Archive of Our Own

It started the way it always did — quietly, like something crawling in beneath his skin when he wasn’t looking. The first time he noticed it, he was brushing his teeth on Thursday morning, still half-asleep, hoodie sleeves slouched over his knuckles and socked feet curled on cool hotel tile. He swallowed and winced slightly at the rough scrape at the back of his throat. Barely a scratch. Probably just the AC. He ran the toothbrush under water, spat, swallowed again to test it. Still there.

He told himself it was nothing. He was fine.

He padded back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, watching Ollie pace between the bed and the closet with one of his earpods in, already rattling off track temps and sector splits like the weekend had already started. He looked sharp and focused in his half-zipped hoodie and branded joggers, one hand tugging a brush through his curls as he glanced at a Google calendar Kimi hadn’t seen him stop syncing for two days. Kimi smiled faintly at him, or tried to — just enough that Ollie’s eyes flicked toward him with a softening of his whole face.

“You good, baby?” Ollie asked, crossing the room long enough to cup the side of Kimi’s face and kiss his temple.

“Mm-hmm,” Kimi hummed, nodding once and leaning into the touch even though the skin under Ollie’s fingers suddenly felt too warm. He hated how much he liked it, how fast that touch could unravel something in him. He didn’t want it to show. Not now. Not over a sore throat.

He kissed Ollie’s wrist and pulled back, waving him toward the door. “You’ll be late.”

Ollie grinned, ruffled his curls gently, and went.

⸻

By lunch, the scratch had gotten worse.

Kimi stood under the sun near the hospitality tent, blinking at the rows of journalists and content creators flooding the paddock, and tried to count how many interviews he still had to fake his way through. His mouth was dry even though he’d been sipping water constantly. His eyes were tired. His head was starting to throb in that low, foggy way he only ever got when he was overtired or coming down with something.

Still — nothing worth mentioning.

He smiled through the content shoot, even when the sun made his eyes water. He laughed politely at questions about rivalries and post-race snacks. He posed with his arms folded and his jaw tense, and no one seemed to notice the way his fingers kept twitching. Not even Ollie, who came and went in flashes — between debriefs and sponsor events — smiling at him softly in passing, running a hand down his back as he moved by. Kimi leaned into every touch like it might steady him, but he didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

He went through the rest of the day on autopilot, drinking more water than he could stomach, chewing gum to soothe the burn in his throat, and holding in every single cough until it felt like his chest might burst. He was fine. Just tired. Just dehydrated.

Back at the hotel, he ducked into the bathroom, stripped down with trembling fingers, and stepped under the shower with the temperature turned all the way to hot. The steam filled the room so fast it made him dizzy. He braced one hand against the wall and bowed his head, letting the water crash down on the back of his neck as he focused on breathing through it.

He was shaky when he got out. Shaky and cold and suddenly burning under the towel like he’d been lit on fire from the inside out. He pressed his palm to his forehead. It felt… weird. Clammy, maybe. But he didn’t know. It was probably nothing.

Still. Just in case.

He pulled out the little emergency pack of cold medicine Ollie had insisted he pack weeks ago and took two tablets. Then, unsure, he took one more. He couldn’t remember how many hours it was supposed to be between doses, but it didn’t matter. He needed to feel better by morning.

⸻

He didn’t tell Ollie.

When Ollie came in with his tablet in one hand and a water bottle in the other, still in conversation with someone through his headset, Kimi was already curled into bed. He made a show of yawning, back turned, and waved a hand as if to say too tired, talk tomorrow. Ollie chuckled quietly, slipped into the bathroom, and turned off the light without pushing.

Kimi kept his eyes closed and pretended to be asleep until he actually was.

⸻

Friday morning was worse.

The fever came on like a wave, slow and high and drowning. He woke up hot, his hoodie stuck to his back and his joggers soaked at the waistband with sweat. But when he kicked off the covers, he was shivering. Every part of him ached — his neck, his spine, his calves. His jaw felt too tight. His eyes stung.

His throat was on fire. He coughed once and felt it vibrate all the way down into his ribs. He didn’t dare cough again.

He sat up too fast and nearly blacked out. The room spun. He pressed both hands to the mattress and counted his breaths until the dizziness eased. His mouth was dry. His tongue felt wrong. He reached for the water bottle on the nightstand, downed it, then reached for the medicine again.

He took three pills this time. Didn’t even check which ones. Cold and flu, painkillers, something caffeinated — it didn’t matter. He needed to stop feeling like this. Needed to sweat it out, shake it off, survive the weekend.

When Ollie stirred beside him, half-awake and reaching for him under the blankets, Kimi slipped away fast. Into the bathroom. Cold water. Face splash. Breathe.

He couldn’t let him see.

Ollie was already talking about his schedule when Kimi came out, towel draped around his shoulders and hoodie zipped up tight. He kept his head down and sat on the edge of the bed, focusing on tying his shoes even though his fingers were sluggish and uncoordinated. Ollie bent to kiss the top of his head on his way out the door.

“You sure you’re okay?” he murmured, hands briefly bracing Kimi’s shoulders.

Kimi nodded. Said, “Just tired,” around the lump in his throat.

Ollie gave him a long look. His thumb brushed gently behind Kimi’s ear, like he was thinking of checking his temperature — but he didn’t. He squeezed his shoulder instead.

“Try to eat something. I’ll see you after media.”

And he was gone.

⸻

Kimi didn’t eat.

He sat in the motorhome with the food Oscar brought him and stared at it until it went cold. His stomach turned over at the smell of it. He drank more water. Took two more pills. Told himself it was all fine.

The paddock was alive with noise, but Kimi moved through it like he was wrapped in plastic — everything muffled and bright and a little too loud at the edges. His head throbbed behind his eyes. His neck felt stiff. His knees clicked when he walked, and the effort of standing upright made his vision pulse.

He saw Ollie across the paddock, in conversation with Max and Charles. Charles was laughing. Ollie was beaming. They looked good — golden, like they belonged here. And Kimi felt like a ghost.

He looked away before Ollie could notice.

And then there was Lando.
Further down the row, leaning against a rail beside Oscar, saying something under his breath that made Oscar snort.

Kimi’s heart stuttered. He loved Lando. Lando was warmth and humor and fierce protection. But if Lando saw him like this… if Lando took one look at him and reached out and called him piccolino… Kimi didn’t trust himself not to fall apart.

So he didn’t go to him either.
He kept his head down. Walked slower. Faked another smile when a mechanic passed. Took another pill, even though he wasn’t sure what he’d taken earlier or when.

His stomach was rolling now. His legs heavy. His thoughts fuzzy. His whole body burning.

But he was fine. He was still fine.
He just had to make it through this day. He’ll see what he’ll do tomorrow.

