in his eyes. "Remember, he's navigating the most competitive motorsport in the world at eighteen. Give him a break."

The other drivers fell silent, taking in the scene. Kimi, the prodigy, vulnerable and asleep in the lap of the reigning legend. It humanized him, broke down the barriers of competition.

"You're very soft for him, aren't you, Lewis?" Charles observed, a playful smirk on his face.

Lewis shrugged, the smile returning to his lips. "He's like a little brother to me. Someone needs to look out for him."

He adjusted Kimi slightly, making him more comfortable. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I think this one needs some rest."

The other drivers nodded, understanding dawning in their eyes. They left the suite, leaving Lewis alone with the sleeping prodigy. He continued to stare down at Kimi his mind wondering what type of pressure the younger boy would face over the years. He began to gently rub circles on the boy's back, soothing his nerves and helping him to sleep deeper. The weight of Kimi's slumber felt surprisingly light, a comforting burden he was more than willing to bear.

~~~~~

Two weeks later, the Hungarian Grand Prix was over, another demanding race etched into the history books. Kimi, battling a malfunctioning engine and the sweltering heat, had managed a tenth-place finish, securing a single point. But the effort had taken its toll, the disappointment of not finishing higher.

He stumbled through the paddock, his head swimming, his body aching. His usual post-race adrenaline rush had been replaced by a bone-deep weariness. He needed Lewis. Just his presence. A few encouraging words. Anything.

He searched for him, weaving through the crowds, his anxiety building with each passing minute. Finally, he spotted Lando and Carlos, the old McLaren duo, near the drivers' relaxation area.

"Have you seen Lewis?" Kimi asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Lando and Carlos exchanged a look. "He's doing an interview," Lando replied, pointing towards a small cluster of reporters.

Kimi's shoulders slumped. The disappointment was a physical blow. He couldn't wait. He didn't have the energy to wait.

Tears pricked at his eyes, fuelled by exhaustion and frustration. He turned to leave, wanting to find somewhere out of everyone's view where he could just let loose. But before he could, Lando stepped forward.

"Hey, Kimi, you okay?"

Kimi shook his head, unable to speak. The tears were threatening to spill over now.

Lando remembered the scene from two weeks ago, Kimi seeking solace in Lewis's lap. He saw the same desperation in his eyes now, the same raw vulnerability.

He made a decision.

"Come on," Lando said gently, placing a hand on Kimi's arm. "Let's sit down for a minute."

He guided Kimi towards a couch up the back, away from the noise and the prying eyes of the media. Kimi followed, his steps hesitant, his mind too muddled to resist.

Lando sat down and, taking a deep breath, tugged Kimi down with him. He ignored the questioning look from Carlos.

Hesitantly, Kimi sat beside him, his body stiff and tense. Lando waited a beat, then gently pulled Kimi closer, until his head rested against his shoulder.

The reaction was almost instantaneous. Kimi sagged against him, his body relaxing. The tension drained away, replaced by a profound sense of relief. A few minutes later, his breathing evened out, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest a testament to his growing peace.

He was asleep.

Carlos stared, his mouth agape. He had never seen Lando act so... nurturing. So gentle.

"What just happened?" he finally asked, his voice hushed.

Lando shrugged, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "I saw him climb into Lewis's lap the other day. He was clearly exhausted. He looked just as bad now, so..."

He trailed off, unsure how to explain. He just knew he had to do something.

"So, you... offered him your lap?" Carlos asked, struggling to process the situation.

Lando nodded, avoiding eye contact. "He seemed to need it. It's... calming."

He looked at Kimi, his face serene in sleep. "He looks so young when he's like this. Like a kid lost in the woods."

Carlos studied the scene, understanding dawning in his eyes. He'd always seen Lando as the joker, the prankster. But beneath the surface, he realized, there was a deep well of empathy.

"You're a good friend, Lando," he said quietly.

Lando just shrugged again, his gaze fixed on Kimi.

About an hour later, Lewis, finally free from his media obligations, came across them. He stopped dead in his tracks, a slow grin spreading across his face. The sight of Lando, cradling the sleeping Kimi, was unexpectedly heartwarming.

"Well, well, what have we here?" Lewis chuckled, approaching the couch.

Lando looked up, a sheepish smile on his face. "He was exhausted, Lewis. You were busy."

"And you decided to step in?" Lewis asked, his voice laced with amusement.

Lando nodded. "Yeah, well, I get why you enjoy it so much. It is calming. And..." He hesitated, searching for the right words. "It makes you want to protect him from the world."

Lewis's smile softened, his eyes filled with a familiar tenderness.

"I know," he said quietly. "I know."

He looked at Kimi, his expression thoughtful. The prodigy was asleep, safe, for now, in the arms of someone who cared. It was a scene that spoke volumes, a testament to the bonds that could be forged even in the high-pressure world of Formula 1.

"He's in good hands," Lewis said softly, his gaze meeting Lando's. A silent understanding passed between them, a shared commitment to protect the young driver from the challenges that lay ahead.

Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd was a distant hum, a vibration against Kimi eardrums, now dulled by the ringing that always followed a race. His first season in Formula 1 was a brutal education. At just eighteen, he was the youngest driver on the grid, thrust into the deep end with Mercedes, a team synonymous with dominance, but now struggling to find its footing.

The Italian sun beat down on the asphalt, turning the paddock into a shimmering oven. He peeled off his racing suit, the soaked fabric clinging uncomfortably. Another P10 finish. Still in the points, but miles away from the podium or where a Mercedes should be.

He trudged wearily towards the Mercedes hospitality unit, the scent of exhaust fumes and burning rubber still clinging to him. Toto, the team principal, clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. “Good drive, Kimi, you will improve over time.”

Kimi managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Toto.”

He grabbed a bottle of water, gulping it down. The media scrum was already forming, microphones thrusting forward like hungry beaks. He reluctantly faced them, answering questions with a practiced professionalism that belied his age. He’d learned to compartmentalize the pressure, to plaster on a confident face even when his stomach churned with nerves.

Finally, he escaped the press and retreated to his private driver’s room, a small, sterile space that offered a semblance of privacy. He slumped onto the worn sofa, exhaustion washing over him. The race had been a blur of tire management, DRS battles, and near misses. He just wanted to sleep.

A knock on the door startled him. “Come in,” he mumbled.

Paolo, his personal trainer, entered, his face etched with concern. “Kimi, you look drained. We need to get some food into you.”

Kimi waved a dismissive hand. “Later, Paolo. Just… give me a moment.”

Paolo hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. But don’t wait too long. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

He left, closing the door softly behind him. Kimi closed his eyes, drifting towards sleep.

A different knock startled him awake. This time, there was no polite tap, just a series of forceful raps.

“Who is it?” he asked, groggily.

The door opened without waiting for an invitation. A man stood in the doorway, dressed in a crisp, expensive suit. He recognized him as one of the sponsors, a man he'd met briefly at a pre-season event. He couldn't recall his name.

“Kimi, right? Congratulations on the race.” The man’s smile seemed a little too wide, a little too forced.

"Thank you," Kimi said, sitting up straighter. "Can I help you with something?"

"Just wanted to say hello. You're doing a great job out there, especially for someone so young." The man stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The click echoed in the small space.

Kimi felt a prickle of unease. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

The man was standing too close now, invading Kimi's personal space. He smelled strongly of expensive cologne. "You know, being a Formula 1 driver… it opens a lot of doors. A lot of opportunities."

Kimi forced a smile. "I'm just focused on racing."

The man chuckled, a low, unsettling sound. "Sure, sure. But it's important to have friends in high places. People who can help you along the way." He reached out and touched Kimi's shoulder, his grip surprisingly firm.

Kimi instinctively flinched away. "I think I need to get ready for the post-race debriefing."

The man's smile vanished, replaced by a hard, calculating look. “Don’t be rude, Kimi. I’m just trying to be helpful.” He took another step closer, backing Kimi up against the sofa.

Kimi's heart hammered against his ribs. His unease intensified, morphing into a cold, creeping fear. “I really need to go,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

The man leaned in, his breath hot against Kimi's ear. “We could both have some fun, Kimi. You wouldn't regret it."

Kimi’s mind was racing. He tried to push past the man, but he was stronger than he looked. He felt a hand on his arm, pulling him back. Panic flared in his chest.

"No," Kimi said, his voice trembling. "Stop it."

The man ignored him, his grip tightening. He was saying something, but Kimi couldn't focus, his ears ringing with fear. He struggled against the man's hold, but he was trapped.

He was about to scream when the door flew open.

The interruption was abrupt and forceful. A flash of red, followed by a roaring voice.

"Get your hands off him!"

It was Charles, his face a mask of fury. He’d barged into the room, followed closely by Max and George. They’d been heading to the debriefing together, and heard the struggle emanating from Kimi's room.

The man recoiled, startled by the sudden intrusion. "Apologies, I was just-."

"I know exactly what you're doing," Max spat, his voice laced with venom. He stepped forward, his presence radiating menace. "Get out."

The man flushed crimson. "This is none of your business."

"It is now," George added, his usually affable face hardened with anger. "You're harassing my teammate. And whether he's on our team or not, you're messing with one of us."

Kimi stood frozen, his chest heaving, watching the scene unfold. Relief washed over him, so potent it almost buckled his knees. He was safe.

The man, realizing he was outnumbered and outmatched, backed down. "I was just offering him some advice."

"Get out," Charles repeated, his voice ice-cold. "And if I ever see you near him again, you'll regret it."

The man glared at them, then turned and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Silence descended, heavy and thick. Kimi looked from Charles to Max to George, his mind still struggling to process what had just happened.

"Are you okay, Kimi?" Charles asked, his voice softening.

Kimi nodded, though he wasn't sure he was. "Yeah... yeah, I'm fine. Thanks."

Max approached him, his expression concerned. "He didn't... hurt you, did he?"

Kimi shook his head. "No. You guys got here in time."

George placed a hand on Kimi's shoulder. "He's gone now. Just try to forget about it."

Kimi knew it wouldn’t be that easy. The fear was still clinging to him, a cold, clammy residue.

"Kimi and I should get to the debriefing," George said, breaking the silence. "Toto will be wondering where we are."

They all nodded, a silent agreement. The incident was over, at least outwardly. But the unspoken question hung in the air: what now?

As George and Kimi walked towards the Mercedes hospitality unit, Kimi felt a strange sense of gratitude towards his rivals. They were his competitors on the track, fierce and ruthless, but in that moment, they had been his saviours. They had shown him a glimpse of the camaraderie that existed beneath the cutthroat world of Formula 1.

~~~~~

The debriefing was a blur of technical jargon and data analysis. Kimi tried to focus, to contribute meaningfully, but the memory of the man’s hands on him kept flashing through his mind. He felt detached, disconnected from the conversation.

He saw Toto glance at him with a worried expression, but he couldn't bring himself to explain what had happened. Shame and embarrassment kept him silent.

After the debriefing, Toto pulled him aside. "Kimi, are you sure you're alright? You seem… distracted."

Kimi hesitated. "I'm fine, Toto. Just tired."

Toto didn't look convinced. "If there's anything you need to talk about, I am always here. I may technically be your boss but I have known you since you were a child and your well-being is my priority."

Kimi forced a smile. "I appreciate it, Toto. But I'm good."

He escaped to his room, locking the door behind him. He needed to be alone.

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. He felt violated, dirty. He wanted to scrub himself clean, to erase the memory of the man's touch.

He knew he couldn't keep this to himself. He needed to tell someone, but who? He couldn’t tell his parents, they would be devastated. Paolo was a good friend, but this felt too big, too personal.

He thought of Charles, Max, and George. They had seen what happened. They had intervened. Maybe he could talk to them.

He pulled out his phone and opened his WhatsApp. He hesitated, his fingers hovering over Charles’ contact. He didn’t want to burden him, to bring him down with his problems.

But he had nowhere else to turn.

He typed a message, deleting and retyping it several times before finally sending it.

Hey Charles, it's Kimi. Could we talk?

He waited, his heart pounding in his chest. The seconds stretched into minutes. Finally, his phone buzzed.

Of course, Kimi. Where are you?

In my room. Thanks.

He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. He didn't know what to expect, but he knew he couldn't face this alone.

Within minutes, there was a knock on his door. He opened it to find Charles standing there, his expression concerned.

"Hey," Charles said softly. "How are you holding up?"

Kimi shrugged. "Not great, to be honest."

Charles nodded. "Come on, let's talk."

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Kimi sat on the bed, and Charles sat beside him, leaving a comfortable space between them.

"So," Charles said gently, "what happened?"

Kimi hesitated, then the words came tumbling out, a rush of pent-up emotion. He told Charles everything, from the man's initial flattery to the moment he was pinned against the sofa, terrified.

As he spoke, he felt a weight lifting from his shoulders. Sharing the burden made it feel less overwhelming, less shameful.

When he finished, Charles was silent for a moment, his brow furrowed in anger.

"That's… that's awful, Kimi. I'm so sorry we weren’t quicker."

Kimi nodded, tears welling up in his eyes. "I just… I don't know what to do. You were there before anything truly happened but I can still feel it, picture what could have happened."

Charles put a hand on Kimi's arm, his touch reassuring. "First, you need to report this to the team. Toto needs to know. And you should consider reporting it to the police."

Kimi recoiled. "No! I can't. It'll be all over the news. My career will be ruined."

Charles squeezed his arm gently. "I understand your concerns, Kimi. But this man can't get away with this. He might do it again. You need to protect yourself, and others."

Kimi hesitated, weighing his options. He knew Charles was right, but the thought of the public scrutiny, the media circus, filled him with dread.

"I… I don't know," he said, his voice trembling.

"Take your time," Charles said. "Think about it. But don't let this man silence you. You deserve justice, what he attempted to do was awful."

He stood up, offering Kimi a small smile. "I need to get going. But I'm here for you, Kimi. If you need anything, anything at all, just call."

He left, closing the door softly behind him. Kimi sat alone again, but this time, he felt less alone. He had a friend, a confidante, someone who protected him.

He knew he had a difficult decision to make, but he also knew that he wasn't completely defenceless. He had allies, both on and off the track. And he wouldn't let this man steal his joy, his passion, his future.

~~~~~

The next few days were a whirlwind of anxiety and uncertainty. Kimi tried to focus on the upcoming race in Monaco, but the incident in Italy haunted him. He found himself constantly looking over his shoulder, wary of strangers.

He spoke to Toto, hesitantly at first, but the team principal's reaction was supportive and understanding. Toto promised to investigate the matter and to ensure that the man stayed away from Kimi. He also offered him access to the team's resources, including legal counsel and psychological support.

Emboldened by Toto's support, Kimi decided to report the incident to the police. It was a difficult and emotional process, but he felt a sense of closure afterward. He had taken a stand, refusing to be silenced.

The news of the investigation inevitably leaked to the media, triggering a firestorm of speculation and commentary. Kimi was bombarded with questions, his privacy invaded. He tried to remain composed, issuing a brief statement condemning the man's behaviour and expressing his determination to focus on his racing.

The support he received from the racing community was overwhelming. Drivers, teams, and fans rallied around him, condemning the harassment and praising his courage. Even his fiercest rivals, like Max and Lewis Hamilton, publicly expressed their solidarity.

The atmosphere in the paddock had shifted. There was a newfound sense of unity, a collective commitment to protect the younger drivers and to create a safe and respectful environment.

The Monaco Grand Prix arrived, a glittering spectacle of wealth and glamour. Kimi knew he needed to put the past behind him and focus on the race. He qualified in a respectable P8, a solid performance for his struggling Mercedes.

But the incident had taken its toll. He felt sluggish, his reactions slow. He made a few costly mistakes, dropping down the order. He finished the race in P14, a disappointing result.

As he climbed out of the car, he felt a wave of frustration and despair. He had let the pressure get to him. He had let the incident affect his performance.

He walked towards the Mercedes garage, his head bowed in shame. He expected criticism, disappointment, perhaps even anger.

But instead, he was greeted by a wave of applause. The entire team was standing there, cheering him on. Toto approached him, a proud smile on his face.

"You showed incredible courage, Kimi," Toto said, clapping him on the back. "You stood up for what's right. That's more important than any race result."

Kimi looked around at the faces of his team, his teammates, his friends. He realized that he wasn't alone. He had their support, their respect, their love.

He smiled, a genuine smile this time. He knew the road ahead would be long and challenging, but he was ready to face it. He was ready to fight for his dreams, for his future, for his place in the world of Formula 1. He was ready to prove that he was more than just a prodigy. He was a survivor.

~~~~~

The investigation into the sponsor continued, with the team and the FIA taking swift action to ensure he was banned from the paddock. Word got around about his behaviour, and other sponsors quickly distanced themselves, fearing the damage to their own reputations.

Meanwhile, Kimi found himself growing closer to Charles, Max, and George. They had become his unlikely protectors, always checking in on him, making sure he felt safe and supported. They invited him to hang out away from the track, creating a sense of normalcy amidst the chaos. They played video games, went bowling, and even attempted to cook a disastrous Italian meal together.

Kimi learned about their own struggles, their own vulnerabilities. He saw that even these seasoned drivers, at the top of their game, were human, susceptible to pressure and anxiety. They shared their experiences, offering advice and encouragement.

He discovered that the rivalry on the track didn't preclude friendship off the track. They were competitors, yes, but they were also colleagues, bound by a shared passion and a mutual respect.

As the season progressed, Kimi's performance improved. He was more focused, more confident, more resilient. He started scoring points consistently, even challenging for podiums on occasion. He was proving that he belonged in Formula 1, that he was more than just a flash in the pan.

The crowd began to see Kimi not just as the rookie sensation, but as a driver with grit, determination, and unwavering spirit. He had overcome adversity, emerged stronger, and earned the respect of his peers and the admiration of his fans.

One evening, after a particularly impressive race, Kimi found himself sitting with Charles, Max, and George at a quiet restaurant, far away from the noise and the crowds.

"You know," Kimi said, a smile spreading across his face, "I don't know what I would have done without you guys."

Charles raised his glass. "We're just glad we could help."

Max nodded in agreement. "We're a pack, Kimi. We look out for each other."

George added, "Besides, someone had to teach you how to play Mario Kart properly."

They all laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet restaurant. Kimi looked at his friends, his protectors, his allies. He felt a surge of gratitude, a sense of belonging and protection.

Chapter Text

The Japanese Grand Prix had been… chaotic. A midfield finish, a respectable result, but not the podium finish the team, and frankly, Kimi himself, craved. He felt the burn of disappointment, the familiar sting of self-criticism.

The post-race debrief was long and arduous. Toto, the Mercedes team principal, was a formidable presence, his sharp intellect and unwavering ambition palpable in the room. Kimi tried to absorb everything, every data point, every subtle nuance. He knew he had a long way to go, mountains to climb.

By the time he escaped the Mercedes garage, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the Suzuka paddock. He spotted Max heading towards the Red Bull hospitality unit. He took a deep breath and hurried after him.

"Max!" he called out, his voice a little breathless.

Max stopped, turning to face him. A small smile played on his lips. "Hey, Kimi. Good drive today, kid. You're getting there."

Kimi blushed, flattered by the compliment. "Thanks, Max. Listen, I… I wanted to ask you something."

"Shoot."

Kimi hesitated, suddenly feeling foolish. "I know this is probably a stupid question, but…" He took another deep breath. "I was wondering if… if I could hitch a ride on your private jet to see Blue Pond."

Max raised an eyebrow, his expression a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "Blue Pond? The frozen lake in Hokkaido?"

Kimi nodded eagerly. "Yeah, I've always wanted to see it. I saw pictures online, it's incredible. I know it's a long shot, but I thought… maybe…" His voice trailed off, his hope fading.

Max sighed, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. "Kimi, I appreciate the… enthusiasm. But I'm taking Charles back to Monaco with me, I don’t want to hold him up."

Kimi's shoulders slumped. Of course. He should have known better. "Right. Sorry to bother you." He turned to leave, disappointment stinging his eyes.

"Wait," Max said, stopping him.

Kimi looked back, a flicker of hope igniting within him.

"Blue Pond is pretty cool, I have to admit. You really want to see it that badly?"

Kimi nodded, his eyes shining. "More than anything."

Max hesitated again, his internal conflict evident. He glanced around, as if looking for an escape route. Finally, he let out another sigh, the sound of impending surrender.

"Fine," he said, ruffling Kimi's hair. "Fine, kiddo. We'll leave the hotel in the morning and we'll go see Blue Pond. I'm sure Charles won't mind. And I can organize a flight for you from Monaco back to Italy."

Kimi's face lit up, a wide grin spreading across his features. "Really? Seriously? Oh my god, Max, thank you! Thank you so much!" He impulsively threw his arms around Max, hugging him tightly.

Max, surprised by the sudden display of affection, awkwardly patted Kimi on the back. "Alright, alright, settle down. Just try not to puke on my plane, okay?"

Kimi pulled back, laughing. "I promise, no puking. This is going to be amazing!"

As Kimi turned to leave, practically skipping with joy, Max watched him go, a wistful smile on his face. He remembered a time when he was that young, that eager, that full of unbridled enthusiasm. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

~~~~~

Packing was a frenzy of nervous energy. He crammed his oversized suitcase with layers of warm clothing, the image of the legendary Blue Pond, a frozen sapphire nestled in the Japanese mountains, fuelling his excitement.

The lobby was a buzzing hive of team personnel and media. He hurried towards Max, who was waiting with Charles, a friendly rival with a million-dollar smile. Then disaster struck.

His overstuffed suitcase, combined with his haste, proved a lethal combination. His foot caught, and he tumbled forward, sprawling onto the polished floor.

A burst of laughter erupted, familiar and comforting. Ollie Bearman, his best mate since their karting days, was standing a few feet away, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, a grin plastered across his face.

"Graceful as always, Kimi," Ollie teased, reaching down to haul him to his feet.

Kimi huffed, cheeks burning. "Shut up, Ollie. I was aiming for the floor. Nailed it, actually."

Max sighed, the sound carrying a hint of amusement. "Try not to kill yourself before we get to the lake, Kimi. We haven't even left the hotel yet."

Kimi retrieved his battered suitcase, grumbling, "Fine. I'll save my dramatic death for the lake then."

Ollie, oblivious to the tension, frowned. "What lake?"

"Max is taking me to Blue Pond," Kimi blurted out, unable to contain his enthusiasm.

Ollie's eyes widened. "The Blue Pond? Seriously? Can I come? Please, Max? I've seen pictures, it looks incredible!"

Max rubbed his chin, his expression unreadable. "Fine, whatever. We're flying back to Monaco anyway. One more body on the jet isn't going to break the bank."

Ollie whooped, throwing an arm around Kimi's shoulders. "You're the best, man! This is going to be epic!"

The private jet hummed with quiet luxury. Charles was buried in a book, Max was staring at the clouds zipping past, and Ollie was peppering Kimi with questions about the lake. Kimi, despite the lingering embarrassment of his earlier tumble, felt a genuine lightness he hadn't experienced since the start of the season.

~~~~~

The drive from the small airstrip to the pond was breathtaking. Snow-dusted pines formed a silent guard of honour, the winter landscape a stark contrast to the vibrant race tracks they were used to.

The moment they reached the lake, Kimi was out of the car like a shot. The air bit at his exposed skin, but he barely noticed. The sheer, otherworldly beauty of the Blue Pond stole his breath away. The frozen surface, an impossibly vibrant turquoise, reflected the snow-capped peaks like a giant, natural mirror. Dead trees, petrified by the mineral-rich water, stood like silent sentinels, adding a touch of ethereal melancholy to the scene.