Just a few more days.

~~~~

It was a miracle Kimi made it back to the hotel upright.

He didn’t even remember the car ride — only the feeling of Ollie’s warm hand briefly resting on his thigh in the back seat telling him that he’ll drop him off then meet with a sponsor for dinner while squeezing his tight affectionately, a squeeze meant to comfort, or ground, or just remind him he was there. Kimi had nodded, eyes closed, grateful but silent. He didn’t have the strength to talk. Not after the full day of interviews, briefings, simulator work, and pretending. Pretending he wasn’t burning up from the inside. Pretending the ache in his spine and skull didn’t make him dizzy every time he turned his head. Pretending he could keep walking when it felt like each step might be the one that tipped him over.

He clutched the hotel room keycard in his pocket, fingers numb around it. The cool of the hallway should’ve helped — the sharp, air-conditioned breeze against his flushed skin — but it only made the chills worse. His hoodie was zipped all the way to his chin, sleeves over his hands, but it didn’t stop the shivering. He dragged his feet toward the elevators, hunched slightly, shoulders curled in to protect something fragile and overheated in his chest. He just needed to get to the room. Pop more pills. Curl into the sheets. Sleep.

He almost made it. Almost.

But the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, and standing there was Lando.

Not the Lando from the grid. Not the public figure. This was his Lando — in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair damp like he’d just showered, phone in hand, mouth quirked in that tired little smile he always had at the end of a long day. A smile that widened — at first — when he saw Kimi. That softened with something warm and fond. Until he looked closer.

Kimi knew the exact second it changed.

Lando’s expression shifted — smile fading, brow furrowing, phone lowered to his side as his eyes narrowed on Kimi’s face. His feet moved without him thinking, stepping out of the elevator with careful slowness, eyes scanning Kimi head to toe.

Kimi froze.

The hallway spun for a moment, like it wasn’t flat anymore, like the floor tilted and dragged him sideways. He blinked hard and forced himself to keep standing, keep moving. If he kept walking, maybe Lando would let it go.

But Lando stepped directly into his path and placed two firm hands on his shoulders. Not forceful. Just steady. Warm. Familiar.

“Pump your brakes, piccolino.”

It was soft. Affectionate. Teasing, even — the kind of line Lando always used when Kimi got too wound up, too lost in his own head, too eager to do everything himself. Normally, it would’ve made Kimi smile. It might’ve made him roll his eyes and sigh, “Lan…” like a brat, just to make Lando ruffle his curls and call him a menace.

But tonight?

Tonight it made his throat close.

Because he couldn’t do this right now. He couldn’t let Lando look at him like that — like he was scared for him. Like he could already see the fever burning under his skin. Like he knew.

“Kimi,” Lando said again, quieter this time. “What’s going on with you?”

Kimi swallowed thickly, flinching at the scrape in his throat. “Nothing,” he managed. “Just tired. It’s been a long day.”

Lando’s thumbs rubbed gently at his shoulders, and Kimi felt himself begin to crack. That was the worst part — Lando’s hands. Lando’s hands were always the beginning of the unraveling. They were never harsh. Never rushed. Just strong and sure and kind. The kind of touch that made Kimi feel small in the best way. Protected. Loved.

But he couldn’t let himself melt tonight. Not like this. He couldn’t lean into those hands and bury his face in Lando’s chest and let his big brother take care of him — because the second Lando really felt how hot his forehead was, how cold his fingers were, he’d never let Kimi race. He’d call Charles. He’d call Ollie. He’d lock him in the fucking hotel room and toss the key into the river. And Kimi couldn’t let that happen. Not after all the work his team had done. Not after all the pressure. Not when this was his weekend to prove something.

So when Lando’s hands lifted — one moving toward his forehead — Kimi ducked. Just enough. A tiny sidestep, subtle but sharp. Like a reflex. Like flinching from a flame.

Lando stilled.

Kimi saw the hurt flash in his eyes before he could mask it.

“You don’t want me to touch you?” Lando asked quietly, voice flat now. Wounded.

Kimi’s stomach twisted.

“No— it’s not—” he stammered, eyes darting to the floor. “I just… I’m tired, Lan. Really tired. I just want to sleep before tomorrow.”

He couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t meet his eyes and lie again. It made his chest ache worse than the fever did.

Lando didn’t say anything for a moment. He just stared. Kimi could feel it — like pressure, like weight. He could feel Lando’s worry coiling into frustration. He could feel it the way the air in the hallway shifted — warmer, heavier.

“I’ll walk you back,” Lando offered. “At least let me—”

“No, it’s fine,” Kimi said quickly. “Really. I just want to be alone, okay?”

That part wasn’t true at all. He wanted the opposite. He wanted to curl into Lando’s arms and fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, the way he’d done when he’d first joined their family, when the world was still too big and unfamiliar. He wanted Lando to stroke his hair and call him piccolino until the shivers stopped.

But that wasn’t an option anymore. He was older now. He was a driver. He couldn’t be babied.

Lando’s hand hovered in the air between them, then slowly dropped to his side.

“Okay then,” he said. Too soft. Too still.

Kimi risked a glance at him.

Lando’s smile was tight. Just the edges of it. His eyes didn’t match.

“You don’t have to always be up in my business,” Kimi added, quietly. It was supposed to be a joke. A light tease to ease the tension.

But it didn’t land like that.

Lando blinked once, like something small and delicate inside him had just been flicked. “Right,” he said. “Got it.”

Kimi’s chest caved. “Lan—”

“No, it’s okay.” Lando shrugged. “You’re tired. I get it.”

He turned to go, but stopped after two steps. Didn’t look back. Just said, “If it gets worse, call me. Or Ollie. Or Oscar. Or—anyone. Promise me, Kimi.”

Kimi’s voice was a whisper. “Te lo prometto.”

Lando didn’t answer. He just nodded once — sharp and quiet — and walked down the hall.

The elevator closed behind him, and Kimi was left alone, burning, aching, shaking.

He stood there for another minute, gripping the wall, fighting tears that came out of nowhere. His limbs felt like lead. His chest felt hollow. He had lied to his brother — his Lan — and it made him feel sick in a way no medicine could fix.

He made it back to the room. He collapsed on the bed. He took more pills. Too many. He curled into the corner of the sheets and clutched Ollie’s hoodie to his chest like a child with a stuffed animal.

And even though his body screamed for help — even though his soul begged for Lando’s arms and Ollie’s kisses — he stayed quiet.

Because he had a duty.
Because he had to prove he was strong.
Because he was afraid that if he asked for help, they wouldn’t let him race.

Because he didn’t want to let anyone down.

~~~~

He didn’t remember getting into the elevator. Or the ride. Or even unlocking his room door. All he remembered was the look on Kimi’s face. That tiny flinch — like Lando’s hand burned him.

He’d never done that before. Not once. Not even when they first met, and Kimi was all sharp eyes and guarded silence, hesitant to be touched by anyone. Not even then.

Lando had never pushed. Never grabbed. Never imposed. And somewhere between long car rides and quiet dinners, between shared stories and the way Kimi had once fallen asleep against his shoulder like he’d done it a hundred times — somewhere in all that, Lando had become something. Someone. Trusted.

And tonight, for the first time, that trust cracked.

The hallway was too quiet. Every step toward their room echoed too loudly in his head — the sound of Kimi’s voice, the way his eyes dropped to the floor when he lied. The way he wouldn’t even let Lando touch him.

When Oscar opened the door, he barely got a word out before Lando stepped in and wrapped his arms around him.

“Oh,” Oscar murmured, catching him. “Hi, love.”

Lando didn’t answer right away. He just pressed his face into the curve of Oscar’s neck and breathed.

Oscar’s arms came around him like they’d always been meant to — firm and steady and exactly where Lando needed to fall apart. He held him tight, one hand curling into his hoodie, the other stroking low circles on his back.

“What happened, my love?” Oscar asked softly.

Lando let out a breath. It shook on the way out.

“It’s Kimi,” he said, voice scratchy. “Something’s wrong.”

Oscar pulled back a bit, guiding them to the bed, never letting go. They sat down together, tangled from the start, Lando’s legs curled sideways across Oscar’s lap like it was instinct. Oscar rested his chin on Lando’s shoulder and waited.

So Lando told him everything.

He told him about the hallway. About the paleness in Kimi’s face. The sluggish movements. The way his curls stuck damp to his forehead, and how his smile hadn’t reached his eyes. How he’d tried to place a hand on his forehead and Kimi had dodged.

“He’s never done that before,” Lando whispered. “Never once. He’s always leaned into it. You know how he is — he melts like putty if I so much as ruffle his hair. But tonight? He moved away from me, Osc. Like I wasn’t safe.”

Oscar stayed quiet, thumb stroking slow and steady across Lando’s ribs.

“And then,” Lando went on, heart thudding, “he lied. Said he was fine. That he just wanted to rest. Said I didn’t need to be ‘in his business.’ Can you believe that? My piccolino said that.”

Oscar made a low sound in his throat — not a laugh, but something like gentle disbelief.

“He’s hiding something,” Lando said. “I know it. And I—I don’t know if it’s nerves or if something’s actually wrong or… fuck, I don’t know, maybe I am overreacting, but—”

“Hey.” Oscar leaned back and caught his chin gently. “You are not overreacting.”

Lando exhaled shakily, meeting Oscar’s gaze. It was warm. Familiar. Grounding.

“You’re protective,” Oscar said simply. “You love him. Of course you’re going to notice every little change. That doesn’t make you wrong. It makes you you.”

Lando leaned his forehead against Oscar’s. “I just… I don’t like not knowing. It scared me, Osc. The way he looked at me. I felt like—like I was back on the outside again. Like I wasn’t his safe place anymore.”

Oscar kissed the edge of his mouth. “You still are. You always will be. But you’re also right — something’s up.”

Lando blinked. “You think so?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah. And you’re not the only one who noticed. Ollie mentioned earlier that Kimi’s been quieter. Said he seemed tired but chalked it up to nerves and stress. He’s been slammed with meetings all day, so they haven’t had time to really talk.”

Lando’s stomach twisted. “So he didn’t even tell Ollie?”

“Probably not yet,” Oscar murmured. “But they’re sharing a room. I think if we give Ollie a heads-up, he’ll check on him. Maybe Kimi will open up to him tonight.”

Lando chewed the inside of his cheek. “And if he doesn’t?”

Oscar held him tighter. “Then we keep an eye out tomorrow. But for tonight? You’ve done everything you could. You saw something. You said something. That’s what matters.”

Lando leaned into his chest. “Maybe it really is just teenage hormones. Mood swings. Exhaustion.”

Oscar huffed a soft laugh. “Maybe. But either way… he loves you, Lan. You know that, right? That kid would do anything and everything for you. You’re not losing him.”

“I know,” Lando whispered. “I just… I don’t want him to think I’d ever stop caring. Just because he pushed me away once.”

Oscar cupped the back of Lando’s neck. “He doesn’t think that. You’re his Lando. That’s never changing.”

Lando’s throat tightened. “Fuck. You always know what to say.”

Oscar’s smile was soft, fond. “It’s because I love you. And because you look so pretty when you’re sad. All soft eyes and trembling lips…”

“Shut up,” Lando muttered, laughing wetly as Oscar tilted his chin up and kissed him.

It started sweet — slow and grounding, their mouths moving like they were made for it. But then Oscar licked into him with a filthy little groan, and Lando lost his balance.

He straddled Oscar’s lap without thinking, hands tangling in curls, mouths slotting together with that dangerous mix of need and comfort. The kind of kiss that hummed with I’ve got you and don’t leave and you’re mine.

“Not fair,” Lando mumbled breathlessly between kisses. “You always get me worked up when I’m upset.”

Oscar grinned, panting. “That’s because I know you. Know what my man needs.”

“Fuck,” Lando whispered. “You are too sweet.”

“Sweet enough to distract you?” Oscar asked, nibbling down his throat.

“Just barely,” Lando said, half laughing, half breathless.

They tangled like that for a little while longer — not sex, not heat, just closeness. Just two people holding each other the way people do when they need to feel like everything’s going to be okay.

And eventually, Lando’s head came to rest on Oscar’s chest again, and his breathing slowed, and the tightness in his chest loosened just enough for him to speak clearly.

“I love you, Lan,” Oscar whispered against his temple.

“Love you more, Osc,” Lando murmured, curling tighter around him.

And for a little while, everything else faded — the worry, the hurt, the fear. All of it was quieted by the steady heartbeat under his cheek and the strong arms around his body.

But deep in Lando’s mind, the unease lingered.

Because he knew Kimi.
He knew his tells.
He knew when something was wrong.

And no matter how sweet Oscar’s kisses were, or how warm his arms felt — Lando couldn’t forget the way Kimi had looked at him.