"Kimi! Come back here!" Max's voice cut through his reverie. "It's cold! You need your scarf!"

He reluctantly jogged back, allowing Max to loop a thick wool scarf around his neck. He grabbed Ollie's hand, pulling him forward. "Come on! You have to see this!"

Charles chuckled, watching them disappear towards the frozen lake. "They're like little kids, Max."

Max raised an eyebrow. "Charles, they are little kids."

They followed at a slower pace, the crunch of their boots the only sound breaking the silence.

"Why does it feel like we're chaperones?" Max grumbled after a while.

Charles grinned. "Come on, Max. It's a truly amazing place. Enjoy it. Take some photos."

They snapped a few pictures, attempting to capture the magic of the landscape. Kimi and Ollie were already further out on the lake, their laughter echoing across the frozen expanse. Kimi was taking photos of Ollie, who was attempting to do tricks on the slippery surface, nearly falling a few times.

Then, everything changed.

A shrill scream ripped through the serene silence of the frozen landscape, a sound so raw and filled with terror that it stopped everyone dead in their tracks. "Kimi!" Ollie's voice echoed across the vast expanse of white, cracking and breaking with unimaginable fear.

Max's head snapped up, his eyes instantly scanning the landscape. One moment, Kimi and Ollie had been a burst of youthful energy, snapping photos and giggling; the next, only Ollie remained, kneeling at the edge of a gaping, dark hole in the pristine ice. A hole that hadn't been there moments before.

Without a second thought, Max was sprinting towards the danger, adrenaline flooding his system. He could see the frantic desperation in Ollie's movements, the way he clawed at the edges of the ice, calling Kimi's name over and over. Charles followed close behind, his face etched with a grim understanding of the situation.

"Ollie, move back!" Max roared, his voice barely audible over the wind and Ollie's panic. He knew instinctively that the ice here was compromised, unstable and ready to give way again.

Ollie, tears streaming down his face, barely registered Max's words. He was fixated on the black abyss, his hands outstretched as if he could somehow pull Kimi back from the icy depths. "Kimi! Kimi, can you hear me?" he screamed, his voice cracking with sobs.

Ignoring Max's warning, Ollie edged closer, reaching towards the hole. Desperation fuelled his recklessness. He knew Kimi was down there, in the freezing water, and he couldn't just stand by.

"Ollie, no!" Max lunged forward, grabbing Ollie by the back of his jacket and dragging him away from the treacherous edge. "He's not going to survive if you both go in!" Max yelled, his voice sharp with urgency.

The brutal truth of Max's words seemed to penetrate Ollie's hysteria. He collapsed against Max, his body wracked with sobs. "He's… he's gone, Max. He's gone."

Charles, having reached them, moved with a quiet efficiency. He quickly assessed the situation, pulling out his phone and dialling the emergency services. The remoteness of the location meant a long wait for help, a fact that hung heavy in the air.

Max, despite his own rising panic, forced himself to think. He needed to act, and he needed to act now. He couldn't just stand here and wait. He looked at the hole in the ice, the dark water swirling ominously beneath.

"How long?" he asked Ollie, his voice strained but calm. "How long since he went under?"

Ollie shook his head, his eyes glazed with shock. "I… I don't know. Seconds? It all happened so fast."

Max knew that every second counted. He scanned the surrounding area, searching for anything that could help. He spotted a fallen branch, lying half-buried in the snow. It was long and relatively sturdy.

"Charles, help me with this," he said, his voice regaining its focus. Together, they dragged the branch towards the hole. Max tested its strength, then carefully lowered himself onto his stomach, inching towards the edge. The ice creaked ominously beneath his weight.

"Ollie, stay back," he ordered, his voice firm. "I need you to be ready to pull me back if the ice goes."

He reached out with the branch, carefully probing the water. The biting cold of the air was nothing compared to the unimaginable frigidity of the water below. He pushed the branch deeper, hoping, praying that it would find something, anything.

"Kimi!" he yelled, his voice raw with desperation. "Kimi, can you hear me? Grab on!"

Silence. Only the mournful whistle of the wind and the echo of Ollie's sobs answered him.

He continued his search, his fingers numb with cold, his hope dwindling with each passing second. He knew that the chances of finding Kimi alive were slim, but he couldn't give up. Not yet.

Then, suddenly, he felt something. A slight resistance against the end of the branch. His heart leaped with a surge of adrenaline. He pushed the branch harder, feeling it snag on something soft.

"I've got him!" he yelled, his voice hoarse with effort. "Ollie, Charles, help me pull him out!"

Carefully, painstakingly, they began to pull. The branch strained under the weight, the ice groaning in protest. Inch by agonizing inch, they dragged Kimi towards the surface.

Finally, they saw him. His face was ashen, his eyes closed, his body limp and lifeless. Max reached down, desperate to pull him out of the water before it was too late.

But as he reached for Kimi, the ice gave way beneath him and blunged into the freezing water as well.

Instinct took over. Forget the cold, forget the danger, he was already in the water. He kicked, surging downwards, his movements hampered by his heavy coat. The water was shockingly clear, almost surreal. He reached Kimi, grabbing hold of his racing jacket. Kimi was limp, eyes closed, bubbles escaping from his mouth.

Max yanked him upwards with all his strength, but the water was a relentless anchor. His own breath was burning in his chest. He broke the surface, gasping for air, dragging Kimi with him. The jagged edge of the ice threatened to slice at them.

"Charles!" he roared, his voice hoarse, the word stolen by the wind, "Help us!"

The chaos that followed was a blur. Max, battling the icy water and the weight of Kimi, managed to drag them back to the shore. Ollie and Charles, their faces etched with terror, pulled them out. Kimi was unconscious, his skin blue, his body convulsing with shivers.

An ambulance surprisingly, but thankfully, arrived within minutes of getting Kimi out of the water, the paramedics working frantically to stabilize him. Max, shivering uncontrollably but conscious, insisted on going with them. Charles, his face pale with worry, squeezed Ollie’s shoulder and said, "I'll drive, we need to be there."

The drive to the hospital was a silent nightmare, Charles pushing the car to its limits, his F1 instincts taking over. Ollie sat beside him, his eyes fixed on the road, tears streaming down his face. He was replaying the scene in his head, the sound of the cracking ice, Kimi’s laughter turning into a desperate cry.

“It’s not your fault, Ollie,” Charles said softly, grabbing his hand for comfort.

Ollie shook his head, his voice choked with emotion. “I was right there, Charles. I was right beside him! He was so happy, laughing one second, and then…gone.” His voice broke, consumed by guilt and fear.

Charles his hand tightly. “He’s going to be okay, Bear. He’s strong. Max is strong too. They'll both be okay.” But even as he spoke the words, a knot of anxiety tightened in his stomach.

~~~~~

Max was observed for two hours as he warmed up, doctors ensuring he suffered no lingering effects from the hypothermia. Finally, Ollie and Charles were allowed in to see him. Ollie was still crying, curled into Charles who had an arm around his shoulders.

"How are you feeling, Max?" Charles asked gently.

Max shrugged. "Fine, no side effects." He paused, his gaze hardening with concern. "Any news on Kimi?"

Charles shook his head, his expression grim. "Nothing yet."

Max felt a wave of worry wash over him, but he kept his emotions in check, focusing on reassuring Ollie. "Hey," he said, his voice gentle, "it wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known."

Ollie whispered, his voice barely audible, "I was right there, Max…I was right beside him and he was so happy and laughing one second and then the next there was a crack and he was gone."

Charles squeezed him tighter. "He's going to be okay Bear, he's strong."

The waiting was agonizing, each minute stretching into an eternity. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, a doctor emerged from Kimi’s room. "He's awake," he announced, his face tired but relieved. "You can see him now, but keep it brief. He needs rest."

~~~~~

Ollie rushed into the room, his eyes red and swollen. Kimi lay in the bed, pale and exhausted, but his eyes were open.

"Kimi!" Ollie cried, gently hugging him, afraid to hurt him.

Kimi hugged him back, his voice weak. "Sorry for scaring you, Ollie."

"Don't apologize, Kimi!" Ollie exclaimed, pulling away slightly. "I'm just so happy you're okay."

Charles stepped forward, squeezing Kimi's shoulder. "I'm glad you're okay, Kimi."

Kimi nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. Then, Max stepped up, letting out a long breath of relief. He looked at Kimi, his eyes filled with a complex mix of frustration and affection. "You know, when I joked about you not dying before we get to the lake and you said you'd wait for a dramatic death at the lake, I did not expect you to take it so seriously."

Kimi smiled softly. "My bad."

Max sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Kimi into a hug, hiding his face in Kimi's curls as his emotions finally bubbled to the surface. Tears streamed down his face, a sign of vulnerability rarely seen from the world champion.

Kimi hugged him back, his voice soft. "Thank you, Max. I was told you went into the water to get me out."

Max hugged him tighter, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm just so glad you're going to be okay, kiddo. I would do anything to keep you safe."

Kimi’s eyes slipped closed as he held Max tighter, the weight of everything pressing down on him. The biting cold that continued to plague him since he had awoken finally disappeared. He was safe, he was protected.

Chapter Text

The roar of the engines was a phantom echo in Kimi’s ears. Usually, that sound was the symphony of his life, the adrenaline that coursed through him, the very reason he existed. But today, even the memory felt distant, muffled by a haze of painkillers and the dull ache in his jaw.

He was Kimi Antonelli, the 18-year-old prodigy who’d skipped Formula 3 entirely, spent only a little time in Formula 2 and was thrust straight into the deep end of Formula 1 with the legendary Mercedes team. He was the heir apparent, the future world champion, the kid with the golden touch. But right now, he felt more like a deflated balloon animal.

“Just try to relax, Kimi,” Dr. Schmidt had said, his voice calm and reassuring. “It’s a routine procedure. You’ll be back on the track in no time.”

Easy for him to say. Dr. Schmidt wasn’t the one getting his wisdom teeth violently evicted from his gums.

~~~~~

The week between races was supposed to be a period of simulator work, engineering meetings, and physical training. Instead, it was Kimi sprawled on a ridiculously plush couch in a rarely-used room at the Mercedes paddock, his face swollen and smeared with drool.

A weary-looking mechanic named Colin was assigned babysitting duty. Colin was a good guy, always patient and helpful, even when Kimi’s feedback was more enthusiastic yelling than constructive criticism. Now, Colin looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Okay, Kimi, listen to me,” Colin said, adjusting Kimi’s blanket. “I have to… uh… check on something in the garage. I’ll be right back, okay? Promise me you won’t move.”

Kimi blinked slowly, his eyes unfocused. “Mmm-hmm,” he mumbled, the anaesthesia still clinging to his brain.

“Seriously, Kimi. Stay here.” Colin’s tone was laced with a healthy dose of scepticism. He knew exactly what Kimi was like on a normal day. Add a cocktail of painkillers and dental trauma to the mix, and anything could happen.

“Promisthh,” Kimi slurred, managing a weak thumbs-up that looked quite droopy.

Colin sighed. “Right. Just… don’t, okay?” He hesitated, then quickly slipped out of the room.

The moment the door clicked shut, a mischievous glint flickered in Kimi’s glazed eyes. “Don’t, okay?” he giggled to himself, the sound muffled by his swollen cheeks. “What’sh the fun in that?”

The urge to move, to explore, to do something, was irresistible. He wasn’t a plant! He was Kimi Antonelli! He was a race car driver! He wasn’t meant to be glued to a couch!

With a groan, he pushed himself upright, the room swimming slightly. He stumbled towards the door, his gait unsteady and his hand trailing along the wall for support. He felt like he was walking underwater. It took him a few tries to open the door as he kept running into it but when it finally opened, he let out a happy whoop.

His journey out of the Mercedes paddock was surprisingly easy. Everyone was busy prepping for the weekend, too absorbed in their tasks to notice the young driver swaying erratically through their midst, his jaw wrapped in gauze and a vacant smile plastered on his face.

He vaguely remembered signing out, muttering something about “needing fresh air,” but the details were hazy. He just kept walking, drawn towards the faint sound of laughter and the alluring aroma of espresso.

~~~~~

Kimi found himself wandering in a different world, a place of crisp tablecloths, overflowing buffets, and meticulously manicured flower arrangements. He’d somehow stumbled into the open hospitality area, a haven for sponsors, team personnel, and the occasional VIP.

He blinked, trying to focus his blurry vision. Around a low table, four familiar figures were engaged in what appeared to be a surprisingly amiable conversation.

Max Verstappen, the reigning world champion, a perpetual scowl usually etched on his face, was actually laughing. Lando Norris, the perennial jokester, was mid-anecdote, his hands gesturing wildly. Across from them sat the polished and charming Charles Leclerc, and beside him, George Russell, Kimi’s teammate, looking slightly less stressed than usual.

Kimi, fuelled by painkillers and sheer audacity, didn’t hesitate. He lurched towards them, weaving between tables laden with pastries.

“Hey!” he called out, his voice thick and garbled. “Whatcha doin’?”

The four drivers looked up, their conversation abruptly halting. Their expressions ranged from mild amusement to outright bewilderment.

Max’s eyebrows shot up. “Antonelli? What in the world are you doing here?”

Lando burst out laughing. “Mate, you look like you’ve gone ten rounds with a grizzly bear!”

Charles, ever the diplomat, rose slightly from his seat looking concerned. “Kimi, are you alright? You don’t look well.”

George, the most concerned of the group, frowned. “Kimi, you’re supposed to be resting! Colin’s probably having a heart attack looking for you.”

Kimi swayed, trying to maintain his balance. “Had… had teeth taken out,” he explained, pointing a trembling finger at his swollen jaw. “Hurts… but… bored, entertain me.”

Max leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. “Bored, huh? Maybe you should try building a Lego set. That usually keeps me occupied.”

Lando snorted. “Or maybe try racing a remote control car through the hospitality area. Now that’s entertainment!”

Ignoring their banter, Kimi plopped down on the nearest empty chair, nearly knocking it over in the process. “Want… want to talk.” He slurred the words together, making them sound like one long, incomprehensible syllable.

Charles exchanged a worried glance with George. “Kimi, are you sure you’re okay to be here? Maybe we should get someone to take you back to Mercedes.”

Kimi waved his hand dismissively. “No… no… want to talk F1 stuff. Like… like strategy!” He grinned, revealing a glimpse of gauze and a disconcerting amount of blood.

George sighed, knowing there was no reasoning with Kimi in his current state. “Alright, Kimi. Let’s talk strategy. What’s on your mind?”

Kimi blinked, struggling to focus. “Um… tires! Yes! Tires are… are like… round things! That go on the car!”

The room erupted in laughter. Even Max couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

“Brilliant observation, Kimi,” Lando said, wiping a tear from his eye. “You’ve clearly cracked the code to Formula 1 success.”

Despite his muddled state, Kimi somehow managed to hold his own in the conversation, albeit in a bizarre, rambling sort of way. He shared his (mostly incoherent) thoughts on everything from tire degradation to DRS zones, peppering his pronouncements with giggles and occasional drooling.

He surprisingly, gained the group’s attention. Yes, he was clearly under the influence of something strong, but beneath the anaesthesia-induced haze, his raw talent and passion for racing still shone through.

He even managed to offer a few surprisingly insightful observations, albeit phrased in a way only he seemed to understand. For example, he declared the key to mastering the Monaco Grand Prix was to “think like a sardine… squished, but efficient!”

The other drivers found themselves strangely captivated by his pronouncements. They exchanged knowing glances, recognizing the kernel of truth buried within the young rookie’s rambling.

Max, usually so guarded and cynical, actually seemed to enjoy Kimi’s company. He challenged him with pointed questions, trying to draw out more coherent thoughts.

“So, Antonelli,” Max said, leaning forward. “Tell me, what do you think is Mercedes’ biggest weakness this season?”

Kimi furrowed his brow, concentrating hard. “Weakness… is… too much… shiny!” He pointed a wobbly finger at George. “Shiny hair distractsh!”

George blushed, running a hand through his meticulously styled hair. “Oh, come on, really?”

Everyone laughed again, including Kimi, who found himself thoroughly enjoying the attention.

As the afternoon wore on, Kimi’s words became even more slurred and his actions more erratic. He started attempting to demonstrate his preferred racing lines using cutlery and pastries, creating a sticky, crumb-covered tableau on the table. George hovered beside him, keeping him upright so that he did not slide off the chair.

Suddenly, a familiar voice cut through the laughter. “Kimi! There you are!”

Colin, looking harried and relieved, rushed towards the table. “Oh, thank God! I’ve been searching everywhere for you!” He turned to the other drivers, his face flushed with embarrassment. “I am so sorry for this. He’s… he’s had some dental work.”

The other drivers chuckled. “No worries, Colin,” Charles said, patting Colin on the shoulder. “He’s been… entertaining.”

Max winked at Kimi. “He’s been giving us a valuable insight into the mind of a future champion.”

Kimi, oblivious to the seriousness of the situation, beamed at Max. “Fanks… Fanks, Max! You’re… you’re my beshtest enemy!”

Colin shook his head, his expression a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “Alright, Kimi. Time to go back to the paddock and lie down.” He gently guided Kimi to his feet, his grip firm but gentle.

As Colin led him away, back towards the sterile environment of the Mercedes garage, Kimi looked back at the group one last time, waving clumsily.

“Remember,” he slurred, his words barely audible. “Sardines… and shhiny hair…!”

And with that, Kimi Antonelli, the 18-year-old Formula 1 rookie, disappeared back into the paddock, leaving behind a group of seasoned racers who were left to wonder if they had just witnessed a glimpse into the future, or just the chaotic aftermath of a wisdom tooth extraction.

Chapter Text

Kimi was living a dream, one meticulously crafted since he first sat in a go-kart at the age of five. He was surrounded by the best engineers, the most advanced technology, the unrelenting scrutiny of the world. And yet, he felt profoundly alone.

Kimi wasn’t built for the spotlight. He was quiet, introspective, more comfortable analysing telemetry data than engaging in the endless chatter that permeated the paddock. He admired his teammate, George Russell, who seemed to glide effortlessly through the social minefield, charming sponsors and connecting with fans. Kimi, on the other hand, tripped over his words and blushed at the slightest compliment.

Tonight, the silence was oppressive. He craved the background hum of his parents' house, the familiar scent of his mother's cooking. Instead, there was only the insistent drumming of the rain that was now intensifying, punctuated by low rumbles of thunder that vibrated through the glass.

He shivered. It was colder than he expected. He reached for a sweatshirt, trying to ignore the knot tightening in his stomach.

Then the lightning flashed.

A blinding white glare illuminated the room, followed almost immediately by a deafening crack that shook the entire building. Kimi flinched, his breath catching in his throat.

And then it came.

A fragmented memory, sharp and terrifying, ripped through his consciousness. A rainy night, a little boy lost and crying, a hand reaching out… not a comforting hand, but a clawing, desperate grip. A man's face, distorted by anger and something darker, leering down at him. The fear. The suffocating panic.

He squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to push the memory back into the abyss from which it had crawled. He gripped the bed sheets, his knuckles white. The storm outside mirrored the storm raging within him.

Another flash, another thunderclap, and he was back there, four years old, utterly vulnerable. He started to shake, a deep, bone-chilling tremor that he couldn't control. He was hyperventilating, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He couldn't be alone. Not tonight.

He knew he shouldn’t. He knew George was probably busy, probably unwinding after the race, probably… not interested. But the thought of enduring this terror alone was unbearable.

He stumbled off the bed, his legs feeling like lead. He didn’t bother with shoes, just blindly made his way to the door. George’s room was next door. Number 7. He stared at the number, his hand hovering over the door knocker.

Just breathe, Kimi. Just breathe.

He knocked, a soft, hesitant tap. He waited, each second an eternity, the thunder growing louder, closer. He was about to give up, to retreat back to the suffocating safety of his own room, when the door swung open.

George stood there, looking slightly surprised to see him. He was dressed casually in a t-shirt and jeans, his hair slightly dishevelled. But it wasn’t just George. The room was filled with other faces, a mix of drivers from different teams. Lando Norris, Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc – they were all there, laughing and joking, controllers in hand, engrossed in what looked like a heated video game competition.

Kimi froze, instantly regretting his decision. He wanted to disappear, to melt into the carpet. He had intruded on their private space, their camaraderie. He was an imposter, always on the outside looking in.

“Kimi? Everything alright?” George asked, his brow furrowing with concern.

Kimi swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. "I... I'm sorry. I didn't realize... I'll just…" He turned to leave, humiliation burning in his cheeks.

"Hey, no need to apologize," George said, reaching out to stop him. "Come on in. What's up?"

He hesitated, glancing at the others. They had all stopped talking, their attention now focused on him. Lando gave him a friendly nod. Max just stared, his expression unreadable.

Another crash of thunder echoed through the room. Kimi flinched, his control finally snapping. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears welling up. He bit his lip, desperate to hold it together.

He couldn't.

A sob escaped, a choked, gasping sound that drew everyone’s attention. He opened his eyes, his vision blurred by tears. He couldn't see their faces clearly, but he could feel their concern, their surprise.

He tried to speak, to apologize again, but the words caught in his throat. Another sob wracked his body, and then another, until he was standing there, in the middle of a room full of racing superstars, completely and utterly broken.

~~~~~

Panic rippled through the room. No one knew what to do. Max, surprisingly, was the first to react. He grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and gently draped it around Kimi’s shoulders.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “Just breathe.”

George put an arm around him, guiding him to the couch. Lando disappeared into the kitchenette and returned moments later with a steaming mug.

“Hot chocolate,” he said, handing it to Kimi. “Always does the trick.”

Kimi took the mug, his hands trembling so badly he almost dropped it. He took a tentative sip, the warm, sweet liquid soothing his raw throat.

“What happened, Kimi?” George asked, his voice low and concerned.

Kimi shook his head, unable to speak. The sobs continued to wrack his body. He felt utterly mortified, a mess in front of the very people he admired, the people he desperately wanted to impress.

Then another thunderclap, even louder than before, echoed through the room. Kimi flinched violently, burying his face in his hands. The memory resurfaced, sharper and more vivid than ever.

“The… the storm," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. “It… it reminds me…”

He hesitated, ashamed to admit such a childish fear. But the memory was too strong, the fear too real.

“When I was little,” he continued, his voice shaking, “when I was four… there was a storm. A man… he tried to… take me.”

The room fell silent. Even the rain seemed to have hushed, as if listening to his confession. Max, who had been standing slightly apart, moved closer, his expression now one of genuine concern.

Kimi took a deep breath, forcing himself to continue. He told them about the rainy night, the darkness, the terror. He told them about the man’s face, the desperate struggle, the sheer, unadulterated fear. He didn't go into details, leaving out the images that still haunted his dreams.

When he finished, the silence was deafening. He kept his head down, unable to meet their gazes. He felt exposed, vulnerable, like a butterfly pinned to a board.

Then, George squeezed his shoulder. “Kimi,” he said softly, “that’s… that’s awful. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

One by one, the others offered words of comfort. Charles told him about a time he was robbed as a child, how the memory still lingered. Lando shared a story about his own childhood fears, how he used to hide under his bed during thunderstorms. Even Max, the stoic Dutchman, offered a brief, sincere, “That’s shit, man.”

Kimi looked up, surprised by their empathy. He had expected judgement, maybe pity, but instead, he saw genuine compassion in their eyes. He realized, in that moment, that they weren’t just racing drivers, rivals on the track. They were people, with their own vulnerabilities, their own scars.

The storm outside continued to rage, but inside the room, the atmosphere had shifted. The tension had eased, replaced by a sense of shared vulnerability.

They didn’t talk about it much after that. They played video games, shared snacks, and joked around like they usually did. But something had changed.

George made sure Kimi stayed close, offering him a comforting smile every now and then. Lando kept refilling his hot chocolate, adding extra marshmallows. Max, surprisingly, sat next to him on the couch, casually leaning close enough that Kimi could feel his warmth.

As the night wore on, Kimi started to relax. The fear didn’t completely disappear, but it lessened, diluted by the warmth of the company and the shared understanding. He even managed to join in the video game competition, surprising himself with a few decent moves.

By the time the storm finally began to subside, the first rays of dawn painting the sky a pale grey, Kimi was almost smiling. He looked around the room, at the exhausted faces of the other drivers, scattered on the couches and the floor. He knew he would never forget this night.

He knew, too, that he wasn't quite as alone as he thought he was.

Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd was a dull hum in Kimi Antonelli's ears. The adrenaline, which had been coursing through his veins for the past hour and a half, was slowly receding, leaving behind a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. He’d finished P8, not a bad result for his ninth ever Formula 1 race, especially at the demanding Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya.

At eighteen, Kimi was the youngest driver on the grid, a rookie sensation thrust into the spotlight by Mercedes. He navigated the post-race rituals, the awkward small talk with rival teams, the obligatory sponsor shoutouts, all while fighting against the growing fog in his brain.

Narcolepsy. It was a companion he’d learned to manage since his diagnosis at fifteen. As long as the adrenaline was pumping, he was fine. Alert, focused, lightning reflexes. But when the pressure released, when he finally relaxed, the switch flipped. Sleep threatened to consume him.

Mercedes knew. Toto Wolff, his team principal, had been surprisingly understanding during the initial medical evaluations. They had a protocol in place, energy drinks on standby, a quiet room ready for him after each race. But outside the team...well, it wasn't exactly something he advertised.

He spotted Lando Norris approaching, a wide grin splitting his face. Lando, the McLaren driver, was a friendly face in the intensely competitive world of Formula 1. They’d bonded over simulator sessions and shared anxieties about the pressure of the sport.

"Kimi! Great race, mate!" Lando clapped him on the back, the force sending a ripple of tiredness through Kimi. "You were defending like a lion out there!"

Kimi managed a tired smile. "Thanks, Lando. You too. That overtake on Leclerc was insane."

Lando moved in for a hug, and that was it. The lights went out.

One moment, he was standing, vaguely aware of Lando’s approach. The next, he was falling…falling…into a bottomless pit of nothingness.

Lando stumbled, his arms suddenly burdened by dead weight. Kimi had gone limp, his head lolling onto Lando’s shoulder. Panic flared. What the hell just happened?

"Kimi? Kimi!" He shook him gently, but Kimi remained unresponsive, his breathing shallow and even. He was out cold.

"He… he fainted!" Lando’s voice cracked, attracting the attention of nearby mechanics and officials.

A small crowd began to gather, concern etched on their faces. Max, still radiating competitive energy from his race win, paused in his interview and frowned. Charles, always impeccably groomed, looked genuinely worried.

"What happened?" Max demanded, pushing his way through the throng.

"He just…collapsed," Lando stammered, his arms aching from supporting Kimi. "I think he fainted."

Before the murmurs of concern could escalate into full-blown panic, a figure jogged into view, a smirk playing on his lips. It was George Russell, Kimi’s teammate.

"What's all the commotion?" George asked, his eyes scanning the scene before landing on Lando and the unconscious Kimi. He choked back a giggle.

"George! Kimi just passed out!" Lando cried, his voice laced with anxiety.

George raised an eyebrow. "He did, did he?" He approached Kimi and gently shook his shoulder. "Wakey wakey, kiddo."

Kimi's eyes finally fluttered open, confusion clouding his features. He blinked a few times, then focused on the faces staring down at him. A wave of embarrassment washed over him.

"Sorry," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

George chuckled, ruffling Kimi's hair. "His narcolepsy kicked in. Gave Lando a heart attack, it seems."

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife. Max and Charles exchanged bewildered glances. Lando looked pale and shaken.

"Narco…what?" Lando finally managed.

George sighed. "He has a condition. Narcolepsy. When the adrenaline wears off after a race, sometimes he just...shuts down. Harmless, really. Just needs a nap." He tugged Kimi upright, supporting him steadily. "Let's get you somewhere comfortable, eh, sleepyhead?"

Kimi, still groggy, nodded weakly and allowed George to lead him away, leaving a stunned audience in their wake.

~~~~~

The paddock buzzed with the news of Kimi's condition. The tightly knit world of Formula 1, usually fuelled by ruthless ambition and fierce rivalries, was momentarily united in surprise and, surprisingly, a hint of protectiveness.

Max, known for his bluntness and unwavering focus, was the first to approach Kimi later that day. "So, you just… fall asleep?" he asked, his brow furrowed.

Kimi, sitting in the Mercedes hospitality unit, sipping lukewarm tea, shrugged. "Pretty much. It's worse when I'm relaxed. Racing keeps me awake."

Max considered this, his intense blue eyes studying Kimi. "Interesting. Makes you think twice about trying to overtake you, doesn't it? Wouldn't want to bore you to sleep."

Kimi couldn't help but smile. "Don't worry, Max. I'm usually wide awake when you're behind me."

Charles, always the gentleman, was more concerned. "Are you okay? Is there anything we can do?"

"Just let me sleep it off," Kimi assured him. "Mercedes is pretty clued up on it. They've got me covered."

But the drivers, now aware of Kimi's vulnerability, started to notice things they'd previously missed. The way his eyelids would droop slightly during press conferences, the way he'd lean heavily against the pit wall during team briefings, the way he'd often choose to stand rather than sit in the driver's room after a particularly gruelling race.

The first time it happened, it was Pierre Gasly who found him. Kimi was slumped against a tire wall behind the Alpine garage, fast asleep, his helmet still on. Pierre, initially startled, quickly realized what was happening. He carefully removed the helmet, tucked his jacket under Kimi’s head as a makeshift pillow, and quietly alerted a Mercedes mechanic.

Soon, it became almost a game. "Where's Kimi?" became a common refrain after races. Drivers and team personnel would discreetly check their usual haunts – the massage tent, the driver's lounge, even the team catering area – looking for the sleeping rookie.

Lando, still feeling guilty about his initial panic, took it upon himself to be Kimi’s designated sleep-spotter. He'd often find Kimi looking bleary-eyed and disoriented after the podium celebrations, and would gently steer him towards a quiet corner.

One time, he found Kimi fast asleep on a beanbag in the McLaren hospitality unit, clutching a half-eaten sandwich. Lando couldn't help but smile. He carefully took the sandwich, tucked a blanket around Kimi, and left him to sleep.

The whole thing was, in a word, adorable. These hardened, competitive drivers, used to fighting tooth and nail for every tenth of a second, were now acting like overprotective big brothers to the sleepy rookie.

Kimi, despite his initial embarrassment, found the attention surprisingly comforting. Before, he had felt like he was carrying a secret, a potential weakness that could be exploited. Now, he was surrounded by support.

He found himself opening up more, talking about his struggles with fatigue, the constant battle to stay awake and focused. He explained the careful routines he followed, the strategies he used to manage his condition.

The other drivers listened, their faces etched with understanding. They realized that Kimi wasn't just a talented rookie, he was also incredibly resilient. He was battling a condition that would have sidelined many, yet he was competing at the highest level of motorsport.

Their respect for him grew exponentially.

The change in the paddock wasn't just limited to the drivers. Mechanics started offering him energy drinks, engineers made sure he had a comfortable chair during briefings, even the notoriously grumpy Helmut Marko, Red Bull's driver manager, was seen giving Kimi a rare, almost paternal, nod of acknowledgement, (to which Max immediately steered him away for some reason).

The media, of course, picked up on the story. Initially, there was a flurry of sensationalist headlines, questioning Kimi's ability to compete. But as they learned more about his condition, and witnessed the outpouring of support from the Formula 1 community, the narrative shifted.

Kimi became a symbol of resilience, a reminder that even with limitations, anything was possible. He was invited to speak at conferences, sharing his story and inspiring others to overcome their own challenges.

He even started an online foundation, raising awareness and funding research into narcolepsy.

Of course, there were still challenges. The relentless travel schedule, the pressure to perform, the constant scrutiny of the media – all took their toll. There were days when the exhaustion was overwhelming, when he questioned whether he could continue.

But he wasn't alone. He had his team, his family, and now, the entire Formula 1 community, supporting him every step of the way.

~~~~~

The season progressed, a whirlwind of races, travel, and ever-increasing pressure. Kimi continued to perform admirably, consistently scoring points and proving his place on the grid.

He still had his moments, of course. There was the time Charles found him asleep in the Ferrari motorhome, drooling on a signed photograph of Enzo Ferrari. And the time he fell asleep during a particularly dull strategic briefing, only to wake up and offer a brilliant solution to a complex problem, much to the astonishment of the team engineers.

But he was learning to manage his condition, to recognize the warning signs, to ask for help when he needed it.

And the other drivers were always there for him. Max, despite his fierce competitiveness, would often check in on Kimi after a particularly demanding race. Charles would offer him a sympathetic ear, sharing his own struggles with the pressures of fame and expectation. And Lando, well, Lando was still his designated sleep-spotter-in-chief.

The final race of the season arrived in Abu Dhabi, the championship already decided, but the atmosphere still electric. Kimi qualified P6, a strong result that gave him a good chance of ending the season on a high note.

The race was gruelling, a battle of attrition under the baking desert sun. Kimi fought hard, defending his position against a relentless onslaught from the midfield contenders.

In the closing laps, he found himself in a thrilling battle with Lando for fifth place. The two friends traded places several times, pushing each other to the limit.

On the final corner, Lando made a daring move, diving down the inside and forcing Kimi wide. He crossed the finish line just ahead of Kimi, securing fifth place.

As they slowed down, Lando pulled alongside Kimi and gave him a thumbs up. Kimi grinned, despite his disappointment. It had been a good race, a fair fight.

As they parked, the adrenaline began to fade. Kimi felt the familiar wave of exhaustion washing over him. He knew what was coming.

He braced himself, trying to stay awake, but it was no use. His vision blurred, his limbs went heavy, and he slumped in his cockpit, his head lolling onto his chest.

Lando, seeing Kimi's condition, immediately rushed over. He gently shook Kimi's shoulder.

"Kimi? You okay?"

Kimi mumbled incoherently, his eyes half-closed.

Lando smiled. "Come on, sleepyhead. Let's get you somewhere comfortable."

He carefully unbuckled Kimi's harness, helped him out of the car, and draped an arm around his shoulders, supporting him as they walked towards the Mercedes garage.

The crowd roared, applauding the two young drivers. They were rivals on the track, but friends off it. They were part of a new generation of Formula 1 drivers, a generation that valued sportsmanship, respect, and camaraderie.

As they disappeared into the Mercedes garage, the camera zoomed in on a small sign that had been taped to the door. It read:

"Kimi's Quiet Room. Do Not Disturb. Napping in Progress."

The race was over, but the story of Kimi Antonelli was just beginning. And it was a story filled with hope, resilience, and the unwavering support of a community that had learned to embrace the sleepy rookie and his unique way of navigating the fast-paced world of Formula 1. The race goes on, and Kimi was ready for it, one nap at a time.

Chapter Text

The roar of the engines was replaced by the gentle clatter of cutlery and the boisterous sounds of laughter. It was lunchtime in the paddock, a rare moment of respite amidst the cutthroat competition of Formula 1. Drivers, usually locked in fierce battles on the track, were now sharing tables and stories, the tension momentarily diffused.

Kimi Antonelli, the youngest driver on the grid at a mere eighteen years old, felt a thrill course through him. This was his dream, and he was finally living it. As a rookie for Mercedes, he was still navigating the intricacies of the sport, both on and off the track. His boundless energy, a characteristic that both fuelled his racing and occasionally landed him in trouble, was on full display. He fidgeted in his chair, his legs bouncing under the table.

He was sitting with a diverse group: Pierre Gasly from Alpine, his sharp wit always entertaining; Charles Leclerc from Ferrari, ever the gentleman; Ollie Bearman, another rookie hailing from Haas, and someone Kimi considered a close friend; Lance Stroll from Aston Martin, quiet and observant; and Esteban Ocon, the other Haas driver, known for his calculated approach.

The conversation flowed easily, a mix of playful banter and inside jokes only understandable to those immersed in the racing world. Ollie, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, turned to Kimi.

“Hey, Kimi, you still carrying around Mr. Snuggles?”

Kimi’s brow furrowed for a moment, then his face lit up. “Mr. Snuggles! Dude, I totally forgot!” Ollie had gifted him a small, plush teddy bear for his 16th birthday, a seemingly childish present that Kimi secretly cherished. It was a reminder of the normalcy he sometimes missed amidst the frenzy of Formula 1.

“He’s upstairs in my bag,” Kimi exclaimed, his energy levels spiking. Before anyone could respond, he was already pushing himself up from the table. “I’ll be right back!”

He darted towards the staircase leading to the hospitality suites above, his mind already picturing the little bear with its stitched-on smile.

Upstairs, the plush carpets muffled the sounds of the bustling paddock. Kimi located his Mercedes bag, a sleek black number emblazoned with the team logo, resting on a bench. He rummaged through it with practiced efficiency, his fingers finally closing around the familiar softness of Mr. Snuggles.

He clutched the teddy bear to his chest, a wide grin spreading across his face. Turning on his heel, he prepared to rejoin his friends downstairs. Adrenaline surged through him; the simple joy of having Mr. Snuggles in his hands was enough to send him into a small frenzy.

And that’s when it happened.

He wasn’t looking where he was walking and his foot caught on a loose edge of the carpet, sending him tumbling forward. He braced himself, but momentum was against him. He flailed, arms windmilling, as he plunged down the stairs.

The world became a blur of carpeted steps and blurred faces. He landed with a thud at the bottom, the impact jarring but thankfully not painful. However, the noise. Oh, the noise!

The boisterous chatter downstairs abruptly ceased. All eyes were on him, the fallen rookie sprawled at the foot of the stairs, Mr. Snuggles lying a few feet away, looking equally bewildered.

Mortified, Kimi buried his face in his arms, wishing the ground would swallow him whole. The silence was deafening, broken only by the frantic pounding of his own heart.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of movement. Rushed footsteps echoed across the large open space. Kimi peeked through his arms, his cheeks burning with shame. To his utter horror, the first faces he saw belonged to some of the biggest names in Formula 1.

George Russell, his Mercedes teammate, was kneeling beside him, his expression a mixture of concern and amusement. Next to him were Max Verstappen the reigning world champion from Red Bull, his usual intensity softened with genuine worry, Oscar Piastri from McLaren, typically composed, now with his brows furrowed with concern, and Alex Albon from Williams, equally concerned.

“Are you okay, kiddo?” Max’s gruff voice cut through the silence. “That looked like a bad fall.”

Kimi’s blush deepened. Max, the reigning world champion, was calling him “kiddo”? It was beyond embarrassing.

“Um, I’m fine,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. “I just tripped… and it was really embarrassing.”

A collective chuckle rippled through the group.

Just then, Lando Norris from McLaren came jogging up, his face etched with concern. “Is everything okay? Should he get checked out by the medics?”

George, ever the responsible teammate, laid a hand on Kimi’s arm. He looked up at Lando, a reassuring smile on his face. “Kimi’s fine, he just tripped and is a little embarrassed.”

Lando’s serious expression dissolved into a cackle. “Kimi tripped! I knew it! Someone get the replay!” he called out to the rest of the drivers, who had started to gather around, their faces a mix of concern and amusement.

Ollie, never one to miss an opportunity for teasing, giggled. “I hope someone got that on video because that was hilarious!”

A groan escaped Kimi’s lips. He felt like he was shrinking under the weight of everyone’s gaze.

He grabbed onto the nearest solid object, which happened to be George’s waist, and buried his face in his teammate’s shoulder. The familiar scent of George’s cologne offered a small measure of comfort.

George chuckled, running a hand through Kimi’s hair in a comforting gesture. “You doofus,” he said affectionately. “Don’t be so hyperactive and trip so much, you’ll get hurt.”

Kimi pulled away, a pout forming on his lips. “I didn’t mean to!”

The tension eased as the other drivers chuckled and offered words of encouragement. Max, surprisingly, patted Kimi on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid. Happens to the best of us. Just try to stay on your feet next time.”

Helpful as always.

Lando, still chuckling, retrieved Mr. Snuggles and handed him back to Kimi with a wink. “Don’t let him cause too much trouble, eh?”

Kimi clutched the teddy bear tightly, a small smile returning to his face. Despite the mortification, the genuine concern from the other drivers had warmed him. He was still new to this world, but moments like these reminded him that beneath the fierce competition, there was a surprising sense of camaraderie.

George kept a watchful eye on Kimi as they made their way back to the table. Pierre, Charles, Ollie, Lance, and Esteban were all wearing knowing smiles.

“So,” Pierre began, his voice laced with amusement. “Mr. Snuggles is quite the catalyst, isn’t he?”

Kimi groaned, burying his face in his hands again. “Don’t remind me.”

Ollie, unable to resist, patted his shoulder. “Hey, at least you gave everyone a good laugh. Besides, it’s a good story, right?”

Kimi managed a weak smile. Maybe it was. Maybe, in the grand scheme of things, tripping down a flight of stairs wasn't the end of the world. It was just another bumpy lap in the long and winding race of his life.

As he sat down, he took a deep breath, determined to regroup. He might be a hyperactive rookie, prone to embarrassing moments, but he was also a Formula 1 driver, and he wasn't about to let a little tumble derail his dream.

He glanced down at Mr. Snuggles, nestled in his lap. Maybe, he thought, it was time to retire the teddy bear from public appearances, at least for a while. But, he knew, he would always keep him safe, a reminder that even in the high-octane world of Formula 1, there was always room for a little bit of childhood comfort.

Chapter Text

The roar of the engines was a familiar symphony, a constant thrum beneath Kimi’s feet and through his bones. Every curve, every straight, every G-force slammed into his body was a lesson, a test, a brutal embrace of the dream he’d chased since he could barely see over the steering wheel of a kart.

Across the paddock, in the slightly less polished but no less determined red and white of the Haas garage, sat Ollie Bearman. Just a year older than Kimi, Ollie was Kimi’s anchor, his confidant, his oldest friend in a world that was both exhilarating and isolating. They’d raced as teammates in Prema just last season in Formula 2, their rivalry on track always dissolving into shared laughs and late-night gaming sessions off it. Ollie, with his sharper features and more overtly competitive glint in his eye, often acted as Kimi’s shield, deflecting the press, the expectations, the sheer weight of being Mercedes’ new golden boy.

Today, the Barcelona sun beat down mercilessly, baking the tarmac and shimmering off the carbon fibre. Kimi adjusted his gloves, the silence of his helmet amplifying the anxious thumping of his heart. It was the Spanish Grand Prix, a home race of sorts for some, and the pressure was palpable.

“Alright, Kimi,” Bono’s voice crackled over the radio, calm as ever. “Focus. Don’t push too hard on these opening laps. Tyres are critical.”

“Understood, Bono,” Kimi replied, his voice betraying a hint of the adrenaline already coursing through him. He glanced across the grid, catching a fleeting glimpse of George in the sister Mercedes, already in full race mode, eyes narrow, jaw set. George, almost ten years his senior, had taken Kimi under his wing, a diligent mentor, often seen explaining nuances of car setup or track conditions with a paternal patience.

And then there was Max. Max Verstappen, the reigning champion, the beast of Red Bull. Max, with his intense focus and almost supernatural ability to wring every ounce of speed from his car, was another unexpected ally. He wasn’t outwardly demonstrative, but Kimi had learned to read the quiet nods, the shared glances, the dry humour that belied a genuine care.

The fans, of course, had noticed. George, the meticulous, articulate Brit, and Max, the fiery, blunt Dutchman, rarely saw eye to eye. Their on-track battles were legendary, their post-race comments often laced with barely concealed jabs. Yet, when it came to Kimi, an unspoken truce seemed to fall. They both watched over him, offered advice (sometimes conflicting), and occasionally even shared a worried look when Kimi pushed the limits just a little too much. It had become a running joke amongst the F1 community, whispered in the paddock and shouted on social media: George and Max, Kimi’s divorced parents, momentarily united in their concern for their prodigious son. Kimi, for his part, found it hilarious, though he’d never admit it to their faces.

The lights went out.

The world exploded into motion. Kimi’s launch was clean, a surge of power that pressed him deep into his seat. The first few corners were a blur of weaving cars, the smell of burning fuel and hot rubber filling the air. He held his line, defending bravely, gaining a position, then losing another. It was chaotic, exhilarating, and utterly consuming.

Lap after lap, Kimi found his rhythm. He was pushing, but not over-extending. The car felt balanced, the tyres holding up. He was making progress, slowly reeling in the cars ahead. The confidence grew with each successful apex, each perfectly timed overtake.

Then came Turn 9. A long, sweeping right-hander, fast and committing. Kimi had taken it hundreds of times in the simulator, dozens now in real life. But this time, something was off. Maybe it was a tiny gust of wind, a fraction too much throttle, or just a rogue piece of gravel dislodged by the car ahead.

He felt the rear twitch, a sudden, violent snap. The car lost purchase, the tyres scrabbling for grip that wasn’t there. Kimi’s instincts screamed at him to correct, to counter-steer, but it was too late. The Mercedes veered sharply, arcing wide, and then slammed into the barrier with a force that knocked the air from his lungs. The impact was sickening, a bone-jarring, metal-rending crunch that echoed through the otherwise deafening roar of the circuit. The car bounced off the wall, spinning wildly across the track, debris scattering like shrapnel.

Before the world could fully register the chaos, Kimi felt another impact, duller this time, as the car settled, crumpled and broken, against the opposing barrier. The dashboard lights flickered, then died. The engine, moments ago a furious beast, was now eerily silent.

And then, Kimi felt nothing at all.

~~~~~

A collective gasp swept through the paddock. The live feed showed a mangled silver car, wheels askew, smoke curling lazily into the bright sky. The race director’s voice, calm but urgent, cut through the commentators’ hurried whispers: “Red flag. Red flag. Race suspended.”

The remaining cars slowed, the drivers' minds already registering the severity of the crash. They peeled off into the pit lane, the usual adrenaline-fueled post-lap chatter replaced by a strained silence. One by one, the cars pulled into their garages, engines cooling, fans whirring. Drivers, unbuckling harnesses with trembling hands, climbed out, their faces pale beneath their dark visors.

George was out of his car in a flash, ripping off his helmet, his eyes already scanning the large screen in the Mercedes garage, where replays of Kimi’s crash were looping. He saw the way the car had hit, the sheer force of it. His heart hammered against his ribs.

Just a few garages down, Max Verstappen was equally quick, vaulting out of his Red Bull. His helmet was off before his feet even touched the ground, his usually impassive face etched with concern. His gaze, too, was fixed on the screen, a low curse escaping his lips.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Max strode purposefully towards the Mercedes garage. George, who had just turned to speak to Bono, caught sight of him. Normally, any interaction between the two began with a wary assessment, a subtle squaring of shoulders, a readiness for verbal jousting. But not now.