Like he was breaking.
And too scared to ask for help.

~~~~

The hotel room was dark when Ollie finally pushed the door open, exhaustion dragging heavy behind his eyes. The hallway lights buzzed and flickered behind him as the door clicked shut. He let out a quiet sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. It had been another long day—PR, sim work, meetings, the debrief from hell, and a sponsor dinner that seemed to stretch for three lifetimes. He’d barely seen Kimi all day, just a passing glimpse on the way to the paddock, a nod across the media pen. Even then, Kimi looked… subdued. Not sad. Not even anxious. Just a little quieter, like the color in him had dimmed to grayscale.

Oscar’s text had come somewhere in between dessert and yet another photo op, and it hadn’t left Ollie’s mind since.

“Kimi was weird with Lando earlier. Avoided him. Lan said he looked sick. Just giving you a heads up. Keep an eye tonight?”

He hadn’t replied, but the words had anchored deep in his stomach, a cold weight. Kimi never avoided Lando. Never lied. Kimi, who practically glowed when Lando called him piccolino, who leaned into every touch like it was oxygen. Kimi, who never held back unless something was really wrong.

And now Ollie was here, stepping slowly across the carpeted floor toward the bed, shoes abandoned, voice caught behind his tongue.

Kimi was already in bed. Under the covers, turned toward the wall, body still.

At first glance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just his boy sleeping off the weight of the weekend. But as Ollie crouched down beside the bed, frowning into the low hotel light, the picture came into focus—Kimi wasn’t asleep. His eyes were open, blinking sluggishly, face half-buried in the pillow. His skin was pale, nearly gray in the dim, and there was a sheen of sweat along his hairline that made Ollie’s stomach tighten.

He reached forward gently, brushing curls away from Kimi’s forehead.

“Ciao, amore,” he whispered softly.

It was automatic, warm, habitual—but as soon as the words left his mouth, Ollie saw Kimi flinch the tiniest bit. Not from fear. From shame.

“C-Ciao… t–tesoro…” Kimi’s voice cracked, hoarse and paper-thin. He didn’t even try to lift his head. His caramel eyes were glazed over, bloodshot and unfocused. And worse—he looked like he was barely holding it together.

Ollie felt his chest twist sharply. No. No, no, no.

He reached for Kimi again, hand on the blanket. “How are you feeling, amore? And don’t lie to me telling me you’re just tired, si? How is my baby doing?”

That broke him. The gentle question—spoken in that tone Ollie only ever used for him—hit like a knife to the ribs. Kimi’s lower lip trembled, his whole face crumpling, eyes welling up until fat, silent tears started rolling down his cheeks.

“I lied to you,” Kimi choked out. “To all of you. I’m sorry—” His voice gave out entirely, replaced with raspy gasps and trembling shoulders. “I don’t feel so good, Ollie.”

Ollie didn’t breathe for a second. He just reached forward, pulled back the blanket, and took his boy into his arms. Kimi came easily—collapsed, really—into his chest, fingers clutching at the front of Ollie’s hoodie like he was drowning.

“Oh, amore. Don’t apologise, come here.” Ollie whispered into his curls, voice barely holding steady as he felt the way Kimi shivered against him, body too hot and too limp all at once.

He shifted them both so he could press his palm to Kimi’s forehead properly—and the warmth that met him there was staggering. His boy was burning. Absolutely burning up.

“Jesus Christ, Andrea—” Ollie cursed under his breath, heart thudding in horror. “You’re burning up. Why the fuck didn’t you say something sooner? You know how dangerous this is, baby, you could’ve—”

“Please, please Ollie,” Kimi whispered, almost sobbing now, voice small and shaking. “Don’t be mad at me now, please.”

It stopped Ollie dead. His mouth clamped shut, hands stilled against Kimi’s back. He didn’t care about his own panic right now. Not when Kimi was this raw, this vulnerable. His baby wasn’t stubborn anymore—he was scared. And his body, Ollie realized with rising dread, was trembling hard enough to rattle.

“It’s okay, Andrea. Shhh. I’ve got you, baby. You’re safe.” His voice dropped to a hush, something between a lullaby and a prayer. He pressed kisses to Kimi’s temple, then settled him gently against his chest. “Just breathe, okay? I’m here.”

Kimi nodded weakly against him, still crying, breath hitching with every inhale. Ollie could feel the dampness on his shirt, soaking through from where Kimi’s face was buried. His fingers kept stroking his back, slow, careful, grounding.

A few minutes passed like that. Just breathing, rocking, soft reassurances.

Then Ollie pulled back slightly. Not to let go—but to get answers.

“Baby… what did you take? Medicine-wise,” he asked quietly. “I need to know, amore. Please don’t lie to me. How many pills did you take?”

Kimi stilled. Instantly. Like he’d gone stiff from the inside out.

Ollie sat up straighter, watching him. “Andrea?”

Kimi’s eyes dropped. Shame flooded his expression, the way it always did when he knew he’d crossed a line.

“I… I don’t know,” he whispered. “I just—I wanted to feel okay. For the race. I didn’t want anyone to worry or stop me—”

Ollie’s heart dropped straight into his stomach. “Kimi. How many pills?”

“I took two this morning. And… and some last night. And a few before qualifying simulations yesterday. I don’t know exactly. I didn’t look at the label. I just—” His voice cracked, fresh tears spilling over. “I just didn’t want to ruin anything. I just wanted to be okay, Ollie.”

Ollie could barely breathe.

Three doses in one day. Possibly more before that. He didn’t even know the brand, the type. Whether there were interactions. Whether Kimi had mixed meds. His body had been begging for rest and Kimi had drugged himself silent.

Ollie held him tighter. Crushingly tight now.

“You could’ve hurt yourself,” he whispered. “Jesus Christ, amore, you—fuck—” He buried his face in Kimi’s hair, inhaling the sick-sweet scent of sweat and leftover mint from whatever pills he’d taken. “You almost—”

“I didn’t mean to,” Kimi whispered brokenly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I just… I needed to race. I needed to be strong. I didn’t want anyone to think I couldn’t do it.”

Ollie’s throat ached. “Baby, no one would think that. Never. You’re the strongest person I know. But you’re sick, Andrea. You’re really, really sick. And I wasn’t here. I didn’t see it.”

Kimi whimpered softly, clinging tighter.

“I’m so tired…”

Ollie kissed his head again. “I know, amore. I know.”

He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t ask more questions. Not yet. He would. He’d get every answer he needed. But for now? His only job was holding his boy as close as humanly possible. Feeling every tremble, every breath, every tiny sign that Kimi was still here. Still his. Still safe.

Tomorrow, the whole family would know. The team doctor. The Verstappen-Leclerc wrath would come full force.

But tonight?

Tonight was just Ollie and his baby in a dark hotel room, wrapped together in fevered desperation and too much love.

And Ollie swore—he would never let this happen again.

~~~~

Ollie had always been someone who prided himself on staying calm under pressure. A late braking zone, a wet track, an overtake down the inside — he could handle all of it. But this? This helpless, hollow ache that clawed at his chest as he sat next to Kimi, who was burning up and barely conscious — this was something else entirely.

The hotel room was dim, cast in a sickly orange glow from the hallway light that filtered through the door Ollie hadn’t shut fully. It was too quiet except for the occasional hum of the air conditioning unit — and the terrifying, broken sounds coming from the boy wrapped in blankets beside him.

Kimi was soaked in sweat, his curls matted to his forehead, cheeks blotchy and flushed with high fever. He shifted constantly, limbs twitching as if caught in the throes of some half-dreamed nightmare, and when he spoke, his voice was paper-thin and senseless. A slurry mix of Italian, English, and desperate pleas.

“Mama…? Non andare… Ollie? Lan… Lan—don’t go—stay, please…”

Every word felt like a knife in Ollie’s chest.

“Hey, baby,” Ollie whispered, wringing out the cold cloth again and laying it gently on Kimi’s flaming forehead. “I’m right here, amore. I’m not going anywhere.”

But Kimi didn’t respond, not really. His glassy eyes opened for half a second, unfocused and wet, then slid shut again with a pained whimper.

Ollie hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. It was almost 3am, and every minute felt like an hour. He’d tried everything — cold compresses, wet towels draped over Kimi’s neck and chest, adjusting the AC to a cooler temperature, propping Kimi up to breathe easier. He hadn’t dared give him any more medicine — not after what Kimi had confessed earlier. Not after hearing the amount of pills he’d taken.

“I just wanted to race,” Kimi had whispered, lips cracked and trembling. “Didn’t want to let anyone down.”

Ollie had cradled him through tears, through that broken confession, but now he was running out of options — and time. Kimi was getting worse. He couldn’t even hold his eyes open for more than a second at a time, and when he did, he looked at Ollie like he barely recognized him.

His breaths were shallow. His skin was too hot. His fingers trembled like leaves in a storm every time Ollie tried to hold his hand.

It was unbearable.

Ollie finally sat back on his heels and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying not to scream. He was supposed to protect Kimi. He was supposed to be the one who noticed, who stepped in before it got to this point. But he hadn’t. He’d let it get this bad. He’d been too distracted, too caught up in PR obligations and technical briefings and the million little things that came with being a Verstappen-Leclerc.

Now his boyfriend was sick. Not just sick — dangerously ill. And he was helpless.

“Fuck,” Ollie whispered into the silence. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Kimi stirred again, a breathy murmur escaping his lips.

“Lan… Oscar… cold… Ollie…?”

“I’m here, baby. Right here.” Ollie reached out and pushed the hair off his forehead again, even though it was immediately damp again. “You’re okay, amore. You’re safe.”

But Kimi’s lips moved again, his voice barely audible.

“Don’t want… don’t wanna die…”

The words hit Ollie like a punch to the stomach.

That was it. That was the breaking point.

Ollie’s hands were shaking as he reached for his phone. He couldn’t do this alone. He didn’t care if it was the middle of the night. He didn’t care if they all had qualifying tomorrow. He needed help — and there was only one place he trusted more than himself.

He dialed.

It rang once. Then again. A third time.

Then Oscar’s sleepy voice filled the line, tinged with immediate concern. “Ollie? What happened? Is Kimi okay?”

That was all it took. Just hearing Oscar’s voice, raw and ready to panic, like he’d been waiting for this call all night — Ollie’s throat closed up.

He couldn’t speak at first. He just let out a trembling breath, and on the other end of the line, Oscar must’ve passed the phone to someone because suddenly, it was Lando’s voice, rough with sleep and already tight with worry.

“Ollie. What’s going on. Is he okay?”

“No.” Ollie’s voice cracked. “No, he’s not okay, Lan. He’s not—he’s burning up and I don’t know what to do, he’s talking like he’s lost, like he’s not even here—he keeps asking for you. I don’t know what to do. Should we call an ambulance? Can you come? Please, please come.”

There was no hesitation.

“We’re coming,” Lando said, already moving, and Ollie heard the rustling of blankets, the jingle of keys, Oscar’s voice in the background.

“We’re five minutes away,” Oscar added, calm and firm. “Ollie. You did good calling us. Okay? Just hold on. Keep him cool. We’ll be right there.”

The line went dead.

Ollie dropped the phone onto the carpet and turned back toward the bed, watching Kimi breathe. He looked like a ghost of himself. His cheeks were flushed, but not in the way they should be. He was pale everywhere else, his lips tinged too pink, like his body couldn’t figure out whether to sweat or shiver.

Ollie pressed another cloth to his chest. “They’re coming, baby. Lando and Osc. You’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna take care of you.”

He didn’t know if Kimi heard him.

⸻

In the other room, Lando was already zipping up his hoodie, his hands trembling. “I knew something was wrong. I fucking knew it.”

“I know you did,” Oscar said, soft but steady, pulling a shirt over his head and grabbing their keys. “And you were right. But now we focus, okay? We don’t panic.”

Lando ran both hands through his curls, then looked up at Oscar like a deer caught in headlights. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to him. He’s my little brother, Osc—he can’t be like this.”

“He won’t be.” Oscar stepped in front of him, cupping Lando’s face in both hands. “You hear me? He’s going to be fine. You and I—we’re going to help him. But you need to breathe. If Kimi sees you scared, he’s going to get more scared.”

Lando let out a tight, shaky breath. “Fuck. Fuck, I just—he pushed me away earlier. Wouldn’t let me touch him. That’s not him. That’s never him.”

Oscar leaned in and pressed his forehead to Lando’s. “I know, baby. I know. But he’s sick. He’s scared. And you’re allowed to be scared too, okay? But right now, we focus on getting there. That’s what we do.”

Lando nodded. “Okay. Yeah. You’re right.”

Oscar smiled, small and tired and loving. “I usually am.”

Lando gave a weak laugh, and then, impulsively, kissed Oscar hard. Desperately. Like he needed to feel something solid beneath him.

“I love you,” he breathed, as they pulled apart.