Max reached George, his voice clipped, urgent. “What happened? Did they tell you if Kimi is okay?”

George, who usually took every opportunity to antagonize Max, to find the competitive edge even in casual conversation, simply took a deep, shaky breath. This was Kimi’s safety that was at risk, and George knew, with absolute certainty, how much Max cared for the young rookie. The rivalry, the past grievances, the championship battle – it all evaporated in the face of this shared, gut-wrenching dread.

Without a word, George reached out, his hand instinctively gripping Max’s arm. It wasn’t a challenge, but an invitation, a silent plea for solidarity. He tugged Max into the Mercedes garage, brushing past a startled mechanic who began to protest the sight of a rival driver intruding. George didn’t even glance at him, his focus singularly on Toto Wolff, who stood by the pit wall, his face a mask of grim concern as he spoke urgently into his radio.

“Toto!” George’s voice was uncharacteristically hoarse. Max stood close behind him, a silent, unmoving presence. “Has there been any word? Is he alive?”

Toto turned, his eyes wide with a deep-seated worry that mirrored their own. He glanced at Max, but didn't mention his unexpected presence, the unwritten rule of rivalry momentarily suspended. “Kimi was unconscious but breathing,” Toto said, his voice grave. “They’re taking him to the hospital to get checked out. That’s all we know for now.”

Max swallowed dryly, his throat suddenly tight. The word ‘unconscious’ hung heavy in the air. He cleared his throat, his own voice a whisper. “Will he be okay?”

Toto ran a hand over his face, a gesture of profound weariness. “We hope so, lads. But right now, you two need to focus on the race. They’re clearing the debris; it will resume shortly.” His words were pragmatic, professional, but the tremor in his voice betrayed the crack in his composure.

~~~~~

The race did resume. The atmosphere, however, was dramatically altered. The usual celebratory roar of the crowd felt muted, subdued. The drivers, usually hungry for every tenth, every strategic advantage, seemed to go through the motions. Max, usually an unstoppable force, drove with a noticeable lack of his usual aggression, his mind clearly elsewhere. George, ever the perfectionist, made a few uncharacteristic errors, his focus clearly fractured.

Neither of them got a podium. Max finished P4, George P6. Neither was particularly upset, their minds singularly consumed by the welfare of their young friend. The moment their cars crossed the finish line, their helmets were off, and their eyes scanned the pit lane for the other.

Max was out first, walking briskly towards the Mercedes garage. By the time he got there, George was already waiting for him at the entrance, his face still pale. No words were exchanged, just a shared nod of urgent understanding. Together, they walked straight to Toto.

Toto was off the radio now, looking slightly less strained but still serious. “Any news, Toto?” George asked, his voice low.

“We still don’t know much, boys,” Toto said, his gaze softening as he looked at the two star drivers, their rivalry forgotten in their genuine concern. “But it’s been confirmed. It’s not life-threatening. Concussion, probably. Some bruising.”

A collective sigh of relief seemed to sweep through George and Max. The tension, which had coiled tight in their stomachs since the crash, began to unwind.

“I’m going to go check on him,” Max said, his decision firm and immediate. “Which hospital?”

Toto gave him the name. “The one just a street over. Clinic Sant Jordi. It would be good if someone could visit. His parents aren’t at this Grand Prix.”

Max nodded, already turning to leave. “I just need to grab someone on the way.”

George didn’t hesitate. “I’m coming too.”

Still in their racing suits, but with helmets removed, they strode out of the Mercedes garage and down the main paddock walkway. The crowds parted for them, sensing the unusual urgency in their demeanour. As they neared the Haas garage, Max ducked inside.

Ollie Bearman, still looking a little shaken but now dressed in team gear, looked up from where he was talking to his engineer. His eyes widened when he saw Max and George.

“Ollie,” Max said, his voice gentle but firm. “Kimi’s at Clinic Sant Jordi. Not life-threatening, but he’s still unconscious. We’re going now. Want to come?”

Ollie didn’t need to be asked twice. His face, still pale, lit up with a spark of desperate hope. “Yes! Give me a second.” He grabbed his phone and wallet, quickly joining them.

The three of them, an unlikely trio – the reigning champion, the Mercedes future, and the Haas rookie – hurried out of the paddock, their racing suits a stark contrast to the hospital’s sterile white corridors. They were led to Kimi’s room on the third floor.

The door swung open silently. Kimi was lying in the bed, looking small and fragile against the crisp white sheets. There was a faint bruise blooming under one eye, and a small, clean cut above his left eyebrow, but he was awake. His eyes, though a little unfocused, were open.

Ollie practically launched himself across the room, rushing over. He didn’t hug Kimi tightly, but gently, as if afraid he might break. “Kimi! Oh my God, Kimi, you scared me senseless!”

George and Max moved to stand by the bed, their expressions softening with relief. Max leaned closer, his voice quiet, uncharacteristically tender. “You scared us, schat.”

Kimi managed a weak smile. “I’m sorry. A wheel hit the gravel, and it just spun out of control. I’m okay, though. Doctors say I have a concussion and need to stay overnight for observation. How was the rest of the race?”

George reached out and gently squeezed Kimi’s uninjured arm. “Don’t worry about that, Kimi. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Ollie, still clinging to Kimi, shifted carefully, managing to curl up on the edge of the bed beside him, his arm draped protectively around Kimi’s chest. Kimi, for his part, snuggled into his best friend, closing his eyes, the familiar comfort a balm after the chaos. Max and George exchanged a look, a shared understanding passing between them. The ‘divorced parents’ were united, for now, in watching over their very much alive, though battered, son. The world could wait.

Chapter Text

Kimi Antonelli, all of eighteen years old, was living a dream. A dream painted in the vibrant hues of racing stripes, screaming engines, and the intoxicating smell of burning rubber. He was a Formula One rookie, a prodigy handpicked by Mercedes, the youngest driver on the grid. The weight of expectation was immense, a constant pressure humming beneath his skin, but he thrived on it. He craved the adrenaline, the challenge, the feeling of pushing himself and his machine to the very limit.

But the dream, like any reality, had its shadows.

His relationship with Marco was one of them. Marco, older, charismatic, a world away from the cutthroat intensity of Formula One. Initially, Marco had been his anchor, a calming presence that helped Kimi navigate the dizzying whirlwind of his new life. But lately, the anchor felt more like a chain. Marco's charm had soured, replaced with a possessiveness that bordered on suffocating.

Tonight, the tension had finally snapped.

An argument that had begun as a minor disagreement over Kimi's ever-demanding schedule had escalated into a shouting match. Marco accused him of neglecting him, of letting fame go to his head. Kimi, exhausted after a gruelling test session, had snapped back, reminding Marco of the sacrifices he was making for the sake of his career, for their future.

That's when it happened.

Marco's face contorted with a rage Kimi had never seen before. He grabbed Kimi, shoving him against the wall. Kimi cried out, fear spiking through him as Marco's hands tightened around his throat. He gasped for air, his vision blurring, panic clawing at his chest. A desperate surge of adrenaline propelled him forward. He kicked out, connecting with Marco's shin, enough to break his grip.

Kimi stumbled back, his throat burning, his lungs screaming for air. He scrambled for the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it with trembling hands. He leaned against the cool porcelain, his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence.

The silence didn't last.

Marco's voice, a snarling beast just beyond the thin barrier of the door, shattered it. "Kimi! Open this fucking door! You think you can just walk away from me like that?"

Terror, cold and sharp, pierced through Kimi. He fumbled for his phone, his fingers clumsy and unresponsive. He needed George. George, his teammate, his mentor, his brother in all but blood.

He dialled George's number, his hands shaking so violently he almost dropped the phone. It rang, and rang, and rang. Finally, someone answered.

"Hello?"

It wasn't George.

"Lando?" Kimi's voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible.

There was a pause. "Kimi? Mate, what's up? You sound… off." He could hear the muffled sounds of laughter and chatter in the background. "We're at George's. It's game night. Max and Charles are here too. What's happening?"

"Lando… please… tell George… tell George to come get me." Kimi's voice cracked. He didn't want to explain, didn't want to be seen as weak, as pathetic. He just needed George.

The pounding on the door intensified, accompanied by Marco's increasingly furious shouts. "Kimi! You little… Open this door now!"

Lando's voice sharpened, all traces of his usual light-heartedness gone. "Kimi, what's going on? I can hear yelling. Is someone there?"

"Please, Lando," Kimi choked out, tears streaming down his face. "Just tell George… please… I'm scared."

The yelling in the background was punctuated by a sickening thud. Lando's voice exploded. "George! Max! Charles! Now! Get in the fucking car! Now!" The urgency in his tone was undeniable, primal. He didn't explain, didn't have to. They heard it too. The fear in Kimi's voice, the violence echoing in the background.

"Kimi, stay on the line," Lando ordered, his voice strained. "We're coming. Just hang on."

The call connected to the Bluetooth in George's car. The engine roared to life, tires squealing as they peeled out of the driveway. Kimi's sobs were audible now, raw and desperate.

"Kimi? Talk to me, mate. What's happening?" Charles asked, his voice laced with concern.

"What's wrong, Kimi?" Max added, his usual jovial tone replaced with a grim seriousness.

George, however, remained silent, his expression a mask of controlled calm. He gently squeezed the steering wheel, his knuckles white. "Kimi," he said, his voice soft and reassuring. "It's George. We're on our way. Just breathe, Kimi. Try to breathe."

Kimi clung to George's voice like a lifeline, his sobs punctuated by ragged breaths. He couldn't bring himself to explain, couldn't articulate the horror he had just experienced. He just cried, the sound of his fear filling the small space of the car.

"We're almost there, Kimi," George repeated, his voice unwavering. "Just a few more minutes. We're coming."

The drive felt like an eternity. The silence in the car was thick with unspoken fear and mounting anticipation. Charles, Max, and Lando exchanged worried glances, unsure of what they were driving towards. George, however, remained focused, his eyes fixed on the road, his grip tight on the steering wheel.

Finally, they arrived. George slammed on the brakes in front of Kimi's apartment building. He didn't even bother to turn off the engine.

"Stay here," he ordered, his voice clipped. "I have a spare key."

He didn't wait for a response, already knowing they wouldn’t listen. He vaulted out of the car and sprinted towards the entrance, his heart hammering in his chest.

Inside, the scene was even worse than they had imagined. Marco was still pounding on the bathroom door, his voice a venomous stream of curses and threats.

"Kimi! I swear to God, when you open this door…"

Charles and Max exchanged a look. They moved swiftly, flanking Marco.

"Alright, mate, that's enough," Charles said, his voice deceptively calm.

Marco whirled around, his eyes blazing with fury. "Get out of my way! This is none of your business!"

"Actually," Max said, stepping forward, his imposing stature dwarfing Marco, "it is now."

They grabbed him, pulling him away from the door. Marco struggled, but he was no match for two seasoned Formula One drivers.

"Let me go! He's mine! I'll fucking kill him!"

"One more word like that," Charles growled, tightening his grip, "and we're calling the cops. Get out of here. Now."

The threat was clear. Marco, seeing the burning rage in their eyes, finally backed down. He glared at them, a mixture of anger and fear warring in his expression.

"This isn't over," he spat, before turning and fleeing down the hallway.

Charles and Max watched him go, their faces grim. They turned back to the bathroom door, where George was knocking softly.

"Kimi? It's George. We're here. Are you okay?"

There was no response.

"Kimi, please. Let me in. We're here to help."

A muffled sob was his only answer.

George sighed. "Kimi, I know you're scared. But we won't let anything happen to you. Please, fratello. Open the door."

He waited. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then, slowly, the sound of tumbling locks filled the air. The door creaked open, revealing Kimi, his face pale and blotchy, his eyes red and swollen. He looked small, fragile, vulnerable.

George didn't hesitate. He pulled Kimi into a tight embrace, holding him close, burying his face in his hair.

Kimi clung to him, his body shaking with sobs. He mumbled something, a repeated string of words that was barely audible.

"Fratello… fratello…"

Lando, who had been hovering nervously in the background, leaned closer. "What's he saying?" he whispered to Charles.

Charles' expression softened. "Brother," he replied quietly. "He's saying brother."

George held Kimi until his sobs subsided, his grip firm and reassuring. He didn't push him to talk, didn't ask any questions. He just held him, letting him know that he was safe, that he was loved.

Gradually, Kimi began to calm down. He pulled away from George, his eyes still brimming with tears.

"I… I'm sorry," he stammered, his voice hoarse. "I didn't… I didn't want you to see me like this."

George cupped his face in his hands, his eyes filled with concern. "Hey, nessuno si scusa (no one apologizes). You hear me? There's nothing to be ashamed of. We're here for you, Kimi. Always."

He looked at Charles, Max, and Lando, a silent understanding passing between them. They nodded, their faces etched with worry and a fierce protectiveness. They were a team, on and off the track. And right now, one of their own needed them.

~~~~~

The next few hours were a blur. George helped Kimi pack a bag, his movements gentle and deliberate. He didn't press him for details, allowing him to tell his story in his own time.

Meanwhile, Charles called the police. He calmly explained the situation, omitting no details. He made sure they understood the severity of the incident, emphasizing the physical violence.

Max, ever the pragmatist, started making calls. He contacted Kimi's manager, informing him of the situation and requesting that he handle all media inquiries. He also reached out to Mercedes, explaining that Kimi would need some time off to recover.

Lando, feeling helpless, busied himself making tea. He knew it was a small gesture, but he hoped it would offer some comfort. He also kept Kimi's phone close by, screening calls and messages.

They took Kimi to George's apartment. It was small and unassuming, but it felt safe, secure. The atmosphere was calm and supportive, free from the pressure and scrutiny of the outside world.

As Kimi sat on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, George sat beside him, his arm around his shoulders. Slowly, haltingly, he began to recount what had happened. He spoke of the increasing tension in his relationship with Marco, the possessiveness, the arguments. He described the escalating violence, the fear, the feeling of being trapped.

As he spoke, the others listened in silence, their faces etched with a mixture of anger and sorrow. Kimi was the baby of the grid, the one they all felt a strong urge to protect. They couldn't believe that he had been going through this alone.

When he finished, the silence was broken only by Kimi's quiet sobs.

"I… I should have said something," he whispered, his voice filled with shame. "I didn't want to… I didn't want to seem weak."

George squeezed his shoulder. "Kimi, there's nothing weak about asking for help. In fact, it takes courage to admit you're struggling."

"And," Charles added, his voice firm, "you're never alone, Kimi. We're your friends. We're your family."

Max nodded in agreement. "We've got your back, mate. Always."

Lando, unable to find the right words, simply squeezed Kimi's hand, his eyes filled with unspoken support.

That night, Kimi slept in George's spare room. George stayed up late, staring out the window, his mind racing. He was filled with a burning anger towards Marco, towards anyone who would dare to hurt someone he cared about. But more than that, he was filled with a resolve to protect Kimi, to help him heal, to ensure that he never felt alone again. (He found himself sleeping outside the door to Kimi’s room, wanting to make sure he was protected)

The next few days were a delicate dance of healing and recovery. George stayed with Kimi, taking time off from his training schedule. He cooked him meals, watched movies with him, and simply provided a listening ear. Charles, Max, and Lando visited frequently, offering their support and companionship.

They didn't push Kimi to talk about what had happened unless he wanted to. They simply focused on creating a safe and nurturing environment, allowing him to process his trauma at his own pace.

Slowly, gradually, Kimi began to heal. The nightmares began to subside, the panic attacks became less frequent. He started to smile again, to laugh again. He started to rediscover the joy in the things he loved, the thrill of racing, the camaraderie of his team.

He knew that the scars would remain, a constant reminder of what he had endured. But he also knew that he wasn't alone. He had a family, a team, a brotherhood that would stand by him, no matter what.

~~~~~

Returning to the track was daunting. The media was relentless, their questions probing and insensitive. Kimi, however, remained calm and composed, deflecting their questions with a polite but firm "no comment" as instructed by George.

Mercedes was incredibly supportive. They provided him with therapy and counselling, ensuring that he was mentally and emotionally ready to race again. They also respected his privacy, shielding him from the worst of the media attention.

His first race back was at Silverstone, George's home race. The crowd roared as Kimi's car pulled onto the grid. He could feel the weight of their expectations, but he also felt the warmth of their support.

He looked across the garage at George, who gave him a reassuring nod. He looked at Charles, Max, and Lando, who were standing on the pit wall, their faces etched with encouragement.

He took a deep breath, cleared his mind, got into the car and focused on the race ahead.

The lights went out, and the race began.

Kimi drove with a fierce determination, pushing his car to the limit. He overtook rivals, defended his position, and fought for every inch of track. He drove with a newfound confidence, a sense of purpose that he had never felt before.

He finished in the points, a respectable result considering the circumstances. But more importantly, he had proven to himself that he could overcome adversity, that he could rise above the challenges that life threw his way.

As he stepped out of his car, he was greeted by a chorus of cheers. George ran towards him, grabbing him in a bear hug.

"I'm proud of you, Kimi," he said, his voice choked with emotion. "You were amazing."

Charles, Max, and Lando joined them, showering him with congratulations.

"Welcome back, champ," Charles said, slapping him on the back.

"You showed them what you're made of," Max added, grinning.

"We knew you could do it," Lando said, giving him a playful shove.

Kimi smiled, his heart filled with gratitude. He knew that he had a long road ahead of him, that he would face many more challenges in his career. But he also knew that he wasn't alone. He had his team, his friends, his family. And with them by his side, he knew that he could conquer anything.

~~~~~

The incident with Marco changed Kimi. It stripped away his innocence, revealing a strength and resilience that he never knew he possessed. He became more assertive, more confident, more determined to control his own destiny.

He ended his relationship with Marco, severing all ties. He focused on his career, on his training, on his friendships. He found solace in the support of his team, in the camaraderie of his fellow drivers.

He continued to excel on the track, winning races, challenging for championships. He became a role model for young drivers, inspiring them with his talent and his determination. He used his platform to speak out against domestic violence, advocating for victims and raising awareness.

He never forgot what had happened to him, but he refused to let it define him. He chose to focus on the future, on the possibilities that lay ahead. He chose to live his life to the fullest, to embrace every moment, to appreciate the love and support of those around him.

Years later, Kimi Antonelli was a Formula One legend, a champion both on and off the track. He had overcome adversity, conquered his demons, and emerged stronger than ever before. He had found his family, his brotherhood, his true north.

And as he stood on the podium, bathed in the glow of the winner's lights, he knew that he had finally found his peace. He was Kimi Antonelli, a Formula One champion, a survivor, a brother. And he was finally free.

Chapter Text

The Spanish sun beat down on the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, baking the asphalt and radiating heat that shimmered off the grandstands. For Kimi Antonelli, the oppressive heat mirrored the pressure building within him. At 18, he was living a dream most could only imagine: driving for Mercedes in Formula 1. But dreams, he was learning, could quickly turn into nightmares.

He’d qualified sixth, a respectable position for a rookie. He’d lost a place on the first lap, the chaos of the start swallowing him momentarily, but he’d regained his composure, settling into a rhythm and holding onto seventh. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Kimi was driving a clean race, managing his tires, and feeling… good. Points were within reach, a tangible reward for the countless hours of training, the relentless pressure, the sacrifices he’d made.

Then, on lap 55, the world went silent.

One moment, the Mercedes engine was a roaring beast, propelling him forward. The next, it was a strangled cough, a stutter, and then… nothing. The power vanished, the speed bled away, and Kimi fought to control the car as it lurched onto the gravel trap. The roar of the other cars faded into a dull hum as the silence inside the cockpit became deafening.

He was out. Another DNF. Another failure.

He slowed the car to a stop, the silence now absolute. A wave of nausea washed over him, a bitter cocktail of disappointment, frustration, and a desperate, aching loneliness. Imola had been a throttle issue. Monaco, a rookie mistake in qualifying compounded by disastrous strategy. Now, this. A mechanical failure, something beyond his control, yet the weight of the failure settled squarely on his shoulders.

He climbed out of the car, the heat of the Spanish sun suddenly unbearable. The marshals helped him back to the pit lane, a blur of orange and concerned faces. He didn't meet their eyes. He just wanted to disappear.

The Mercedes garage was a hive of activity, mechanics being prepared in case of a last minute pit stop for George and people going over the data. He saw Toto Wolff, his face a mask of concentration, talking to engineers. Nobody seemed to notice, or perhaps simply chose to ignore, the shattered rookie walking past.

Kimi didn't stop. He headed straight for his driver's room, the sanctuary he desperately needed. He slammed the door shut, the sound echoing in the small space. He ripped off his helmet and balaclava, his hands shaking. His dark curls were plastered to his forehead with sweat.

His breathing, already ragged, hitched. He felt the familiar sting of tears pricking his eyes. He squeezed them shut, willing them away. He was Kimi Antonelli, Formula 1 driver. He didn't cry. He couldn't afford to.

Before the dam could break, the door creaked open. He didn't need to look. He knew who it was.

Valtteri Bottas.

Valtteri, the elder reserve driver, the Finn who had spent years alongside Lewis in this very team, the man who understood the pressure, the sacrifices, the crushing weight of expectation.

Valtteri took one look at Kimi’s crumpled form and sighed, a soft, understanding sound. He opened his arms, and Kimi, without hesitation, moved into them. He sank against Valtteri’s chest, wrapping his arms around him, clinging to the familiar solidity.

"I'm so sorry this happened again, kiddo," Valtteri murmured, his voice gentle. "You were doing so well."

The words, simple as they were, were a balm to Kimi's raw emotions. The tears were still threatening, but something shifted. He didn’t feel the need to cry anymore. He just needed to be held. He continued to hug Valtteri, drawing strength from his presence.

A moment later, Bono, Lewis’s long-time race engineer, now Kimi’s, entered the room. He ruffled Kimi's hair, a gesture both comforting and slightly embarrassing.

"You did very well, Kimi," Bono said, his voice firm. "It was an engine issue, not your fault. We're going to look into it and hopefully get it fixed before the next race."

Kimi pulled back slightly from Valtteri, still clinging to his presence. "It's still another DNF," he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. "Everyone expects me to be doing well, and I've DNF'd twice in the past three races and come 18th in the other."

Valtteri squeezed his shoulder. "It's your first season, Kimi," he said, his blue eyes meeting Kimi's. "You're doing very well. Don't be so hard on yourself, okay?"

Kimi just sighed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, making sure no tears had escaped. He felt the weight of expectation, the pressure of the team, the scrutiny of the media. He was supposed to be the next big thing, the future of Mercedes. But the future felt very far away right now.

Bono cleared his throat. "I usually wouldn't condone this," he said, a mischievous glint in his eye, "but we can keep it from Sergi. Let's go get some ice-cream."

Kimi chuckled lightly, the sound a little shaky. "Ice-cream to cheer me up?"

Valtteri ruffled his hair again. "I won't say no to that. I think it's a good excuse."

Kimi smiled softly, a genuine smile that reached his eyes for the first time since the engine died. "Thanks, guys," he said quietly, the weight on his shoulders just a little bit lighter.

He knew the road ahead would be long and difficult. He knew the pressure wouldn't disappear. But with Valtteri and Bono by his side, with the promise of ice-cream and a brief escape from the relentless intensity of Formula 1, he felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to navigate this storm. He was Kimi Antonelli, after all, and he wasn't about to give up.

Chapter Text

The roar of the Mercedes engine still vibrated in Kimi Antonelli’s chest. His first Formula 1 free practice session was done. Done and… well, not disastrous. He'd kept the car on the track, listened to Bono (his ever-patient race engineer), and managed to clock a time that was… respectable. Respectable for an eighteen-year-old kid who, just a year ago, was battling it out in Formula 2.

The pressure was immense. Replacing a legend like Lewis Hamilton was a weight that threatened to crush him before he'd even turned a wheel in anger. He knew the paddock eyes were on him, assessing his every move. Speculation ran rampant: Was he too young? Too inexperienced? Would he crumble under the pressure?

He pushed those thoughts aside as he followed the familiar figure of Ollie Bearman towards the shared driver’s rest area. Ollie, his best friend since their days tearing up the track together at Prema in Formula 2. Ollie, the only person in the paddock who truly understood the whirlwind that was Kimi Antonelli's life right now.

Ollie, now a HAAS rookie, was a year older, but in the cutthroat world of motorsport, that felt like a lifetime. Seeing Ollie's friendly face, his easy grin, helped to ground Kimi.

"You looked good out there, Kimi," Ollie said, clapping him on the shoulder. "A bit twitchy in sector three, but nothing you can't iron out."

Kimi grinned. "Easy for you to say. You made sector three your personal playground. That HAAS looks like it's glued to the tarmac."

They collapsed onto a plush leather couch in the rest room. The space was open to all drivers, a neutral zone where rivalries were momentarily forgotten. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, fuel, and expensive aftershave.

"So," Ollie began, a mischievous glint in his eye, "heard Toto's already threatened to ground you if you put a scratch on the car."

Kimi groaned. "Don't remind me. It's all Bono talks about. 'Kimi, remember, this is a very expensive car. Kimi, please avoid the walls. Kimi, keep it clean!'" He mimicked his race engineer's serious tone, earning a chuckle from Ollie.

"Well," Ollie said, leaning back and stretching his arms above his head, "maybe you should listen to him. Besides, I heard Mercedes are thinking of offering me the role of your babysitter." He winked. "Think of the PR! 'Bearman Keeps Antonelli Out of Trouble!'"

Kimi giggled. It started as a small, contained sound, but quickly escalated into a full-blown, snorting laugh. He doubled over, clutching his stomach. And then, the tears started.

It was a quirk that had plagued him since childhood. Anything genuinely funny triggered a cascade of tears. Not sad tears. Not tears of frustration. Just pure, unadulterated tears of laughter.

He hunched forward, his face buried in Ollie’s lap. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he choked on his own laughter. Ollie, used to this bizarre phenomenon, simply wrapped an arm around Kimi's waist, a silent gesture of support, making sure he didn't completely tumble off the couch.

"Oh my god," Kimi gasped between sobs, "babysitter... Oh, that's... that's too much, I’m not a child!"

Ollie hummed and tiled his head. “Well, you kind of are.”

Just then, the door to the room swished open, and Pierre Gasly, Alex Albon, and Lance Stroll walked in, looking for a moment of respite before FP2. Their easy conversation abruptly ceased as their eyes landed on the scene before them.

Kimi, hunched over, face buried in Ollie's lap, tears streaming down his face. Ollie, with a protective arm around Kimi, his expression a mixture of amusement and concern.

Panic flashed across Pierre's face. "Kimi! Are you alright?" he blurted out, rushing forward.

Alex, always the diplomat, stepped forward cautiously. "Is everything okay? Did something happen during the session?"

Lance, never one to mince words, stared at Ollie. "What did you do?" he demanded, his voice laced with suspicion.

Kimi, oblivious to the sudden influx of concern, was still gasping for breath, the tears showing no sign of stopping. "Ollie... said... babysitter..." he managed to choke out, before dissolving into another fit of laughter, the tears flowing even more freely.

Ollie looked up at the three bewildered faces, a sheepish grin spreading across his own. "He's fine," he assured them. "Just… Kimi's got a weird sense of humour, that's all."

Pierre, Alex, and Lance exchanged confused glances. A weird sense of humour? This looked more like a full-blown emotional breakdown.

"He's... crying," Pierre pointed out, stating the obvious. "He looks really upset."

"He is," Ollie corrected patiently, "but he's upset because he's laughing. It's a… Kimi thing."

Alex raised an eyebrow. "A Kimi thing? What's a 'Kimi thing'?"

Kimi finally managed to pull himself together, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He looked up at the three older drivers, his face still flushed and his eyes red-rimmed. He could practically see the question marks floating above their heads.

"It's true," he said, his voice still a little shaky. "I... I laugh, and then I cry. It's just... how I am."

He knew he sounded ridiculous. He could practically feel their disbelief radiating toward him.

Lance was the first to break the silence. "So, you're telling us that you're crying because Ollie called himself your babysitter?" he asked, his voice dripping with scepticism.

Kimi nodded weakly. "It was... funnier than it sounds, I promise."

Pierre, ever the empathetic one, softened his expression. "Okay," he said slowly. "Okay, we believe you. But... it's a bit alarming, you know? In this environment, appearances matter."

Alex chimed in. "Yeah, people are going to see you crying and assume you're cracking under the pressure. You're already under so much scrutiny, Kimi. This... quirk... could be misinterpreted."

Kimi knew they were right. He had to find a way to control it, or at least, to explain it before it became a problem. He'd already imagined the headlines: "Antonelli Sobbing in the Mercedes Garage: Is He Ready for F1?"

"I know," he sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair. "I'm working on it. It's just... hard to control."

Ollie squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry, Kimi. We'll figure it out. Maybe we can find a way to... tone down the funny."

"Or," Kimi suggested, a hint of mischief returning to his eyes, "maybe we can just blame it on you. 'Ollie Bearman: The Man Who Makes Kimi Antonelli Cry.'"

Ollie groaned. "Don't you dare."

The tension in the room eased slightly. Pierre, Alex, and Lance looked at each other, a silent understanding passing between them. They might not fully understand Kimi's bizarre quirk, but they could see he was genuine, and they could appreciate the pressure he was under.

"Look," Pierre said, "if you need anything, anything at all, don't hesitate to ask. We've all been there, that overwhelmed feeling of being a rookie. You're not alone."

Alex nodded in agreement. "We're all in this paddock together, even if we're competing against each other. We look out for each other."

Lance, surprisingly, offered a small nod of his own. "Just try not to cry after you pass me on the track, alright? It's bad enough getting overtaken, I don't need the added insult."

Kimi smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. He was still overwhelmed, still nervous, but he felt a little less alone. He had Ollie, of course, and now, maybe, he had a few more allies in the paddock.

"Thanks," he said sincerely. "I appreciate it."

The alarm signalling 30 minutes to FP2 rang out, shattering the moment of camaraderie. The drivers began to gather their belongings, preparing to face the track once more.

As they headed out, Pierre clapped Kimi on the back. "Just remember," he said with a wink, "if you start crying in the car, Bono might think he's broken you."

Kimi laughed again, this time managing to suppress the tears.

Chapter Text

The pressure was immense, a physical weight clinging to his shoulders. He tried to ignore the murmurs, the doubts, the whispers of "too young, too soon." He focused on the car, that beautiful, snarling beast, and the feeling of control, of pushing himself and the machine to the absolute limit. That was where he felt truly alive, truly himself.

Barcelona was buzzing. The Spanish Grand Prix was a classic, a cornerstone of the season. The sun beat down on the Circuit, baking the asphalt and radiating a tangible heat that seemed to amplify the tension.

Media Day was a gauntlet. Endless interviews, flashing cameras, probing questions, each one a tiny hammer blow against his carefully constructed composure. He repeated well-worn phrases, smiled for the cameras, and tried to appear confident, even when his stomach churned with nerves.

He had started feeling queasy during the FIA press conference, a dull ache behind his eyes that intensified with each flashbulb. He blamed the stale sandwiches and the recycled air. He told himself it was just nerves. But as he navigated the crowded paddock, the feeling worsened, a nauseating wave that threatened to crest with every step.

He excused himself from a particularly persistent Italian journalist, muttering something about needing to hydrate, and stumbled towards the nearest restroom.

The cool, tiled space offered a brief respite from the heat and the relentless noise. He splashed water on his face, hoping to regain some semblance of control. But as he looked in the mirror, his reflection was gaunt, the colour drained from his face.

Then the world tilted.

The wave of nausea hit with full force. He barely made it to a stall before the first convulsive heave ripped through him. He clung to the metal partition, his body shaking, the taste of bile burning in his throat.

He wasn't sure how long he was there, retching and gasping for air, shame burning more fiercely than the sickness. He was Andrea Kimi Antonelli, future of Mercedes, supposed to be conquering the world, not hunched over a toilet bowl emptying his guts.

He finally managed to pull himself together, weakly washing his face again. He felt utterly drained, his limbs heavy and unresponsive. He needed to get back to the garage, to tell someone he wasn’t feeling well… but the thought of facing the team, of admitting weakness, was almost unbearable.

He braced himself, opened the stall door, and nearly collided with someone standing outside.

Pierre Gasly, Alpine’s experienced and ever-charming French driver, stood there, a look of genuine concern etched on his face.

"Kimi? You okay, man?" he asked, his brow furrowed. "I heard..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely towards the stall.

Kimi's face flushed crimson. He wanted to disappear, to melt into the tiled floor. "I… yeah, I'm fine," he mumbled, trying to push past Pierre. "Just… uh… something I ate."

Pierre didn't buy it for a second. He stepped aside, but his hand lingered on Kimi's arm. "Hey, no need to be embarrassed. It happens. You look terrible."

Kimi flinched. He hated being seen like this, vulnerable and exposed. He pulled his arm away. "Seriously, I'm fine. Thanks for your concern."

He tried to walk away again, but his legs felt like lead. He stumbled slightly, and Pierre instinctively reached out to steady him.

"Whoa, easy there. You're clearly not fine. Come on, let's get you some water."

Kimi, too weak to argue, allowed Pierre to guide him to the sinks. He leaned heavily against the counter, his head swimming.

Pierre grabbed a paper cup and filled it with cold water, handing it to him. "Sip it slowly," he instructed.

Kimi obeyed, the cool water a welcome relief. He looked up at Pierre, his eyes bloodshot and filled with a mixture of shame and gratitude.

"Thanks," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Pierre leaned against the sink beside him, his expression serious. "Look, this is a tough sport. And you’re under a lot of pressure, being so young and thrown into the deep end like this. Don't try to be a hero. It’s okay to be human."

Kimi looked away, embarrassed. He didn’t want to hear words of encouragement, didn’t want to be reminded of the expectations he was failing to meet.

"What do you think it is?" Pierre asked, his voice gentle. "Just nerves? Or do you feel sick?"

Kimi hesitated. He didn't want to admit he was genuinely ill, didn't want to risk being sidelined for the race. "I think… I think it's just nerves."

Pierre raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Maybe. But be honest with yourself, okay? And more importantly, be honest with your team. They can't help you if they don't know what's going on."

He paused, then added with a wry smile, "Besides, I'd rather race a healthy Kimi Antonelli than one who's about to pass out in the cockpit. And I also would rather not deal with an pissed off Max Verstappen when his grid child gets injured because he wasn’t looked after by his team."

"I'll… I'll talk to them," Kimi mumbled.

Pierre nodded. "Good. Now, let's get you out of here. You need to rest."

He helped Kimi walk out of the restroom and into the relative peace of the paddock. He steered him towards the Mercedes hospitality unit.

"I’m going to tell Toto you need to see a doctor," Pierre said. "No arguments."

Kimi, too exhausted to protest, simply nodded.

Pierre led him to the Mercedes hospitality unit and spoke briefly to Toto Wolff, the team principal, his voice low and urgent. Toto's face immediately clouded with concern. He hurried over to Kimi, his usually stern expression softened with worry.

"Kimi, what's wrong?" he asked, placing a hand on Kimi's shoulder.

Kimi, finally feeling the weight of the day crash down on him, felt tears prick his eyes. He was sick, he was tired, and he was terrified of letting everyone down.

"I… I don't feel well," he managed to say, his voice trembling.

Toto's expression hardened slightly. "Why didn't you say anything earlier?"

"I… I thought it was just nerves," Kimi whispered.

Toto sighed. "This is exactly what I was worried about. We need to get you checked out. Immediately." He turned to a passing team member. "Get Dr. Jameson, now!"

As he sat on the plush sofa in the Mercedes hospitality unit, waiting for the team doctor, Kimi felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He had tried to be strong, to hide his weakness, but it had backfired. He had risked not only his own health but also the team's chances for the weekend.

He looked up to see Pierre standing in the doorway, a small, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement. Kimi returned the nod, a silent thank you for his unexpected kindness.

He knew one thing for sure: this was only the beginning of his F1 journey, and it was going to be a lot harder than he had ever imagined. Being Kimi Antonelli wasn't just about driving fast. It was about facing the pressure, the scrutiny, and the relentless demands of the sport. And it was about learning to ask for help when he needed it.

Chapter Text

The Grand Prix weekend in Monaco was already a whirlwind for Kimi Antonelli. At just eighteen, stepping into a Mercedes F1 car was a dream, a dizzying ascent that still felt surreal. Every interaction with George Russell, his teammate, felt like walking on eggshells. George was everything Kimi aspired to be: fast, articulate, cool under pressure. Kimi desperately wanted to impress him, to prove he wasn't just some kid drafted in too early, but a serious competitor worthy of the seat. He certainly didn't want George to think he was an annoying kid tagging along.

The team principal's sheepish announcement about the hotel booking mix-up sent a jolt of ice through Kimi's veins. "Apologies, lads, seems there was a clerical error. You two will be sharing a double room this weekend. Two beds, mind, so plenty of space."

Kimi's carefully constructed professional facade nearly crumbled. Share a room? With George Russell? His heart hammered against his ribs. This was not part of the plan. He managed a tight, polite smile, trying to project nonchalance, while inside he was a tangled knot of panic and embarrassment. George, on the other hand, just chuckled, a warm, easy sound that did little to calm Kimi's nerves. "No worries, Toto," George said, slinging an arm casually around Kimi's shoulder – a gesture that made Kimi stiffen involuntarily, though he tried to hide it. "Plenty of room indeed. Like a little sleepover, eh, Kimi?"

Kimi forced a laugh. "Yeah, like a sleepover," he mumbled, his voice a little too high.

Arriving at the hotel, the room was indeed spacious, with two plush double beds, each adorned with crisp white linens. Kimi busied himself immediately, unpacking his small bag with meticulous care, arranging his toiletries on the bathroom counter as if his life depended on it, making sure it was neat and tidy. He could feel George's gaze on him occasionally, not judging, but observing, and it made him prickle.

"Grab whichever bed you like, Kimi," George said, tossing his own bag onto the bed nearest the window. "I'm not particular."

Kimi chose the other bed, further from the window, but still feeling exposed. He set his alarm early, planning to be up and out before George, to avoid any awkward morning small talk. The day's media duties and simulator work were a welcome distraction, but the thought of returning to that room, to that moment, gnawed at him.

Dinner was taken with the team, lively and loud, before George suggested they call it a night. "Big day tomorrow, Kimi. Need our beauty sleep."

Back in the room, the silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant hum of Monaco. Kimi went into the bathroom first, brushing his teeth with exaggerated vigour. When he emerged, George was already in bed, scrolling on his phone, the soft glow illuminating his face.

"All yours," George murmured, not looking up.

Kimi quickly pulled on his pajamas, trying to avoid any eye contact, feeling a ridiculous flush creep up his neck. He slid under the covers, lying ramrod straight, staring at the ceiling. The bedside lamp was still on, a comforting beacon.

Minutes ticked by, slow and heavy. George eventually put his phone down, stretched with a soft groan, and then, with a click, the main lights in the room plunged into darkness. Only the soft glow from the bathroom nightlight, barely visible under the door, offered any solace.

Kimi's breath hitched. His heart began to pound, a frantic drum against his ribs. The darkness wasn't just an absence of light; it was a physical presence, heavy and suffocating. Images flashed through his mind – the cold, the locked door, the desperate cries of a small Kimi, abandoned on the porch as the moon hung high and uncaring. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight it, trying to be the eighteen-year-old F1 driver, not the terrified child. He gripped the duvet, knuckles white. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He just lay there, utterly petrified, listening to George's steady breathing across the room.

He tried to rationalize. He was safe. He was in a five-star hotel. George was right there. But the terror was visceral, a primal response that bypassed logic. He felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. Every shadow seemed to morph into something sinister. He wanted to curl into a ball, to pull the covers over his head and hide, but even that felt like an admission of weakness he couldn't afford.

Across the room, George, despite his casual demeanor, was more observant than Kimi gave him credit for. He'd noticed the jerky movements, the way Kimi had rushed through things, the subtle tension in his shoulders all evening. Now, in the dark, he could hear the shallow, rapid breathing that wasn't quite right. It sounded like panic.

George slowly, carefully, sat up. "Kimi?" he whispered, his voice soft, not wanting to startle him.

Kimi froze, a gasp caught in his throat. He thought he'd been silent.

"Everything alright over there?" George asked, his tone gentle, infused with a concern that Kimi, in his panic, couldn't quite process.

Silence. Then a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of Kimi's head, which George couldn't see.

"Kimi, are you okay?" George repeated, a little more insistent, but still kind. He swung his legs out of bed and padded softly across the carpet to Kimi's side of the room. He could faintly make out Kimi's shape, rigid under the covers.

"Kimi, talk to me. What's wrong?" George reached out a hand, hovering for a moment, then gently rested it on Kimi's shoulder.

The touch was a jolt, but not of fear. It was warm, grounding. Kimi flinched, then leaned into it almost imperceptibly. A small, choked sound escaped him.

"Hey, it's okay," George murmured, his voice laced with the reassuring tone he used when speaking to younger people. He sat down on the edge of Kimi's bed. "You're shaking, mate. What's up? Can't sleep?"

Kimi finally managed to whisper, barely audible, "The... the dark."

George paused, his brow furrowing slightly in the dimness. "The dark?" He processed it for a moment, then a wave of understanding, tinged with a pang of protectiveness, washed over him. Of course. An 18-year-old, away from home, in a high-pressure environment. It made perfect sense. He remembered being alone himself, sometimes, younger than Kimi, and feeling that oppressive loneliness.

"It's okay, Kimi. There's nothing to be scared of, I promise." He squeezed Kimi's shoulder gently. "Is it... an old thing?"

Kimi nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. "Sometimes... when I was little... locked out..." His voice trailed off, thick with shame and residual terror.

George's heart went out to him. "Oh, Kimi," he breathed, a genuine sadness in his voice. "I'm so sorry, mate. That's awful." He rubbed Kimi's arm, a continuous, comforting motion. "Well, you're not locked out now, are you? And you're definitely not alone. I'm right here."

Without another word, George reached over and flicked on Kimi's bedside lamp. A soft, warm glow flooded Kimi's immediate surroundings. Kimi blinked, the sudden light welcome, not harsh. He looked at George, whose face was etched with a quiet, earnest concern.

"There," George said, a gentle smile touching his lips. "Better?"

Kimi let out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He finally relaxed, a tiny bit, against the pillow. "Y-yeah. Thank you."

"Anytime," George said warmly. He didn't move from the bed. "Listen, you don't have to be scared. And you certainly don't have to pretend around me. We're teammates, Kimi. And you're... well, you're like the little brother I never had, honestly." He offered a small, reassuring smile. "If you need a light on, or to talk, or whatever it is, you just say. No judgment. Ever."

The warmth in George's voice, the genuine affection in his eyes as they caught the lamplight, slowly started to chip away at Kimi's carefully constructed image of his senior teammate. This wasn't the aloof, competitive pro he'd imagined. This was... kind. This was caring.

"I... I didn't want you to think..." Kimi began, his voice still a little wobbly, but laced with a new vulnerability.

"Think what? That you're human?" George chuckled softly. "We all have our things, Kimi. And trust me, I've seen far stranger in this paddock. You're good. You're a brilliant driver, and you're a good kid. That's all that matters." He patted Kimi's leg. "Now, try and get some sleep. Leave that lamp on. I don't mind the glow."

George stayed on the edge of the bed for a few more minutes, just talking quietly about the plan for tomorrow, about a funny anecdote from a past race. He talked until Kimi's breathing evened out, until the tension in his body visibly eased, until his eyes fluttered closed.

Chapter Text

The sleek, matte-black Mercedes gleamed under George Russell’s porch lights as Kimi Antonelli stepped out, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. At just eighteen, Kimi was not only a Formula 1 rookie for the storied Mercedes team but also, this weekend, a temporary lodger in his teammate’s sprawling Monaco home. His parents, still adjusting to the whirlwind of their son’s meteoric rise, had flown back to Italy for a much-needed break with Kimi's little sister, leaving Kimi under George’s informal guardianship for a couple of nights.

A low thrum of voices and laughter spilled from the open front door, a cacophony that both thrilled and intimidated Kimi. This wasn’t just a teammate’s house; it was a gathering of legends, of rivals, of the very men he aspired to challenge on the track. Taking a deep breath, Kimi smoothed down his perpetually disobedient dark curls and walked towards the entrance, pushing the doorbell with a nervous flourish.

The door swung open almost immediately, revealing George, a wide grin splitting his face. He was dressed in a comfortable hoodie and jeans, a stark contrast to the perfectly tailored suits Kimi usually saw him in. "Kimi! Come in, come in! Welcome to the madhouse." George clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture warm and reassuring. "Let me take that for you." He relieved Kimi of his bag, leading him into a spacious, modern living room that managed to feel both luxurious and incredibly inviting.

The room was already buzzing. The first face Kimi recognized was Lewis Hamilton, leaning against a fireplace, a glass of something amber in his hand, deep in conversation with Charles Leclerc. Carlos Sainz was laughing boisterously at something Max Verstappen had just said, while Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri were engrossed in a debate over a board game box that hadn’t yet made it out of its plastic wrap. Alex Albon was perched on a high stool, and Pierre Gasly, ever the animated one, was gesticulating wildly near the open-plan kitchen island.

It was a surreal sight, the entire grid, or a significant chunk of it, in one room, not in race suits or team gear, but in casual clothes, looking utterly human. Kimi felt a blush creep up his neck. He was used to seeing these men on TV, in press conferences, or at the sparse, professional environment of the paddock. Here, they were just… guys. Albeit, very famous, very fast guys.

"Alright everyone, silence!" George boomed, his voice easily cutting through the chatter. "The prodigal son has arrived! Everyone, as you know, Kimi Antonelli."

A ripple of greetings and friendly nods went through the room. Lewis offered a warm, characteristic smile. Charles, his perpetually bright eyes sparkling, gave a small wave. Max, ever direct, just grunted a "Hey, Kimi," which Kimi knew was Max-speak for a welcome.

"Come on in, mate," George urged, ushering Kimi deeper into the room. "Can I get you anything? Water? Juice? There's plenty of soft drinks, obviously."

Kimi, still slightly overwhelmed, managed a polite, "A water would be great, thanks, George." He then found a relatively quiet corner near Lewis, feeling a little like an alien observing a foreign species. Lewis, sensing his shyness, gave him another reassuring smile. "Good to see you, Kimi. Settling in okay?"

"Yes, thank you, Lewis. Everything's… incredible," Kimi replied, gesturing vaguely at the room.