“Love you more,” Oscar murmured. “Let’s go get our boy.”

~~~~

They were only a few floors down in the same hotel. Three flights of stairs, a hallway, one door. That was all it took to collapse the breath in Lando’s lungs.

The moment Oscar shoved the door open, it hit the wall with a dull, final thud — and the room was silent. Unnervingly silent. Not the kind of quiet that comes with sleep or stillness, but the breathless hush of something being desperately held together by willpower alone. The lights were low, a soft lamp glowing in the corner, and in the center of the bed lay a boy who looked nothing like the Kimi they knew. Kimi, who was always bright-eyed, always a little too dramatic when tired, who gave soft kisses on cheeks and clung to Lando’s side like a shadow. That boy wasn’t here.

Instead, there was a tiny curled figure buried beneath a pile of soaked compresses. His golden-brown curls were wet and stuck to his clammy forehead, his cheeks blotchy red with fever, lips cracked and pale. He was breathing in shallow, uneven pants. His thin arms had retreated beneath the blanket, and only the tip of his nose peeked out — flushed with heat, twitching slightly, like his body was too exhausted to even be still.

Lando’s feet moved before his brain did.

“Oh, piccolino…” he breathed, his voice cracking as he fell to his knees beside the bed. “Look at you, baby…”

Kimi stirred sluggishly at the sound of Lando’s voice, and when his bleary, glassy eyes found his brother’s face, something shifted. His whole body twitched toward him like instinct. His hand emerged from beneath the covers, trembling, fingers spread and reaching.

“My Lan…” Kimi whimpered, voice so broken and hoarse it didn’t sound like a voice at all. More like breath and need, nothing else.

It was like being gutted. Lando surged forward, gathered Kimi into his arms without hesitation, ignoring the soaked fabric, the heat rolling off him in waves. He hissed when he felt it, like touching a stovetop. “Christ, he’s burning.”

Oscar had gone to Ollie — who was sitting on the floor by the bed, back against the nightstand, legs drawn up, eyes unfocused. He looked like a shell of himself, like he’d been sitting there for hours, holding onto consciousness with nothing but panic. His hands were still wet with water. His chest heaved like he was trying to breathe through concrete.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Ollie said, voice raw, as Oscar dropped to his knees beside him and pulled him into a crushing hug. “He kept slipping in and out — he was calling for Lando and you, and his eyes were all wrong, and the fever — fuck, Osc — I tried, I kept changing compresses —”

“You did so good, Bear,” Oscar whispered into his ear. “You did everything right. I’m here now, I’ve got you.”

“Lan’s got him?” Ollie asked, a child’s question.

Oscar pulled back just enough to nod. “Yeah. He’s got him.”

Lando had Kimi half-sitting in his lap now, the younger boy’s limbs limp, head slumped into his chest. He was crying softly, whispering nonsense — “don’t want more medicine,” “hurts, hurts, Ollie,” “Lan please,” over and over again — but still, when Lando lifted the thermometer to his mouth, Kimi tried to turn away.

“Hey, hey, no,” Lando murmured, cupping his fever-flushed cheeks. “Piccolino, open your mouth for me, okay? Just for a second. I need to know how bad it is.”

Kimi whined in protest, tears slipping down his cheeks, but Lando was gentle and persistent, slipping the thermometer in with a soft hush and holding him there until it beeped.

Then Lando’s whole face changed.

His jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened. “Forty-one,” he said tightly, staring at Oscar. “He’s at forty-one. Fucking hell, Osc.”

Ollie didn’t hesitate. “Call the ambulance. Now.”

“I’ll do it,” Oscar said, pulling out his phone as he gently untangled from Ollie. “Lando, what do you need?”

“We need to bring his temperature down. Fast. If we don’t — he could seize, or worse.” Lando’s voice had gone hollow — not panicked, just deadly focused. “We need an ice bath. Ollie, with me. Now.”

Ollie shot up as if the floor burned him.

The two of them raced to the bathroom. It felt like moving through molasses — every step loud, every second wasted — Lando flung open the tub faucet while Ollie dumped out towels, kicked laundry aside, began yanking open the minibar freezer for any ice it had.

“He’s bad, Olls,” Lando said. “Really bad. We don’t have time to think. Just fill the tub. Fill it with everything cold you can find.”

Ollie’s fingers were trembling so badly he dropped the first tray of ice on the floor. “I didn’t know — I should’ve noticed sooner — he was smiling this morning, Lan. He was smiling. I didn’t think—”

“You weren’t supposed to know,” Lando said, voice still tight, still grim. “He hid it. But now we know. And we fix it. We’re going to fix it.”

Oscar’s voice came faint from the other room, quick and clipped — giving Kimi’s details, symptoms, fever number, heart rate.

“Help me undress him,” Lando said as he returned to the bedroom. Kimi was slumped sideways now, cheek pressed against a soaked towel. He wasn’t even really awake anymore.

Oscar looked up from the bed. “They’re sending a unit now — they said the bath might be the only thing that keeps him from seizing.”

Ollie’s breath hitched. His feet moved him to the bed, and together with Lando, they peeled off Kimi’s shirt, then his sweat-soaked pants, leaving him in his boxers. Oscar turned away respectfully. Ollie gathered Kimi into his arms — he was so hot, so terribly hot — and lifted him bridal style, trying not to notice the way his boyfriend sagged in his grip like a marionette with its strings cut.

“Amore, listen to me,” Ollie whispered, voice trembling. “Can you do that? Can you listen to me?”

Kimi blinked up at him slowly. “Hmm?”

“We have to bring your temperature down, amore. So we have to submerge you into an ice bath.”

Kimi whined. The sound was broken, more animal than human. Ollie nearly dropped to his knees right there.

“I know,” Ollie said, lips pressed to Kimi’s temple. “I know, baby, but it’s for your own good. Look — Oscie is here, and so is Lan. You’re not alone. We’ve got you, okay?”

Kimi’s eyes fluttered open again. “I trust you,” he whispered, barely audible.

And it broke them all over again.

The tub was full now. Water high and still and cruel, packed with clinking cubes of ice that shimmered under the hotel’s harsh bathroom light. It was a small room — sterile tiles, too bright, too cramped — but it held the world in that moment: three people unraveling around one boy they loved.

Kimi’s body, hot like a furnace and limp like wet cloth, had been stripped with shaking hands. He hadn’t even fought them. That was maybe the worst part. His skin burned against their fingertips, radiating heat like he was trying to cook himself from the inside out. Ollie had held him tight against his chest, bridal-style, murmuring broken nothings into his curls as they moved. Lando had hovered, flanking his side, rubbing soothing circles into Kimi’s knee like they were walking him to his funeral.

And Oscar — poor Oscar — had stepped away from the bathroom entirely to take the call. He stood just outside the door now, phone gripped too tight in his hand, voice calm and practiced despite the blood draining from his face. “Yes, young male. High fever. Over 41°C. Delirious, vomiting, potential overdose. We’ve administered no meds. Attempting emergency cooling.”

Every word tasted like betrayal. Like failure.

Inside, Kimi was sobbing. Not loud, not even dramatic — just weak little hiccups, thick with mucus and fatigue and panic, his whole body trembling as he realized what was about to happen. His head lolled in Ollie’s arms, curls damp with sweat and stuck to his cheeks, face blotchy with heat and tears. His lips were dry and cracked. His hands clutched at Ollie’s shirt like a toddler refusing the doctor. And his fever — fuck, that fever — was relentless. Forty-one point one. They didn’t have time.

Ollie’s voice broke as he whispered, “Amore, we have to do this. Please trust me. Just this once, let me take care of you. Don’t fight me.”

“I’m s-s-sorry,” Kimi mumbled, dazed and guilt-ridden. “I-I didn’t mean t-t-to— I thought I could— I j-just didn’t want to d-disappoint—”

“I know,” Ollie choked out, pulling him tighter. “You didn’t. You could never disappoint me. But you’re scaring the shit out of me, Kimi. You’re so hot I can’t think straight.”

Then he stepped into the bath.

The second Kimi’s bare legs touched the freezing water, he screamed.

It was pure instinct — high-pitched and ragged and animal — and his body reacted immediately, jerking back so hard he almost slipped out of Ollie’s grip. But Ollie held fast, sinking with him, muttering prayers into his hair as they both went under, the water swallowing them with a cold so sharp it felt like knives.

Kimi thrashed. His limbs spasmed wildly, useless and panicked, too weak to swim but strong enough to lash out. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub. Ollie tried to pin him down gently, but he was sobbing now too, unable to hold back. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know it’s awful, I’m so fucking sorry—”

Lando rushed in behind him, dropping to his knees on the wet tile, grabbing Kimi’s arms. “Piccolino, piccolino, I’ve got you. I’ve got you. It’s okay, you’re safe, Lan is here.” His voice was shaking but firm, his grip steady even as his brother flailed beneath him.

Oscar appeared in the doorway a second later, crouching immediately to help. “I called. They’re ten minutes out. Hold him steady.” He pressed cold hands to Kimi’s ankles, anchoring him. “I’ve got his legs. Just keep his head above water.”

“I can’t— he’s so hot— he’s burning,” Ollie said helplessly, tears spilling freely now. “He’s fucking burning alive.”

“I know. That’s why we’re doing this.”

But it felt like torture. Every second Kimi spent in the ice was a second too long. He whimpered and cried and begged them to stop, his voice dissolving into pitiful wails that made Lando’s vision blur. “Lan, please— please, it hurts— it hurts— please—”

Lando let out a sob and kissed his forehead, not caring how wet or sick he was. “I know, little one. I know. I’d take it from you if I could. Just stay with me, okay?”

“I don’t feel good,” Kimi moaned, curling toward Lando as much as his pinned body allowed. “Lan, I don’t— I can’t—”

Oscar leaned forward and reached to feel Kimi’s pulse. “It’s slowing. He’s stabilizing a little. Fuck. Okay. Okay.”

Kimi had stopped thrashing. He lay still now, shivering violently in Ollie’s arms, his teeth chattering so hard they could hear it over the water. His lips were blue. His eyes fluttered half-closed. His body still radiated heat — but it was no longer volcanic. Just dangerously warm.

“Take his temp again,” Lando said hoarsely. “Please.”

Oscar passed the thermometer, and Ollie slipped it gently into Kimi’s mouth, stroking his hair the entire time. “Just one second, amore. One second for me, okay?”

Kimi nodded, barely. Barely anything at all.

The thermometer beeped.

Ollie’s hands shook as he read the number. “Thirty-nine. It’s still bad, but— it’s better. It’s not seizure territory anymore.”

Oscar nodded. “We need to get him out. Towels. Blankets. Now.”

They lifted him carefully from the bath — all three of them working in tandem, like one desperate, terrified machine. Kimi was boneless. His head lolled. His eyes were open but unfocused, like he was watching something they couldn’t see.

“Don’t let go,” he whispered. “Please don’t let go of me.”

“We won’t,” Lando swore, his voice breaking entirely. “Never, baby brother. Never.”

They wrapped him in every dry towel they had, then every blanket. Ollie held him on the bed, rocking him gently like he was four years old, whispering Italian lullabies against his temple. Lando rubbed circles into his back. Oscar knelt at his feet, cradling his ankles like a monk in prayer.

It was only then — only once Kimi was wrapped and warm and no longer glowing like a star about to die — that the knock came on the door.

Paramedics. Oxygen. IVs. A stretcher.

A rush of white noise followed.

But all Ollie could hear was the sound of his boyfriend’s voice — small and hoarse and wrecked — whispering through the fog:

“Did I mess everything up?”

Ollie held him tighter and kissed his forehead, ignoring the salt of sweat and tears.

“ No, never Andrea, listen to me, you’re going to be okay baby, si? You’re going to be okay.”

And Kimi — weak, broken, delirious — nodded.

He believed him.