The evening quickly settled into a comfortable rhythm. Music played softly, conversations ebbed and flowed, punctuated by bursts of laughter. Kimi found himself drawn into a discussion with Lando and Oscar about simulator setups, then drifted towards Alex and Max, listening intently to their banter about recent races. He was slowly, tentatively, beginning to feel like he belonged, not just some kid who’d snuck into the grown-ups’ party.

Drinks were being poured freely. George, ever the diligent host, kept the fridge stocked and everyone’s glass topped up. Kimi noticed George himself was sticking to water, which he found a little odd, given the relaxed atmosphere.

Then, Pierre Gasly, ever the life of the party, ambled over to Kimi, a half-empty bottle of beer in his hand. "Hey, Kimi! You're looking a bit dry over here. Want a beer? Got some good craft stuff George stockpiled." He offered the bottle, a friendly grin on his face.

Before Kimi could even form a response, George’s voice, sharp and immediate, cut across the room. "Nope. Absolutely not, Pierre."

The sudden severity in George’s tone instantly silenced the surrounding conversations. All eyes, including Kimi's mortified ones, turned towards the two of them. Pierre, looking genuinely surprised, lowered the bottle.

"What? Why not?" Pierre asked, a frown creasing his brow. "He's not a kid George."

Just then, Charles, who had been chatting animatedly with Lewis, walked over and playfully smacked the back of Pierre’s head. "He isn't even legal, Calamar! Don't offer the kid alcohol."

Pierre rubbed his head with a theatrical sigh. "Oh, come on, Charles. He's eighteen, which might I remind you is the legal drinking age in both Monaco and France. And actually, Italy as well, it's 18 there! You can't seriously tell me Kimi hasn't had alcohol before."

All the attention, now magnified by the sudden silence from everyone else, swiveled to Kimi. His face, already prone to flushing, turned a deep, undeniable crimson. He felt every pair of eyes on him, from Lewis's gentle gaze to Max's amused smirk. The question hung in the air, loaded. Pierre was right, of course. Growing up in Italy, a sip of wine at family dinners was almost a rite of passage, certainly not unheard of by eighteen.

Kimi, feeling the heat creep down to his neck, instinctively shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, though his heart was pounding. "I'm Italian, of course I've had alcohol," he mumbled, his voice barely audible. "And I am technically legal." Four months ago, actually, but who’s counting?

George, however, was having none of it. He stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on Kimi’s shoulder, though his gaze was firmly on Pierre and Charles. "Look, Kimi is still in school, and he's over here as a guest in my house for the weekend. I would rather not be serving him alcohol, nor have him consuming it under my roof." His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument.

There were a few grumbles – Lando muttered something under his breath, Max gave a soft chuckle, and Pierre threw his hands up in exasperation – but the message was clear. George was the host, and his word was final. The general chatter gradually resumed, though a little subdued. The topic of Kimi and his drinking age was dropped.

George, still with that firm but gentle hand on Kimi's shoulder, looked at him and gave a slight nod towards the empty hall that led to the bedrooms. Kimi understood the unspoken invitation and followed him, grateful for the immediate escape from the sudden spotlight.

They walked silently down the oak-floored hallway, the distant hum of conversation from the living room fading with each step. George stopped near a bay window, bathed in the soft glow of a floor lamp. He turned to Kimi, his expression now softer, tinged with a hint of apology.

"Kimi, I'm sorry if I overstepped back there," George began, his voice low and sincere. "I know it might have felt a bit... infantilizing, perhaps. But I definitely didn't want to embarrass you."

Kimi shook his head quickly. "No, no, George, it's fine. Really. I understand."

George smiled, a genuine warmth returning to his eyes. "Good. Because honestly, I would rather not have you intoxicated while you're staying here. Not on my watch. And," he added, his voice dropping slightly, "I'm also not drinking myself tonight."

Kimi's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You're not?" he asked, remembering George sticking to water.

George shook his head. "No. I just don't feel comfortable, not with you here. You know, with you being legal, it's only been a couple months, and you're so young, and you're staying under my care for your parents... I just want to make sure everything's above board and that you're comfortable and safe. It's my responsibility as your host, and as your teammate, really." He paused, a slight wince on his face. "And yeah, okay, maybe it's a bit much, but I just thought it was the right thing to do."

Kimi felt a wave of unexpected gratitude wash over him. He hadn't realized how much George was actually looking out for him. It wasn't just about the rules; it was about genuine care. "It's been four months, George," Kimi corrected softly, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Since my birthday."

George chuckled, a rich, warm sound. "Ah, four months. Well, then, practically an old man! My apologies." He reached out and ruffled Kimi's dark hair, a gesture that felt less like a reprimand and more like an older brother's affection. "But still. My point stands. Are you really okay with plain old water for the night?"

Kimi grinned, feeling a lightness he hadn't expected. The embarrassment had completely dissipated, replaced by a sense of belonging and a newfound respect for his teammate. "Honestly, George, it's fine. Really, I don't mind. It's your home, and I appreciate it. And I'd rather remember everything about this night anyway." He gestured vaguely back towards the living room. "It's… a lot to take in."

George's smile widened. "Alright then, let's go back out there, kiddo. I think Lando's trying to rope everyone into some ridiculously complicated board game now. You'll need all your wits about you for that." He clapped Kimi on the shoulder again, a comforting, firm touch, and they walked back towards the lively sounds of their fellow Formula 1 drivers, Kimi feeling lighter, more a part of the group than he had all evening. The night was young, and for the first time, Kimi Antonelli felt truly at home, under the watchful, caring eye of his teammate.

Chapter Text

The low thrum of the stationary bike filled the ultra-modern Mercedes AMG Petronas F1 Team gym, a familiar symphony to George Russell. Beside him, Kimi Antonelli, all of eighteen years old and already carrying the weight of the world on his slender shoulders, matched his pace, albeit with a youthful intensity that George sometimes found both admirable and slightly concerning.

Kimi, fresh out of Formula 2 with a meteoric rise that had stunned the paddock, was Mercedes’ golden boy, the youngest driver on the grid. He was also, in George’s eyes, a kid. A brilliant, fiercely talented kid, but a kid nonetheless. From the moment Kimi had stepped into the Brackley factory, all wide eyes and nervous energy, George had found himself slipping into a role he hadn't anticipated – that of an older brother. He’d shown Kimi the ropes, the shortcuts, the unwritten rules, and had become a steady pillar amidst the whirlwind of media, engineering demands, and the sheer, brutal pressure of Formula 1. He was fiercely protective, a silent sentinel guarding his young teammate against the inevitable slings and arrows.

"Almost there, Kimi," George grunted, his own muscles burning. "Think of the Monaco hairpin, smooth and precise."

Kimi managed a breathless chuckle. "More like the Silverstone pit straight, full throttle, George." Even exhausted, his spirit shone. He had that spark, that unyielding drive that separated the good from the great.

They finished their cardio, moving onto a circuit of strength training. The gym, usually bustling, was quieter today, save for a few mechanics and a physio working in a corner. Kimi’s personal trainer, a man named Mark with a perpetually stern expression and a physique that screamed 'no excuses,' circulated around them. Mark was known for his rigorous, almost militaristic approach, which George had always found a bit much, but Kimi, eager to prove himself, seemed to tolerate, even embrace.

"Alright, Antonelli," Mark barked, his voice slicing through the quiet hum of the machines. "Deadlifts. New PB today. You need to be stronger, faster, less susceptible to the G-forces."

Kimi nodded, his jaw set. He was already a formidable athlete, but the constant pressure to improve, to embody the flawless F1 driver, was relentless. He loaded the bar, the heavy plates clanking, and George watched him with a professional eye. Kimi's form was good, but George could see the slight tremor in his young arms, the tell-tale sign of fatigue creeping in. They’d had a gruelling morning.

George finished his own squat set and moved to an adjacent bench, keeping Kimi in his peripheral vision. He watched Kimi initiate his first deadlift. It was clean, powerful. The second. The third. Then Kimi faltered. On the fourth rep, his back rounded slightly, and the bar wavered before he managed to pull it up, but not to Mark’s impossibly high standard.

"No, no, no!" Mark snapped, his voice sharp enough to make Kimi flinch. "What was that, Antonelli? Sloppy! Weak! You think you can drive a championship car with that kind of form? You’ll break your back and our investment!"

Kimi’s face flushed scarlet, a mixture of shame and exhaustion. "I… I tried, Mark. My lower back..."

"Excuses!" Mark stepped closer, his shadow falling over the already-intimidated Kimi. "There are no excuses in Formula 1! Every fraction of a second, every ounce of strength matters. You think Max Verstappen makes excuses in the gym?"

George felt a prickle of annoyance. Mark’s methods were often over the top, bordering on bullying. He’d seen Kimi look dejected after sessions with Mark before, but never quite like this. Kimi's shoulders slumped, his eyes cast down.

"Reset!" Mark commanded, gesturing at the bar. "Do it again. And this time, if you want to be a Formula 1 driver, you do it perfectly."

Kimi took a deep, shaky breath. He grasped the bar again, his hands visibly trembling. He lowered himself, tried to engage his core, but as he pulled, his form broke again, even worse this time. The bar scraped against the stand with a heavy clang, unfinished.

"Useless!" Mark’s voice was a low snarl now, but laced with a frightening intensity. He moved swiftly, closing the distance between them. George’s gut instinct screamed danger.

Before George could even fully process what was happening, Mark’s right hand shot out. It wasn’t an open-handed slap, which would have been shocking enough. This was a closed fist, knuckles striking Kimi firmly in the upper arm, near his shoulder, with enough force to make a sickening thud. Kimi cried out, a small, choked sound of pain and surprise, and stumbled backward, colliding with the deadlift rack. His eyes, wide with shock, momentarily met George’s, a flash of fear and utter humiliation.

The sound, the impact, the raw, visceral reaction from Kimi – it all happened in a split second, yet it burned itself into George's memory with agonizing clarity. Time seemed to slow. George’s own breath caught in his throat.

"That," Mark hissed, his face inches from Kimi's, "is for your weakness. You think I’m going to let you jeopardize your career, our team’s investment, with that kind of pathetic effort? Get your head in the game, Antonelli. Or you don't belong here."

Kimi, clutching his arm, looked like a frightened rabbit. His face was pale, his eyes still wide, but now flickering with a desperate attempt to compose himself, to hide the sting, the shame. He avoided George’s gaze, focusing intensely on the floor, as if willing himself to disappear.

George, meanwhile, had frozen. His blood ran cold, then hot with a righteous fury. He was off the bench in an instant, his own training forgotten. Every protective instinct he had, every fibre of his being that saw Kimi as a younger brother, screamed at him to intervene.

"Mark!" George’s voice was sharp, cutting through the heavy silence. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

Mark spun around, his expression shifting from aggressive to a slightly wary defiance. He saw the cold fury in George’s eyes. "Russell. Just motivating the boy. He needs to understand the stakes."

"Motivating him?" George took a step closer, his own frame towering over Mark’s. "That was a physical assault, Mark. You just hit him!"

"He’s soft, Russell," Mark retorted, surprisingly unrepentant. "He needs to toughen up. This isn’t karting anymore."

Kimi, finally finding his voice, albeit a shaky one, interjected, "It's fine, George. Really. I was just… I wasn’t paying attention. My fault." He looked up at George, a pleading request in his eyes – don’t make a scene, don’t make it worse.

George stared at Kimi, heartbroken. The boy was trying to cover for his abuser. It confirmed George’s worst fears – this wasn't an isolated incident. That flash of fear in Kimi’s eyes, the quick attempt to de-escalate, the shame… this had happened before, or Kimi was terrified of the repercussions if he didn't play along.

"Your fault?" George repeated, his voice dangerously low, not taking his eyes off Mark. "No, Kimi. That is absolutely not your fault. You do not hit a driver, not ever, under any circumstances."

Mark squared his shoulders. "I have my methods. And results speak for themselves. Kimi's performance has been improving."

"Through fear and physical abuse?" George scoffed. "That's not coaching, Mark. That’s battery." He turned back to Kimi, his expression softening slightly. "Are you alright, Kimi?"

Kimi nodded, still avoiding George’s direct gaze, rubbing his arm. "Yeah. Just… a bit startled."

George knew it was more than ‘startled.’ He could see the tremor in Kimi’s hand, the way he kept his head down. "You two," George said, his voice firm, addressing both of them but directing his authority at Mark, "are done for the day."

Mark opened his mouth to protest, but George cut him off, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'm going to report this, Mark. You are not to touch Kimi again. You are not to even speak to him outside of team-sanctioned, supervised sessions until this is investigated."

Mark’s face finally showed a flicker of genuine concern, perhaps realizing the gravity of George’s words. He knew George was not one to make idle threats, and his position within the team carried significant weight. "Russell, let's not be rash. This is a misunderstanding. I was just trying to push him..."

"There's no misunderstanding here," George said, stepping between Kimi and Mark, effectively shielding his young teammate. "I saw what you did. And I'm not letting it go."

He put a hand gently on Kimi's unaffected shoulder, a silent reassurance. Kimi stiffened at first, then leaned almost imperceptibly into the touch, still not meeting his eyes.

"Kimi, go shower. I'll meet you by the cars," George ordered gently, his gaze unwavering from Mark. He needed to get Kimi away from this man, away from this place.

Kimi, looking relieved but still deeply shaken, mumbled, "Okay, George. Thanks." He cast one last, fearful glance at Mark before scurrying out of the gym, his head bowed.

As soon as Kimi was out of earshot, George turned back to Mark, his expression hardening. "You're lucky I didn't break your jaw, Mark. Consider this your final warning. If I ever, ever see you lay a hand on him again, or hear so much as a whisper of you intimidating or abusing him, I will personally ensure you never work in this paddock, or any professional sport, again. Do you understand me?"

Mark, now pale, simply nodded, defeated. He knew the power George wielded, not just as a driver, but as a respected figure within the team, close to Toto and the entire management.

George didn't wait for a verbal confirmation. He turned on his heel and walked towards the exit, his mind a whirlwind of anger and concern. He had to talk to Kimi, truly talk to him, to understand the extent of this. And then he had to go to Toto Wolff. This couldn't stand. Not for Kimi, not for Mercedes, not for anyone. The protective older brother in him had just been fully, irrevocably activated. Kimi Antonelli was under his wing, and George Russell would burn the entire paddock down before he let anyone hurt him again.

Chapter Text

The air still thrummed with the aftershocks of the Grand Prix, a cacophony of roaring engines and screaming fans that, for Kimi Antonelli, had morphed into a dull, throbbing headache. He was eighteen years old, a mere fledgling in the high-stakes arena of Formula 1, and already carrying the weight of a Mercedes seat on his slender shoulders. The media had dubbed him the "baby of the grid," a moniker that, while affectionate, also served as a constant reminder of his age and inexperience. Most drivers, from the grizzled veterans to the hungry young lions and even other rookies, kept an almost paternal eye on him, a silent, collective guardianship for the youngest talent to grace the sport since Max Verstappen at 17. He felt it, a warm, protective current beneath the intense rivalry, and it usually brought him a quiet comfort. Today, however, that comfort was elusive, replaced by a cold knot of dread in his stomach.

He clutched the summons in his hand, the official Mercedes emblem stark against the plain white paper. "Stewards' Office. Incident: Lap 47, Turn 7, Contact with Car #1 (Verstappen)." The words were clinical, devoid of emotion, but they spelled out a potential disaster for his next race. Max Verstappen, the reigning champion, the unyielding force of nature that was Red Bull, had been involved. And Kimi was the rookie. The odds, he knew, were stacked against him.

The corridors of the Temple of Speed, usually bustling with engineers and team personnel, were eerily quiet now that the race was over. The echoes of his own footsteps seemed to magnify the frantic beat of his heart. He ran a hand through his damp, dark hair, trying to smooth away the anxiety that clung to him like the scent of burnt rubber. His race suit felt heavy, the pristine white of his Mercedes overalls suddenly a stark contrast to the smudge of guilt he felt.

Reaching the door labeled "FIA Stewards' Office," Kimi took a deep, shaky breath. He pushed it open, stepping into a room that was stark and functional, designed for efficiency, not comfort. A long, polished table dominated the space, surrounded by four chairs. Three men, impeccably dressed in dark suits, were already seated, their faces an unreadable blend of exhaustion and stern authority. His heart sank further when he saw the fourth chair was empty. Max wasn't here. Of course, he wasn't. Max had won the race – another dominant victory – and was currently basking in the cheers of the crowd, the champagne still probably clinging to his gloves. Kimi, meanwhile, was here, alone, facing the inquisition.

"Antonelli," one of the stewards, a man with a severe brow and a clipped accent, gestured to the empty chair. "Please, sit."

Kimi slid into the seat, feeling impossibly small. He tried to meet their gazes, but found himself looking at the grainy replay footage already cued up on the large screen on the wall. The incident. Max's Red Bull, a blur of speed, on the outside of Turn 7. Kimi's Mercedes, hugging the apex. Then the slight twitch, the contact, Max’s car forced wide, over the kerb, losing precious momentum.

"Mr. Antonelli," the lead steward began, his voice devoid of warmth. "Walk us through what happened from your perspective."

Kimi cleared his throat, his voice surprisingly steady, though it felt like a foreign sound in his own ears. "Okay. So, approaching Turn 7, I was on the inside line, and Max was on the outside. My engineer, Bono, had just told me 'Push, push, we need to hold position.' I was focused on hitting my apex, on managing the throttle. The gap was closing. I moved left, to take the optimal line for the corner. I wasn't... I wasn't told Max was going to try and hold the outside for that long and I didn't see it in my mirrors, to be honest. It felt like he was committed to the move, but I didn't get the warning in time to adjust my line safely without compromising my own corner too much. I truly didn't mean to force him off. It was a racing incident, a miscommunication on track, perhaps, but not intentional." He ended, his gaze pleading for understanding. "I was just driving my race, sir."

The lead steward exchanged a look with the man to his left, who merely grunted. The third steward, a younger man with beady eyes, steepled his fingers. "A 'miscommunication,' Mr. Antonelli?" the lead steward scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "Or perhaps just a rookie mistake? A lack of awareness for your surroundings? You're in Formula 1, not a go-kart track. This is the pinnacle of motorsport. You are racing against the best, not school children."

Kimi flinched, the words stinging. "I understand, sir. I'm learning. I thought I had the right to the racing line, and I wasn't aware he was going to hold it that aggressively on the outside. My focus was on my markers."

"Your focus was on your markers while a four-time world champion was attempting to overtake you on the outside?" the beady-eyed steward interjected, his voice sharp. "That's a rather egregious oversight, wouldn't you say? You effectively compromised his lap, costing him time, all because you were 'unaware'?" He put heavy emphasis on the last word, dripping with sarcasm.

"He could have crashed, Antonelli," the lead steward added, his voice rising in volume. "Do you comprehend the implications of such an incident? A potential career-ending crash, all because you were too busy 'hitting your apex' to notice the competitor beside you?" He slapped the table with the flat of his hand, making Kimi jump. "This is not acceptable! We do not have time for this amateur hour. You are supposed to be a Mercedes driver, yet you drive like someone who just got their super licence in a cereal box! You are useless. Absolutely useless! You are wasting our time, and frankly, you are a danger on the track if you cannot even acknowledge the presence of other cars!"

The words hit Kimi like a volley of physical blows. His face flushed crimson, his breath catching in his throat. His initial composure shattered, replaced by a desperate surge of panic. "I'm so sorry, sirs. I truly am. I'll be more careful, I promise. I never meant any harm. I'm still learning, and I know I have a lot to improve on." He tried to apologize, to placate them, to stem the torrent of abuse. He was young, yes, but he had never been spoken to with such vitriol, such dismissive contempt. The lump in his throat grew, threatening to choke him.

"Apologies mean nothing when you've already demonstrated a fundamental lack of judgment!" the beady-eyed steward sneered, pushing himself up from his chair. He walked around the table, his movements deliberate, menacing. Kimi's eyes widened, tracking him, a primal fear seizing him. The steward stopped directly beside Kimi, looming over him.

"You're a burden," the man hissed, his voice low, but vibrating with barely contained anger. "A liability. And you're taking up valuable time we could be spending on serious matters."

Then, without warning, the steward raised his hand.

Smack.

The sound was shockingly loud in the confined space, a sharp, brutal crack that echoed off the sterile walls. Kimi's head snapped to the side, his entire body jerking in shock. A searing pain blossomed on his left cheek, hot and stinging, followed by a dull ache that radiated through his jaw. He gasped, a small, choked sound, his eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on a spot on the wall. He went utterly silent. The world seemed to tilt, the harsh fluorescent lights blurring into an unwelcome halo around the steward's enraged face. He could feel the imprint, the burning sensation of fingers on his skin, a cruel, undeniable brand.

The abusive tirade continued, though the words now felt distant, muffled, as if Kimi were underwater. No one mentioned the slap. Not the steward who had delivered it, not the other two who had witnessed it. They simply continued, as if it were a perfectly normal part of the proceeding. A chill spread through Kimi, colder than any blast of air from a high-speed corner. He was trapped, utterly powerless, his dignity stripped away piece by brutal piece.

"So," the lead steward continued, adjusting his tie, his voice now calm, almost conversational, as if the physical assault had never happened, "given the severity of the incident, the potential for a serious crash, and Mr. Antonelli's clear inability to maintain proper situational awareness..."

Kimi could feel his cheek throbbing, the sting a constant reminder. He didn't dare move, didn't dare speak. He just sat there, rigid, his gaze still fixed, unseeing, on the wall. They debated his fate, discussing grid penalties, license points, financial sanctions. He heard snatches of it, but the words were just noise to his traumatized ears.

"We've decided," the lead steward concluded, finally, looking directly at Kimi with a gaze that held no sympathy, "a five-place grid penalty for the next race, and two penalty points on your super licence."