~~~~

The white light of the waiting room was cruel in its brightness — sterile, humming, indifferent to the agony folding Ollie in half where he sat. The cushions beneath him were hard, uncomfortable, too straight, too square, and the air felt both freezing and suffocating. He hadn’t even realized he was trembling until Oscar pulled him down beside him, strong arms wrapping around his shoulders, his chest solid and warm against Ollie’s side.

It was too much. All of it. The adrenaline, the fear, the helplessness of seeing Kimi like that — lifeless, burning up, whimpering for Lando and crying into Ollie’s shirt as he lost the last of his strength. They had gotten him here. They’d gotten him through the ice bath, into the ambulance, and now—

Now he was behind a fucking door. And Ollie was useless.

“Oscar, Oscar, please tell me he’s going to be okay—” he choked, his voice cracking so hard it scraped his throat raw. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It came tumbling out on its own, a frantic, tear-wet sound that made his whole body curl inward, like if he could make himself smaller maybe it would hurt less.

Oscar’s arms were around him in an instant, his big brother’s hands cupping the back of Ollie’s head, pulling him into the curve of his shoulder. Ollie’s legs folded to the side and he crumpled, burying his face into Oscar’s chest as he sobbed once—sharp, hard, then again, weaker.

“Oh, baby bear,” Oscar murmured, voice already shaking. “You’ve been so brave. I’ve got you, Olls. I’ve got you.”

The nickname, the tone, the warmth — it shattered whatever was left of Ollie’s composure. He was nineteen, nearly twenty, strong and stubborn and proud. But now he was nothing more than a boy who had watched the person he loved most in the world become unrecognizable in his arms. Pale and flushed at once. Burning and freezing. Eyes rolling back. Lips blue. And now… gone behind that door. Behind monitors and needles and strangers’ hands.

And Ollie couldn’t go in with him.

Lando sat beside them quietly, and the moment Oscar pulled Ollie in, Lando’s arms wrapped around both of them, one hand resting gently on the back of Ollie’s neck, thumb stroking softly.

“Kimi’s the strongest person I know,” Lando said quietly. His voice was low but steady, filled with conviction that wasn’t false hope but memory. Love. Faith. “He’s stubborn. Tough as hell. He’s going to fight through this. He’s got you, and us — and he knows that.”

Ollie couldn’t speak. He just nodded into Oscar’s shirt, tears still falling even as his breath evened out. Lando’s thumb didn’t stop. It was grounding — like he was tethered between his brother and the man he now thought of as a brother too, these two arms keeping him from disappearing into the floor.

It wasn’t until the waiting room clock ticked past twenty minutes that Ollie managed to sit up again, rubbing at his face with the heel of his hand. His eyes were puffy, nose pink and raw, but his jaw set a little more firm now.

He turned to Oscar, voice hoarse. “C-Can you… Can you please call Papa and Dad?”

Oscar blinked, once, and his hand immediately returned to the back of Ollie’s neck. “Yeah, baby. Of course I will.”

“They should be here,” Ollie whispered. “They’ll know what to do… I-I can’t…”

“Hey. You did everything right,” Oscar interrupted, voice suddenly firm. “You saw him. You called us. You didn’t wait. You saved him, Ollie. Don’t you fucking forget that.”

Ollie nodded again, lip trembling. “I just—I want them.”

“I know,” Oscar said gently. “I’ll call them. You stay here with Lan, yeah?”

Oscar stood, but not before kissing the top of Ollie’s head, soft and warm. A gesture that said: You’re still my little brother, and I’ve got you.

The moment Oscar stepped away, Lando gently shifted closer. “Here,” he said softly, offering his hand. Ollie took it without hesitation.

Their fingers laced together, and Ollie stared down at their joined hands for a long time, watching the way Lando’s thumb brushed his again and again. It was quiet for a while, only the distant beeping of machines and the echo of someone’s heels clicking down the corridor. The tension sat heavy between them, a pressure in the chest, behind the eyes. A suffocating quiet.