The door opened just then, a soft click that pierced the tense silence.

~~~~~

The air in the stewards’ room was thick with the sterile scent of disinfectant and the lingering tension of a tough race. Max Verstappen entered, his usual focused intensity softened by the post-race adrenaline and the slight weariness of a demanding victory. He nodded curtly to the trio of stewards seated at the head of the long table, his gaze then flicking to the young driver slumped opposite them.

Kimi Antonelli, all sharp angles and youthful energy, looked smaller than usual in the plush leather chair. His dark hair was a little damp, plastered to his forehead, and his Mercedes team overalls looked a size too big for his slender frame. Max's eyes, accustomed to scanning for the minutiae of the track, landed on Kimi’s left cheek.

The world seemed to tilt.

A stark, undeniable red mark bloomed just beneath Kimi’s eye, five fingers splayed across his pale skin. A handprint. Fresh. Vivid. It screamed violence in the quiet, controlled environment of the FIA building.

Max’s step faltered. The quiet resolve he’d walked in with, ready to hear his own part of the incident and then leave, evaporated. The room, which had seemed still, now crackled with an unspoken horror. The stewards, who had been in the process of formally declaring Kimi’s penalty, suddenly froze, their eyes flicking towards Max, then to Kimi, then quickly away.

Kimi, who had been staring blankly at the table, felt Max’s gaze. He flinched, instinctively raising a hand to his cheek, a raw, vulnerable gesture. His wide, brown eyes locked with Max’s, and in their depths, Max saw not just shock, but a profound, desperate plea for silence, for discretion.

But Max saw. He didn’t just register the mark; he registered the way Kimi was holding himself, the subtle tremor in his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched, practically disappearing into his neck. He remembered the whispered stories from other drivers on the grid about Kimi, the kid everyone knew was too quiet, too polite for his own good.

Max’s voice, usually a calm rumble, was a low growl, cutting through the silence like a scalpel. “What… is that?” He didn't direct it at Kimi. His glare was fixed on the lead steward who he knew as Mr. Henderson.

Mr. Henderson cleared his throat nervously. “Mr. Verstappen, we were just concluding Mr. Antonelli’s hearing. We can begin yours shortly.” He gestured vaguely at a stack of papers.

“No.” Max took another step, placing his hands flat on the table, leaning in. His champion’s aura, usually reserved for the cockpit, filled the room, cold and dangerous. “I asked what that is.” He pointed a rigid finger at Kimi’s cheek. The gesture alone was enough to make everyone in the room shrink.

Kimi, despite his earlier silent plea, now couldn't help but look up at Max, a flicker of something akin to hope, or perhaps just stunned disbelief, in his eyes.

Another steward, a younger woman who had been taking notes, stammered, “It’s… it’s nothing, Mr. Verstappen. A… a smudge, perhaps.”

Max barely spared her a glance. “A smudge?” His voice was dangerously calm, laced with an edge of pure fury. “That's a handprint. A fresh one. On the face of an eighteen-year-old driver.” His eyes, the color of a winter sky, narrowed on Mr. Henderson. “One of you hit him.” It wasn't a question.

Mr. Henderson’s jowls quivered. “Mr. Verstappen, that is a preposterous accusation. We are merely discussing a racing incident here. We have already decided Mr. Antonelli’s penalty…”

“Penalty for what?” Max cut him off, his voice rising, shedding its calm facade. “For being hit? You think I’m blind? You think I’m stupid?” He looked at Kimi again, who was now openly trembling, unable to hold back the sudden rush of emotion. “Kimi, did one of these… people… hit you?”

Kimi’s voice was barely a whisper. “Max…” He shook his head, a desperate attempt to diffuse the situation, to avoid further trouble. But his eyes were pleading.

The third steward, finally spoke, his voice tight. “Mr. Antonelli was being… difficult. Uncooperative. He was wasting our time. Perhaps he bumped himself.”

Max slammed his hand down on the table, making the notepads jump. “He bumped himself?” The words were spat out, dripping with contempt. “You think that’s a plausible story? You think anyone in this paddock will believe that a kid who barely talks above a whisper ‘bumped’ himself with an open hand?” He straightened, turning his back on the horrified stewards and facing Kimi fully.

“Kimi,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle now, entirely different from the wrath he’d just unleashed on the officials. “Look at me. Did one of them put their hand on you?”

Kimi’s chin trembled. He looked from Max’s fiercely protective gaze to the three stunned, panicked faces of the stewards. The tears, held back for so long, finally welled up in his eyes. He nodded, once, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.

The confirmation, silent and devastating, hung in the air.

Max turned back to the stewards, his entire posture radiating danger. “Get Toto Wolff on the phone. Get Christian Horner on the phone. Now. Both of them.” He didn't ask; he commanded. His eyes, usually bright with competitive fire, were now dark with protective rage. “This meeting is over. And I promise you, by the time this is done, you three won’t just be out of your jobs. You’ll be lucky to ever be allowed near a racetrack again.”

Without another word, Max gently placed a hand on Kimi’s shoulder, feeling the rigid tension, the barely suppressed tremble. “Kimi,” he murmured, his voice softening, a stark contrast to the thunder he’d just unleashed. He didn’t acknowledge the stewards again, didn’t give them the dignity of his attention. He looked at Kimi, whose wide, shell-shocked eyes slowly, painfully, met his. “Come on, mate. Let’s get you out of here.”

Kimi, still silent, allowed Max to gently pull him up. His legs felt like jelly, but he followed the Dutchman, a silent, unresisting shadow. Max’s arm went around his back, a comforting, steadying presence. He guided Kimi towards the door, away from the stony silence of the stewards, away from the stench of injustice.

Once outside, in the slightly less intimidating corridor, Max led Kimi to a secluded bench near a fire exit. He sat Kimi down, then knelt in front of him, hands gently gripping Kimi’s knees. He scanned Kimi’s face, his eyes full of concern. The handprint was unmistakable, enflamed and angry.

“Kimi, are you okay?” Max asked, his voice low, almost a whisper. He knew it was a stupid question, but he had to say something. The younger driver still hadn't spoken, his eyes distant, unfocused. “Did he… did he hit you hard?”

Kimi finally blinked, a slow, deliberate movement. His lips parted, a guttural sound escaping, something between a gasp and a sob. “He… he called me useless,” Kimi choked out, the words tumbling out in a rush, his voice raw and thin. “He said I was wasting their time. And then… he just… slapped me.” The last word was barely audible, a whimper. Tears, long held back, finally welled up in his eyes, tracking hot paths down his unblemished cheek, narrowly avoiding the red mark.

Max’s jaw tightened. He reached out, his thumb gently tracing the edge of the bruised skin, a gesture of purely instinctual comfort. “It’s okay, Kimi. Well, it’s not okay, but it will be. You don’t deserve that. No one deserves that.” He pulled Kimi closer, not for a hug, but a supportive anchor, a silent promise.

Just then, the corridor erupted in a flurry of activity. Toto Wolff, Mercedes’ formidable Team Principal, and Christian Horner, his Red Bull counterpart, stormed into view, their faces etched with a mixture of confusion and growing alarm. Max had been quick. Both men had clearly just hung up from a frantic call.

“Max! What in God’s name happened?” Toto demanded, his eyes immediately assessing the scene: Max kneeling, Kimi slumped and tearful, the angry mark on his face. Christian, usually so quick with a quip, was silent, his own eyes narrowing in cold fury as he saw the evidence.

Max stood up, his arm still protectively around Kimi’s shoulder. “They hit him, Toto. One of the stewards, slapped Kimi during the debrief. He said they called him useless, that he was wasting their time.” Max’s voice was steady, but the tremor in his hands betrayed his deep anger.

Toto’s face went from alarm to absolute, incandescent rage. His eyes, usually sharp and strategic, blazed with an intensity that promised utter destruction. “He did what?” The words were a low growl, barely contained. He moved towards Kimi, his expression softening as he knelt beside his young driver, seeing the shame and trauma in Kimi’s eyes. “Kimi, my boy, are you alright?” He gently touched Kimi’s unbruised cheek.

Kimi flinched, then leaned into Toto’s touch, the dam finally breaking. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed, the sound raw and heart-wrenching. All the months of pressure, the weight of expectation, the fear of failure, and now this humiliation, crashed down on him.

Christian, meanwhile, had already spun on his heel and was marching back towards the stewards’ office, his face a mask of furious determination. “You two stay here with Kimi,” he barked at Max and Toto, his voice like flint. “I’m going in there. This is absolutely unacceptable. They will answer for this.”

Toto, his arm now wrapped around Kimi, watched Christian disappear into the office. His gaze returned to Kimi, his expression softening with paternal concern. “Max, bless you for having someone calling us. You did the right thing, son.” He looked at Kimi’s shaking form. “Kimi, listen to me. This is not your fault. What happened in there is beyond reprehensible. It is a gross abuse of power, and it will be dealt with. Do you understand? This has absolutely nothing to do with your talent or your worth as a driver.”

Inside the stewards’ office, Christian Horner’s voice, usually a persuasive tool, was now a weapon. He had found the three stewards still sitting, looking increasingly uncomfortable. “You three. What on earth possessed you? Mr. Davies, is that your name?”

Mr. Davies, looking considerably less smug now that two of the most powerful men in F1 were breathing down his neck, cleared his throat. “Mr. Horner, there was an incident, Antonelli was being evasive, belligerent even…”

“Belligerent? He’s eighteen years old! A rookie! You berated him, called him useless, and then you struck him? Do you have any idea the precedent this sets? The implications for driver welfare? For the integrity of this sport?” Christian’s voice was a controlled roar, shaking the room. “I want an explanation. And I want it now. Every single detail. And don’t even think about denying it.”

The other two stewards, Ms. Albright and Mr. Jenkins, looked like they wanted to disappear. Ms. Albright, recovering slightly, tried to interject. “Mr. Horner, we were under pressure, the incident was serious, and Antonelli wasn’t taking it seriously…”

“Not taking it seriously?” Christian scoffed. “He’s a kid, facing a panel of presumably experienced adults, being accused of an almost race-ending incident. He was probably terrified out of his wits! And your response was to physically assault him? This isn’t a back alley, this is the FIA, the pinnacle of motorsport!” He paused, taking a deep, furious breath. “Consider this: Mr. Davies, I will make sure you are suspended, effective immediately. And the rest of you, your conduct will be thoroughly investigated, mark my words. This is a disgrace. And as for the racing incident, any decision made under these circumstances is completely invalid. We will be reopening this entire investigation with a completely new panel. And I assure you, the FIA will be hearing about this at the highest levels.”

Back in the corridor, Toto continued to soothe Kimi, Max standing by, a silent sentinel. Kimi’s sobs were subsiding, replaced by the occasional shudder. He felt utterly drained, his spirit shattered.

“We’ll take care of this, Kimi,” Toto promised, pulling him into a gentle but firm hug. “No one touches my drivers, especially not in a professional setting. This will not stand. You hear me?”

Kimi nodded weakly, still unable to meet his gaze completely. He felt a profound sense of humiliation, a raw wound. But underneath it, a tiny flicker of something else: the knowledge that two of the most powerful men in the paddock, and the reigning world champion, had come to his defence. It was a bizarre, terrifying, yet strangely comforting turn of events.

Max crouched down again, meeting Kimi’s watery gaze. “Hey,” he said softly. “You’re okay. It’s over. Nothing they say or do changes who you are, or what you can do on track. You’re good, Kimi. Really good.”

Kimi managed a shaky half-smile, a silent acknowledgment of the unexpected solidarity from a rival. The immediate future was uncertain. The racing incident, his penalty, his reputation – it all hung in the balance. But for now, surrounded by the fierce, protective presence of Max Verstappen, Toto Wolff, and Christian Horner, Kimi felt a fragile sense of safety, a flicker of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, he wasn’t as useless as they had made him feel. The handprint on his face would fade, but the scars on his spirit would require much longer to heal. And the storm that was about to break over the FIA would be one for the history books.

Chapter Text

The roar of the Mercedes engine was a symphony Kimi Antonelli usually revelled in. Today, though, it felt like a discordant note, grating on his nerves. He was pushing, harder than he ever had before, trying to find the limit of the car, of himself, in this beast of a machine. This was Abu Dhabi, the last free practice session before qualifying. The floodlights were already bathing the track in an artificial glow, turning the desert landscape into something otherworldly.

He took turn five a little too hot, the rear end stepped out, and for a heart-stopping moment, he thought he could save it. He wrestled with the steering wheel, but the car was already gone, spinning viciously, a blur of black and Petronas green against the harsh black tarmac.

He braced for impact.

The crash was brutal. The car slammed into the barrier with a sickening crunch, the air knocked out of Kimi's lungs. The world spun, and for a terrifying second, he wasn't sure which way was up. Then, silence.

The halo, he knew, had done its job. But a sharp pain shot through his left leg as he tried to move. He gasped, his breath catching in his throat. "I've crashed," he gasped into the radio, his voice shaky. "Turn five... I think I've hurt my leg."

The response was immediate. Toto Wolff's voice, tight with concern, crackled in his ear. "Stay calm, Kimi. Medical team is on their way." It didn’t calm him, Toto only comes onboard when things are bad.

He closed his eyes, fighting back the rising panic. He was alone, in a foreign country, and suddenly, eighteen years old felt very, very young.

The medical team arrived quickly, extracting him from the wreckage with careful precision. The pain in his leg was a constant throb, but more than the physical discomfort, a cold fear was creeping in. He'd seen crashes, countless crashes. He knew what could happen.

They brought him to the medical bay, a sterile white room that did little to soothe his frayed nerves. He was propped up on a bed, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a doctor poking and prodding at his leg.

"We want you to get checked out at the hospital, Kimi," the doctor said, his tone professional but kind. "Just routine. We need to do some scans, rule out any serious fractures."

He nodded, trying to appear calm, but his heart was hammering against his ribs. He hated hospitals. He hated being poked and prodded. Most of all, he hated being alone.

He glanced around the room, his gaze landing on the faces of Max Verstappen, Lando Norris, George Russell, and Charles Leclerc. They were all there, having come as soon as the session ended, their expressions etched with concern. He knew they had races to prepare for, qualifying to think about, but they were here for him.

"Just a precautionary measure, mate," Lando said, offering a weak smile. "They'll get you patched up in no time."

"Yeah, don't worry too much," Max added, clapping him on the shoulder. "It happens to the best of us."

Charles murmured something in Italian, his brow furrowed. "Just try to relax, Kimi. It's going to be alright."

George, ever the composed one, sat quietly, observing him. He looked tense, Kimi noticed, his usual easy charm replaced with a worry that mirrored Kimi's own.

He tried to take a deep breath, to focus on their words, but the fear was a relentless tide, pulling him under. The waiting was making it worse. Every minute that ticked by felt like an eternity.

"I… I just want to go home," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

They all tried to reassure him, but their words felt hollow, failing to penetrate the wall of panic that was building around him. He felt tears prickling behind his eyelids, threatening to spill over. He squeezed his eyes shut, ashamed of his vulnerability.

"He's not calming down," George said, his voice a low murmur, laced with frustration. He stood up abruptly, a determined glint in his eye. "I'll be right back."

~~~~~

George practically ran out of the medical bay, his mind racing. He'd seen that look on Kimi's face before, the one that said he was on the verge of a complete meltdown. He was young, his parents weren’t there and he was scared. George knew the others meant well, but their platitudes weren't working. Kimi needed something more, someone more.

He knew it was a long shot, but he had a hunch. He'd noticed things, subtle cues, stolen glances, a shared inside joke that no one else seemed to understand. He'd dismissed them at first, but as he’d watched Kimi's anxiety spiral, the pieces had clicked into place.

He found Ollie Bearman in the Haas garage, poring over telemetry data with his engineers.

"Ollie, I need your help," George said, his voice urgent. "Kimi's crashed. He's in the medical bay, freaking out. He won't calm down. I think… I think you might be the only one who can reach him."

Ollie's head snapped up, his eyes widening with concern. "Kimi's crashed? Is he okay?" Ollie’s HAAS had a technical issue so he didn’t race during FP3 and was likely already going over data, rather than watching.

"He's hurt, but he'll be alright. Just… please, come with me."

Without hesitation, Ollie pushed back from the table and followed George, his face a mask of worry.

They burst back into the medical bay, and the change in atmosphere was immediate. Ollie barely registered the surprised looks on Max, Lando, and Charles' faces. His focus was solely on Kimi.

He went straight to his side, kneeling down beside the bed. "Kimi," he said softly, his voice filled with concern.

Kimi's head shot up, his eyes widening as he saw Ollie. The panic that had been gripping him seemed to recede, replaced by a flicker of something akin to relief.

Ollie reached out and pulled Kimi into a gentle hug. Kimi clung to him, burying his face in Ollie's shoulder. The tears that he had been desperately fighting back finally spilled over, soaking into Ollie's racesuit.

And just like that, the transformation was complete. The trembling subsided, the frantic breathing slowed, the tense muscles relaxed. He was still shaken, still scared, but in Ollie's arms, he found a sliver of peace.

Max, Lando, and Charles watched in stunned silence. The change in Kimi was remarkable. It was like a switch had been flipped.

Charles was the first to break the silence, his voice quiet but firm. "I'm happy for you both," he said, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

The others looked at each other, a dawning realisation in their eyes. It all clicked. The secret glances, the shared jokes, the unwavering support. It had been there all along, hidden in plain sight.

Kimi just gave Charles a tired smile, his voice hoarse. "Thanks," he whispered.

Ollie simply nodded, his arm tightening around Kimi.

Just then, the paramedics arrived, a gurney in tow. As they prepared to move Kimi, Ollie didn't hesitate. "I'm going with him," he said firmly, meeting the paramedics' gaze.

Ollie climbed into the ambulance with Kimi, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. The doors slammed shut, and the ambulance sped away, leaving the remaining drivers in a stunned, albeit understanding, silence.

Lando was the first to break the silence, turning to George with a mixture of amusement and admiration. "How did you know?" he asked, his voice laced with incredulity.

George shrugged, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. "It wasn't exactly rocket science. Just a few observations."

He paused, gathering his thoughts. "Remember in Monaco, when Kimi had that gearbox issue during practice? Ollie stayed with him in the garage for hours, longer than anyone else. I just thought he was being supportive, but in hindsight…"

He continued. "And then there was Silverstone. During the press conference, someone asked Kimi about his favourite track. Ollie was staring at him the whole time, practically willing him to say Imola. And when Kimi finally did, Ollie's face just lit up."

Max chuckled, shaking his head. "I thought Ollie was just a really enthusiastic junior driver and Kimi is Italian."

"And remember that time in Hungary when Ollie had that mechanical failure in qualifying?" George added. "Kimi was absolutely furious, pacing around the paddock like a caged tiger. He barely spoke to anyone for the rest of the day. I thought he was just stressed about his own race, but now…"

Charles nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. "It all makes sense now. The way they look at each other, the little gestures, the unspoken understanding. It was always there, we just didn't see it."

George sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I just knew Kimi needed someone who truly understood him, someone who could calm him down. I figured it was worth a shot."

He paused, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Besides, I'm a sucker for a good love story."

The three drivers exchanged knowing glances. They were rivals on the track, fierce competitors, but beyond the roar of the engines and the pressure of the championship, they were also friends. And seeing that Kimi had found something, someone, that brought him peace, made them happy for him, even if it was a secret love in the heart of the high-stakes world of Formula 1. The secret they would help him keep, undoubtedly.

Chapter Text

The roar of the Mercedes engine was a symphony to Kimi Antonelli, a chaotic ballet of controlled explosions that resonated deep within his chest. At eighteen, he was the youngest driver on the Formula One grid, a prodigious talent thrust into the unforgiving spotlight. Mercedes had taken a gamble, and now, every race was a test, every corner a potential headline.

He loved it.

Except for the sleep.

Sleep, or rather, the lack thereof, was Kimi's arch-nemesis. The pressure, the adrenaline, the constant hum of anxiety – it all conspired to keep him staring at the ceiling, his mind racing through simulations and what-ifs. He’d tried everything: meditation apps, warm milk, even counting sheep, but sleep remained a fickle mistress.

Which explained his current predicament: draped like a particularly limp noodle across Ollie Bearman, his best friend and fellow rookie, inside the drivers' recreation room at the Monza circuit.

Ollie, a year older and driving a Haas, was a grounding presence in Kimi's often-turbulent life. They'd grown up together on the karting circuit, their rivalry fierce on the track but their bond unshakeable off it. And, crucially, Ollie was a master of unintentional naps.

Kimi had discovered this early on. As a perpetually exhausted kid, constantly jet-lagged and overwhelmed, he'd often find solace in Ollie's quiet presence. A shoulder to lean on, a lap to curl up in – Ollie had always been there, a human security blanket. It wasn’t just Ollie, though. Anyone who sat still long enough could potentially become a Kimi-approved sleep prop. But Ollie was the most convenient, always happy to provide a comfy landing zone.

The recreation room buzzed with pre-race energy. Lando Norris, a whirlwind of nervous energy, was gesticulating wildly while recounting a particularly daring overtake from his karting days. Max Verstappen was locked in a silent battle of wills with a Rubik's Cube. Fernando Alonso, ever the enigma, was observing the scene with a knowing smirk.

Kimi had been trying to listen, really he had, but the relentless internal chatter, fuelled by last night’s dismal three hours of sleep, was drowning everything out. He felt a familiar wave of exhaustion wash over him. His eyelids fluttered, his head grew heavy, and suddenly, he was tipping sideways, landing with a soft thud against Ollie's shoulder.

Ollie, mid-sentence in a conversation with Pierre Gasly, barely registered the shift. He simply adjusted his position, tugging Kimi gently further into his lap, letting the younger driver's head rest comfortably against his shoulder. It was an old habit, a reflex honed over years of shared exhaustion.

~~~~~

Twenty minutes passed. Lando, still narrating his karting triumph, reached the crescendo of his story – a last-minute overtake that had secured him the karting championship. He paused for dramatic effect, only to be met with silence.

He frowned. “Hello? Did anyone hear that? It was epic!”

His gaze swept the room and landed on the incongruous scene unfolding on the couch. “Uh… guys? Is that… is that Kimi sleeping in Ollie’s lap?”

The room went quiet, the usual pre-race chatter replaced by a collective intake of breath. All eyes turned to the couch. There, nestled against Ollie, was Kimi, his face relaxed, his breathing soft and even.

Ollie rolled his eyes, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “What? He’s tired.”

“Tired enough to... to sleep in your lap?” Charles asked, his voice laced with amusement.

“He has trouble sleeping, okay?” Ollie defended, his voice a touch defensive. “He always has. Back in karting, he’d just… flop on whoever was closest after a bad night. He just feels safe and comfortable around someone and conks out. I'm just the closest target right now."

He gestured dismissively. "He'd probably do it to any of you if you sat close enough after a rough night.”

Ollie braced himself for the inevitable teasing. But instead, a wave of something completely unexpected washed over the room.

“That’s… adorable,” Carlos declared, a genuine smile gracing his lips.

“Seriously? Adorable?” Ollie scoffed.

“Think about it,” George chimed in, his competitive spirit surfacing. “He’s a rookie, under immense pressure. He’s just looking for comfort. It’s… endearing.”

Suddenly, a new energy filled the room, a playful, almost competitive one.

“So, what you’re saying is,” Lando said, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “he just needs a warm body and a comfy lap?”

“Well, yeah, basically,” Ollie admitted, starting to feel slightly overwhelmed by the unexpected turn of events.

“Dibs!” Lando shouted, earning a chorus of groans.

“No way, I’m next!” Charles protested.

“Guys, he’s still sleeping!” Ollie hissed, glancing down at the oblivious Kimi.

“We’re just strategizing,” Max said with a straight face, though a hint of amusement flickered in his eyes.

Ollie threw his hands up in the air. He’d expected teasing, maybe even some ridicule. He certainly hadn’t anticipated a full-blown competition for the privilege of becoming Kimi Antonelli’s human pillow.

~~~~~

Weeks later, after a gruelling race in Budapest, the drivers found themselves gathered in a smaller, less formal lounge, nursing their aches and pains. The race had been a rollercoaster, filled with unexpected twists and turns. Everyone was exhausted, both physically and mentally.

Kimi was particularly drained. He’d finished P6, a decent result, but the constant pressure had taken its toll. He slumped onto the couch next to George, letting out a weary sigh.

He closed his eyes, intending to rest for just a minute. But the gentle hum of conversation, the comfortable silence punctuated by the occasional joke, lulled him into a state of blissful relaxation.

He didn’t even realize he was falling asleep until his head lolled against George’s shoulder.

George froze. He glanced around the room, catching Ollie’s eye. Ollie raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge in his expression.

George hesitated for a moment, then tentatively, almost experimentally, tugged Kimi closer, guiding his head to rest more fully on his shoulder.

Kimi sighed contentedly and snuggled closer, his breathing becoming even slower and deeper.

George was surprised at how… pleasant it was. Kimi’s gentle weight, the soft rhythm of his breathing, it was actually…calming. It was like all the racing buzz and static in George's brain just melted away. He felt lighter, more at peace. He'd always been the serious, focused, perhaps a bit too tightly wound, driver. And this? This was completely unexpected.

He carefully avoided any sudden movements that might wake Kimi, and then quietly called out, “Ollie? You weren’t joking.”

A collective gasp rippled through the room. All conversation ceased as everyone turned to stare.

“No way,” Charles whispered, disbelief etched on his face.

“He actually did it,” Lando breathed, a mix of envy and awe in his voice.

Ollie just grinned, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes. He was relieved, more than anything. Relieved that his friend wasn't being ostracized for his unusual quirk. Relieved that the other drivers were embracing Kimi, accepting him for who he was.

He’d always known Kimi was special, but seeing the other drivers vying for his affection, treating his need for comfort with such genuine warmth, filled Ollie with a deep sense of pride and protectiveness.

~~~~~

The "Kimi Effect," as it became known, spread like wildfire throughout the paddock. Drivers started subtly manoeuvring to sit next to Kimi after particularly stressful races. Lap time became a coveted commodity, a sign of acceptance and camaraderie.

Lando, with his easy laugh and genuine warmth, became a frequent recipient of Kimi's impromptu naps. Fernando, surprisingly, offered his lap after a disastrous strategy call, muttering something about “needing the tranquillity.” Even Max, notorious for his intensity, seemed to soften around the sleeping rookie.

Kimi, blissfully unaware of the competition he had unwittingly sparked, continued to drift off whenever and wherever he felt comfortable. He didn’t understand the fuss, but he appreciated the extra padding.

And as he slept, something subtle began to shift within the Formula 1 community. The cutthroat competition, the relentless pressure, it was still there, of course. But so was a new sense of camaraderie, a quiet understanding of each other’s vulnerabilities.

The drivers, hardened by years of relentless competition, found themselves softening, their edges smoothed by the weight of a sleeping rookie in their laps. They realized that beneath the helmets and the racing suits, they were all just human, yearning for connection and a moment of peace.

Chapter Text

The afterparty at the paddock club was a blur of flashing lights, thumping bass, and the intoxicating aroma of champagne. He'd been steered through a gauntlet of handshakes, backslaps, and murmured congratulations, all while trying to project an air of seasoned confidence he didn't possess. At eighteen, he felt more like a kid playing dress-up in a world of adults.

Someone had thrust a glass of Moët into his hand, then another, and another. He’d tried to politely decline, citing early mornings and debriefing, but the pressure was relentless. “Celebrate, Kimi! You earned it!” they’d yelled over the music. So, he’d celebrated. Maybe a little too hard.

Now, standing precariously near the dance floor, the world seemed to tilt slightly. The music vibrated through him, making his teeth buzz. He caught sight of his teammate, George, across the room, deep in conversation with a group of engineers. George looked… serious. Stable. The kind of anchor Kimi desperately needed right now.

He fumbled for his phone, fingers thick and clumsy. He needed to text his father, tell him he was okay, that he'd made it through. But the letters swam on the screen, refusing to form coherent words. He sighed, a shaky exhale that reeked of champagne

"Lost, bambino?"

The voice was smooth, almost oily, and it made Kimi's skin crawl. He turned to see a man, maybe ten years older than him, leaning close. His eyes were too intense, his smile too knowing. He wore an expensive suit and a cologne that screamed money, not class.

"Just... tired," Kimi mumbled, trying to focus.

"Tired? You should be celebrating! Come on, let me get you another drink. Something a little stronger, eh?" The man's hand hovered a little too close to Kimi's back.

Kimi felt a wave of nausea. "No, thanks. I think I need some water."

"Nonsense. Let’s go somewhere quieter, where we can actually talk." The man's grip tightened on Kimi's arm, steering him toward a darker corner of the room.

Kimi felt a flicker of unease. This didn't feel right. He tried to pull away, but his coordination was shot. "I... I really should go."

"Just one drink. Come on, don't be shy."

Panic started to bubble in Kimi's chest. He was too drunk, too disoriented to fight. He opened his mouth to protest, but the words wouldn't come.

Then, a voice, sharp and clear, cut through the noise.

"He said he doesn't want to."

George Russell stood beside them, his face a mask of cool disapproval. He was taller than Kimi remembered, his presence radiating a quiet authority.

"And who are you to tell me what to do?" the man sneered, dropping his hand from Kimi's arm.

"Someone who can see that you're a grown man, sober as a judge, trying to drag a barely eighteen-year-old rookie who's clearly had too much to drink into a secluded corner. Explain to me how that looks good on you." George's voice was low and controlled, but there was steel in his eyes.

The man's face flushed. "I was just being friendly."

"Friendly? Pulling him away from everyone? I think not. Why don't you find someone your own age, and just...leave him alone."

The man scoffed, muttering something under his breath, before melting back into the crowd.

Kimi sagged against George, relief washing over him in a dizzying wave. "Thanks, Georgie," he mumbled, his voice slurred. "You're the bestest."

George steadied him, his expression unreadable. "You alright, Kimi?"

Kimi hiccupped. "Totally fine. Just... celebrating."

"Right. Celebrating." George's tone was dry. "I think you've celebrated enough for one night. Let's get you out of here."

George’s arm around Kimi was firm and reassuring. He navigated them through the throng of partiers, a silent, unflinching bodyguard. Kimi, meanwhile, clung to George like a limpet, muttering a stream of nonsensical compliments.

"You're so... tall," he slurred, gazing up at George with unfocused eyes. "Like a tree. A very handsome tree."

George sighed. He was good at PR, good at handling pressure, but navigating a drunken eighteen-year-old rookie was a whole new challenge. He felt a pang of sympathy for the Ferrari drivers who’d had to deal with a perpetually inebriated Kimi Raikkonen but at least he was 18.

"And your hair," Kimi continued, oblivious to George’s inner turmoil. "It's so... perfect. Like a prince. You're Prince Georgie, rescuing me from the scary man."

George winced. "Right, Prince George. Let's just focus on getting you home."

He managed to flag down a taxi, guiding Kimi into the back seat with surprising ease. The cab driver, raised an eyebrow but remained silent. He’d seen worse.

"Home?" Kimi echoed, his brow furrowed in confusion. "But I don't want to go home. The party is fun."

"The party is over, Kimi. You need to sleep."

"Sleep is boring. I want to dance."

George rubbed his temples. He lived in a small apartment just outside the city centre, a practical choice driven by proximity to the track and a desire for quiet. He certainly hadn't envisioned bringing a drunken teammate back there.

He gave the driver his address and settled back, bracing himself for a long, loud ride. Kimi, however, seemed to have run out of steam. He slumped against George, his head lolling against his shoulder.

"You're amazing, George," he mumbled, his voice barely audible above the city noise. "Really, really amazing. The bestest teammate ever."

George's heart skipped a beat. He tried to tell himself it was the alcohol talking, that Kimi would have said the same thing to anyone who’d pulled him away from that sleazy character. But a small, traitorous part of him felt a surge of warmth at the unexpected praise.

He stayed silent, focusing on the passing streetlights and the steady rhythm of Kimi's breathing.

The cab pulled up to his building, and George paid the driver, bracing himself for the challenge of getting Kimi upstairs. He managed to coax the younger driver out of the car, holding him steady as they navigated the short walk to the elevator.

"We're almost there, Kimi. Just a little further."

"Further where?" Kimi giggled. "Are we going to Narnia?"

George chuckled despite himself. "Something like that."

He fumbled for his keys, finally unlocking his apartment door. The small space felt even smaller with Kimi swaying precariously in the middle of it.

"Wow," Kimi said, taking in the minimalist decor. "It's... very... George."

George sighed. "It is. Now, let's get you to bed."

He led Kimi to his spare bedroom, a clean space with a single bed and a small desk. He had a few spare clothes, so he carefully unbuttoned Kimi's shirt, revealing a surprisingly toned chest.

"Whoa," Kimi said, looking down at himself with a mixture of surprise and admiration. "I'm... impressive."

George fought back a smile. "You are. Now, let's get you into something comfortable."

He found an old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants in a drawer, carefully dressing the slightly protesting Kimi. Getting his boots off proved to be a challenge, but eventually, he managed to wrestle them free.

He tucked Kimi into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. He looked younger than eighteen, his face soft and vulnerable in sleep.

"Thanks, Georgie," Kimi mumbled, his eyes already fluttering closed. "You're a good prince."

George smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile. "Sleep well, Kimi."

He turned off the light and quietly closed the door, leaving Kimi to his dreams. He slumped onto his couch, suddenly exhausted. He'd saved the day, played the role of responsible teammate, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just navigated something far more complicated than a pit stop. He had a feeling the season, and his dynamic with Kimi, was going to be anything but predictable.

Chapter Text

Hey, so not an update and I will end up taking this down. Sorry I haven't posted much lately, I'll try to put some up soon, there's one specific one I'm working on right now, I just want to address something that's cropped up on another page I post.

If anyone here comments anything bad about Kimi, ridiculous shit about the race today bullying a 19 year old kid (cos I still classify him as a kid) then you can just go, we don't need that negativity here. It's been like five hours since the race ended and people are sending death threats, insults, just being awful to the point Kimi has changed his pfp to black is disgusting. I've had people dm me on another app and they're just being stupid, as if Kimi would deliberately try to sabotage Maxs championship, for one he wouldn't be thinking about it and for two, he literally adores Max. Kimi drove a great race defending against Lando in DRS for many laps and made a mistake at the end, he didnt deliberately let him through so Lando could win the championship and GP's comment did not at all help that which hes apologised to Toto for now.

Sorry about the rant but I'm really pissed off right now, and that's coming from someone who wants Max to win and would love those extra points (I love Lando and Oscar but I hate Mclaren they're being idiots). Also please don't feel like I'm saying all of you are bad people and would saying anything like that, I love all my readers you're amazing and I doubt any of you would, this is just for the off chance someone decides being a spiteful, hateful person is something that's fine to do.

Love you all, I'll try get a chapter up tonight (I do have ones written I just keep forgetting to post when I have my laptop which is my bad)

Chapter Text

The desert air of Qatar was thick and heavy, carrying the scent of heat, cars and anticipation. For Kimi Antonelli, 19 years old and a rookie at the pinnacle of motorsport, it was a heady cocktail that usually fuelled his racing heart. But tonight, the usual rush was tinged with a gnawing unease. The second-to-last race of the season, a pressure cooker that felt like it was about to explode, and he was caught in the blast radius.

Max Verstappen, his unlikely mentor and surrogate older brother, basically his grid dad, was a whirlwind of focused intensity in the adjacent motorhome. Max, the four-time reigning champion, the man who had dominated the sport with an almost terrifying instinct, was battling for his championship life. Third in the standings, 371 points to Lando Norris’s 396 and Oscar Piastri’s 374. The gap, once a chasm, had shrunk to a whisper in recent weeks, a testament to Max’s relentless pursuit. Tonight, he started third, Lando on the front row, Oscar on pole. The stage was set for Max to stage another of his legendary comebacks.

Kimi watched Max’s pre-race ritual from the corner of his eye, a silent observer of a phenomenon he still struggled to fully comprehend. Max, who treated Kimi with a fierce, almost paternalistic protectiveness, a stark contrast to his on-track persona. He’d seen Max gently tease him, then fiercely defend him against perceived slights from the media or rival teams. Max saw himself in Kimi, a raw talent with the same fire in his belly, and he couldn't help but dote on the kid.

The start was pure Max. A blur of red and gold, a dive into Turn 1 with an audacious aggression that bordered on reckless. Lando, starting from P2, was muscled aside with a decisive shove, Oscar’s pole position rendered academic before the cars had even properly settled into their rhythm. Kimi, starting from P5, watched it all unfold with a mixture of awe and a familiar prickle of envy. He was P4 by the end of lap one, his own tires protesting the initial surge.

Seven laps later, the tranquillity of the desert race was shattered by a collision between Pierre Gasly and Nico Hulkenberg. Nico, his Sauber a mess in the dirt, brought out the safety car. The Qatar circuit, with its mandated tire degradation, was a two-stop track, the Pirelli compounds designed to push drivers to their limits. A single set of tires could only last 25 laps, and the safety car was a golden opportunity. A free pit stop with the perfect amount of remaining laps.

The Mercedes pit box was a hive of activity. Kimi’s engineer, Bono, barked instructions. “Box, box, box, Kimi! Double stack with George!”

The McLarens, however, stayed out. Lando and Oscar, for some reason trying for an interesting strategic advantage, gambled. They’d try to stretch their first stint, hoping the pit stop chaos wouldn’t cost them too much and they’d have more flexibility for their pit stops.

As the race resumed, the shuffled order began to settle, Kimi losing a place to Carlos due to being held up with pit traffic. The mandatory pit stops started to play out, and the strategic gamble from McLaren began to unravel. By the time the final pit stops were completed, the desert dunes seemed to blur as the cars screamed past. Max was in P1, a ten-second lead a testament to his raw pace and the brilliance of his team’s strategy. Oscar was a distant P2, and Carlos Sainz, his Williams finally finding its rhythm, was a solid P3.

And then there was Kimi. P4. For lap after lap, ten agonizing laps, he’d defended his position with a ferocity that belied his years. Lando Norris, in the McLaren, was a constant shadow, glued to his DRS, the papaya of his car a pulsating threat in Kimi's mirrors. Kimi pushed his Mercedes to its absolute limit, every corner, every acceleration, a desperate act of defiance. He was holding Lando back, trying to get as many points as he could for Mercedes and also hopefully overtake Lewis in the Ferrari for P6 in the drivers standings, unintentionally giving Max the breathing room he desperately needed.

The championship standings, if they finished like this, would see Max climb to P2. The gap between him and Lando would shrink to a mere ten points heading into the season finale in Abu Dhabi. If Max won the final race, Lando would need to finish P2 for the championship to remain his, P3 or lower would have Max win his fifth WDC in a row. Kimi knew how crucial that was. He was fighting for his own points, his own pride, for the team, but also distantly in the back of his mind, for Max.

Ahead of him, Carlos in P3 was visibly struggling. His Williams, once a roaring beast, was now coughing and sputtering, car issues clearly plaguing his race. Only 1.5 seconds and closing separated Kimi from a potential podium, his third in a row and forth for the season. He could see it, smell it, taste it. He was pushing, chasing Carlos with every ounce of his being, while Lando’s relentless pressure remained a constant, suffocating presence behind.

It was the second-to-last lap. Turn 9, a sweeping, deceptively simple corner. Kimi’s tires, pushed to the brink for so long, finally protested. A sudden, violent oversteer, a vicious snap of the rear end losing grip. The Mercedes twitched, its racing line a blur as it slid wide. An opening. A gaping, unmissable opening.

In his mirrors, Kimi saw the flash of papaya. Lando Norris. He was through. Kimi’s chance at a podium, at a career-defining result, evaporated in a cloud of dust and regret. P4 gone, replaced by a crushing P5. Two crucial championship points, lost. The weight of the mistake, the realization of what he had cost himself, and the team, descended like a suffocating blanket.

Back in the sterile sanctuary of his driver’s room, the adrenaline slowly draining away, Kimi’s fingers mechanically reached for his phone. The usual post-race ritual. A simple thank you to the team, an acknowledgement of a decent weekend, perhaps a hint of what could have been – a subtle nod to his podium aspirations.

Before he could however, something unsettling caught his eye. Notifications. A deluge of them. He usually braced himself for the usual comments, the well-wishers and armchair strategists. But this was different. This was a storm.

The screen shimmered with a barrage of vitriol he couldn't look away from. The words swam before his eyes, a sickening kaleidoscope of hate. "Deliberately let Norris through!" "Sabotaging Max’s championship!" "McLaren lackey!" "Overrated rubbish!" "You ruined it all!" The accusations were relentless, venomous. Fans, apparently Max’s fans, were tearing him apart. They were convinced he’d intentionally gifted P4 to Lando, that he’d betrayed Max.

Shock turned to a cold dread. He scrolled, his breath catching in his throat. The sheer malice, the personal attacks, the death threats that punctuated the stream of abuse – it was beyond anything he had ever imagined. He, Kimi Antonelli, the kid who idolized Max, who saw him as family, was being accused of the ultimate betrayal. The words burrowed deep, planting seeds of doubt and self-loathing. He had messed up, yes, but this? This was a punishment far beyond the transgression. He felt a wave of nausea, a crushing embarrassment, and a gut-wrenching conviction that he had, indeed, ruined Max’s chances.

Tears welled, blurring the screen. He couldn't breathe. The carefully constructed facade of the young, confident rookie crumbled. The weight of the world, of the championship battle, of human cruelty, was too much. He needed… he needed to see Max, to apologise.

He stumbled out of his driver's room, the desert night air offering no solace. He found himself outside Max’s motorhome, the door slightly ajar. Hesitantly, he pushed it open.

Max was there, pulling on a clean team polo shirt, his race engineer, GP, standing nearby, looking disgruntled before leaving the room. Max’s eyes widened as he saw Kimi. The usual spark of camaraderie vanished, replaced by concern. Kimi’s face was stained with tears, his small frame trembling.

“Kimi? What’s wrong, mate?” Max asked, his voice infused with a genuine alarm he rarely displayed.

Kimi choked back a sob. “Max… I’m so sorry,” he stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to. I swear. It was a mistake. A stupid, terrible mistake. But I would never, ever… I would never sabotage you. Never.”

Max’s eyes, usually alight with a competitive fire or a mischievous glint, were wide with alarm. He dropped the Red Bull race suit he was about to hang up, the fabric pooling silently on the floor. He crossed the small room in two long strides, his hands landing gently on Kimi's trembling shoulders. The younger driver was practically vibrating with distress, his face streaked with tears, his breath coming in ragged, hitching sobs.

"Kimi. Hey. Look at me," Max said, his voice a low, steady rumble that contrasted sharply with Kimi's frantic state. "What are you talking about? Sabotage me? What?"

"They all think... they're saying I did it on purpose," Kimi choked out, the words tumbling over each other in a desperate rush. "On Instagram... your fans... they said I'm a McLaren lackey, that I let him through... that I ruined it for you. But I swear, Max, I swear on everything, my hand just slipped... a bit of oversteer and the rear... it just went. I wouldn't... I could never do that to you."

He looked up, his young face a mask of raw anguish, searching Max’s for any flicker of doubt. He found none. What he found instead was something far more potent: a simmering, protective fury.

A muscle ticked in Max’s jaw. He steered Kimi towards the small sofa in the corner of the room, pushing him down gently before sitting beside him. "First," he began, his tone leaving no room for argument, "breathe. Just breathe for a second, kiddo."

Kimi tried, sucking in a shuddering breath that did little to calm the storm inside him.

"Second," Max continued, leaning forward and fixing Kimi with an intense gaze. "Don't you ever think that I would believe that. Not for a single second. The thought didn't cross my mind. It never would. Do you understand me?"

Kimi could only nod, a fresh wave of tears blurring his vision. It was one thing to hope Max wouldn’t be angry; it was another to see this absolute, unwavering belief

"You want to know what I did after the race?" Max asked, his voice dropping. "Before I even got out of the car? GP came on the radio. My own engineer. And he said, cool as you like, 'Looks like Antonelli just pulled over and let Norris through, Max.' And you know what I said as soon as I saw him?"

Kimi shook his head, transfixed.

"I told him to shut his mouth and his comment on a live broadcast was uncalled for," Max said, the words sharp and clipped. "I told him that you defended like a lion for almost ten laps and made one tiny mistake at the most unforgiving corner on the track, and if he ever suggested you'd do anything less than fight your heart out, for yourself and for your team, I'd get a new engineer. I chewed his ear off for at least ten minutes before you came. You think I would let my own engineer say that about you and then come in here and believe it myself?"

The story hit Kimi with the force of a physical blow, knocking the toxic certainty out of him. Max hadn't just not blamed him; he had actively, aggressively defended him without even being asked. He had fought for him.

"But... the points," Kimi whispered, the self-loathing still clinging to him like the desert dust on his race suit. "Lando got two extra points. The gap is twelve now, not ten. It makes Abu Dhabi harder. I cost you that."

"No," Max said firmly, shaking his head. "You didn't cost me anything. You gained me a massive advantage Kimi. You holding Lando up for that long, burning his tyres, frustrating him, that stopped him from having the chance to get a podium and gain another two more points. That's what kept the pressure off me, it’s what has still kept me in this championship. Lando being stuck behind you is half the reason I won this race so comfortably, only having to worry about Oscar. The race isn't won or lost on one corner, Kimi. It's the whole damn thing. And for 99% of it, you were a superstar."

He reached over and took Kimi’s phone, which was still clutched in his white-knuckled grip, the screen glowing with the venomous comments. Max’s expression hardened as he glanced at the messages.

"This," he said, holding the phone up with distaste, "is garbage. This isn't support. These aren't fans. They're idiots hiding behind keyboards who think a championship is more important than a person. They are grown adults bullying a sweet 19 year old kid. They don't know what it takes to drive these cars. They don't know the G-force in that corner, the tyre degradation, the mental fatigue. They know nothing. Their opinions are worth less than nothing."

He switched the phone off and placed it face down on the table, a definitive, final gesture. "You are not looking at that again. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. You listen to me, you listen to George and you listen to your team. Everyone else? They're just noise."

Kimi stared at the phone case, then back at Max. The older driver's face had softened, the hard anger replaced by a deep, genuine concern that felt like a protective shield.

"You're 19 years old, Kimi," Max said, his voice softening. "You're in your rookie year, in a Mercedes having replaced a 7-time World Champion, fighting for a podium against a championship leader. Do you have any idea how insane that is? I made a hundred mistakes my first year. I crashed, I spun, I took people out. It's how you learn. You made one small mistake after driving one of the best defensive races I've seen all season. You have nothing to apologize for. You should be proud."

The word 'proud' seemed so alien to what Kimi was feeling, but hearing it from Max, it planted a tiny seed of possibility in the barren wasteland of his self-doubt.

"I just wanted to help," Kimi mumbled, his voice thick. "I wanted to get that podium, but I also wanted to keep him behind for you."

"I know," Max said, and the simple affirmation was everything. "And I appreciate it more than you know. You fight for yourself, for your team. That's your job. The fact that you fighting for yourself also helps me? That's a bonus. Today, you didn't help me at the very end. But for the fifty five laps before that? You were my secret weapon. Now," he stood up, grabbing a bottle of water and twisting the cap off, handing it to Kimi. "You drink this. You go back to your room, you have a debrief with your engineers, and you tell them what you an incredible job you did to be in that position in the first place. And then you put this race behind you."

He clapped Kimi on the shoulder again, his big hand covering most of it. "Because in five days, we go to Abu Dhabi. And the championship is still on. Twelve points, ten points, it doesn't matter. I still need to win, and he still needs to be right behind me. The job is the same. But now, I'm even more motivated."

Kimi looked up, confused. "Why?"

A slow, wolfish grin spread across Max's face. "Because now, I don't just want to win it for me. I want to win it to shut all those idiots up for you. We'll do it together. You go fight for your best possible result, and I'll go fight for the win. We leave them all with nothing to say."

In that moment, the weight on Kimi’s chest didn't vanish, but it lessened, morphing from a crushing certainty of failure into the familiar, manageable pressure of a new challenge. He wasn't Max's saboteur. He was his little brother, his protégé. And in Abu Dhabi, under the lights of the Yas Marina Circuit, they would fight together. The storm of online hate still raged outside the door of this quiet room, but in here, with his mentor's unshakeable faith as his shield, Kimi finally felt safe. He nodded, a flicker of his own competitive fire finally reigniting in his eyes.

"Okay, Max. Okay."