Lando was the one who broke it.

“I keep thinking about the first time I called him piccolino,” he said quietly, voice like a whisper inside a storm. “He’d fallen asleep on the couch during the Monaco GP. He drooled on my hoodie.”

Ollie laughed. It came out a mess — a breathless, broken thing — but it was real. “He still drools on everything.”

“Yeah,” Lando said, smiling faintly. “That’s my boy.”

They didn’t speak for another stretch of time. Lando kept Ollie close, his arm around his shoulder, his thigh pressed against Ollie’s. There was something strong in the way Lando stayed so steady — a calm eye in the storm, not because he didn’t care, but because he cared so much it demanded he stay upright. Solid. Calm.

Ollie didn’t know how he did it.

“Thank you,” Ollie said finally, voice like paper. “I… I wouldn’t have known what to do without you both. I was—he was burning. He was shaking and crying and I—fuck. I thought I was going to lose him.”

“You didn’t,” Lando said. “And you’re not going to.”

“How are you not falling apart right now?” Ollie asked. “He’s your—your brother, Lan. He adores you more than anything.”

Lando inhaled, slow and deep, and when he exhaled he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Because I know he needs me calm. If I lose it, he’ll feel it. He always knows when I’m scared. So I stay calm. Until he’s okay.”

It made Ollie ache. With love. With guilt. With gratitude.

Before he could say anything else, Oscar returned. His face was drawn tight but calm. His phone was still in his hand.

“They’re coming,” he said softly. “Dad said they’re on their way now. They’ll be here in an hour.”

Ollie’s eyes filled again.

Oscar knelt in front of him and took his hands. “They’re not mad, Ollie. They’re worried. But they’re so proud of you for stepping up. For being there. They love you. You’re not alone in this.”

Ollie nodded, wordless, and let his brother pull him into another hug. Then Lando leaned forward too, and for a while, they stayed like that — three of them pressed together on the stiff waiting room chairs, forming a wall around each other, breathing in sync.

There were no updates. No doctor yet. No answers.

But they had each other.

And that was something.

They arrived like a storm.

Not the kind that rattled windows or lashed trees into wild silhouettes—but the quiet, wrathful kind, thick with the electricity of dread and the unbearable, chest-tightening stillness that came before something broke.

Max and Charles didn’t fly in. They didn’t need to. They had been in the same city, just a few miles away in a different hotel, preparing for a scheduled appearance the next day—an event they hadn’t thought twice about cancelling the moment Oscar’s voice broke through the speakerphone and told them to come. No details, no fuss. Just: “You need to be here. It’s Kimi.”

That was all it took.

Now, Max walked down the cold hospital hallway with a thunderous silence clinging to him. His jaw was tight, clenched so hard that the muscles in his face twitched. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, the veins in his forearms visible, strained. His strides were long and purposeful, like a soldier marching toward war. Beside him, Charles looked no less terrifying—less rage and more cold vengeance, his elegant face sharpened by panic and grief. His lips were pressed into a flat line, the line of his coat slicing through his silhouette like armor. His eyes were alight with fury, but not wild; they burned with purpose.

They moved as one, never speaking, never checking to see if the other faltered. They didn’t need to.

They knew the rhythm of each other’s fear.

And then they saw them.

Oscar. Lando. Ollie.

Their boys were sitting on a rigid hospital bench that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the 1990s. The overhead light flickered once, and for a moment, Charles could’ve sworn it made Ollie look like a ghost—too still, his face drawn and pale, glass-eyed and trembling. Oscar looked like he was holding up his entire world on the axis of his knees, his hands steepled under his chin, elbows digging into his thighs. His eyes didn’t blink. Lando had his hand on Ollie’s back and Oscar’s shoulder, his own head tipped back against the wall like he was barely breathing—but he still hadn’t let go of either of them. He wouldn’t.

When Max and Charles stepped into view, everything broke.

Ollie lifted his head first, and when he saw his parents, his mouth twisted into something that looked too raw to be called a smile. It was pain—years of being the baby of the family, years of always knowing someone would come, someone would fix it. And now, he saw them, and it all unraveled.

Charles didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. He was on Ollie in seconds, kneeling in front of him and pulling him into his arms so fiercely Ollie whimpered. Charles cradled the back of his son’s head and rocked him just slightly, whispering soft French comforts—“Je suis là, mon bébé, je suis là. C’est fini, tu n’es pas seul, jamais.”

Ollie sobbed into his chest like a child.

Max reached Oscar and Lando at the same time, sweeping both of them into his arms without hesitation. His hold was tight, protective, shaking with restrained fear.

“Is he alive?” Max whispered into Oscar’s ear. “Just tell me that.”

Oscar nodded once against his father’s shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s… he’s in there. They took him. I don’t know more yet.”

Max’s grip didn’t loosen, and neither did the lines on his face. He pressed a kiss to the side of Oscar’s head, then turned and did the same to Lando. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Both of you.”

They stayed like that a long time—Charles whispering to Ollie in soft, panicked tones, Max’s arms around his older sons and his honorary one. They were each trying to stay strong in their own way. But they were all unraveling, breath by breath.

Eventually, they sat down—Oscar still between Max and Lando, Ollie curled into Charles, who kept rubbing small, slow circles into his back. The fear hadn’t lessened. But the numbness had lifted just enough for the emotions to pour through.

Max was the one who broke the silence.

“What happened to him?” he asked, voice low and dangerous, like thunder rolling through the gut of the earth. “Did anyone come by? Was there a fight? How is this even possible?”

He was shaking.

Lando leaned forward. “He lied to me.”

Max’s eyes snapped to him.

Lando didn’t flinch. “He lied to all of us. Said he was just tired. Avoided touch. I knew something was off. I told Oscar. Ollie got the worst of it—he was taking care of him. And when it got too much, when his fever was insane and he was delirious, Ollie called us. We got there just in time.”

Charles’s hand tightened on Ollie’s back.

Max was as still as death.

“What do you mean just in time?” he asked slowly.

Oscar’s voice came next, quiet but unshakably steady. “He was at 41 degrees, Papa. We couldn’t wait. We gave him an ice bath. We had to. He was close to seizing.”

The blood drained from Max’s face. Charles looked like he might throw up.

“He was begging,” Lando added, softer now. “Begging for us to stop. It was horrible. But it worked. We got him here in time.”

Max leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He didn’t speak. His whole body radiated helpless fury—the kind he hadn’t felt since his boys were small, since the world was capable of hurting them and he wasn’t fast enough to stop it.

Charles, pale and cold as moonlight, leaned in and kissed the top of Ollie’s curls again. “Mon cœur,” he whispered, “you did everything right. Don’t blame yourself.”

“I should’ve noticed earlier,” Ollie rasped. “He was suffering and I didn’t see it.”

“You did,” Max said firmly, lifting his head again. “You did see it. And you got help. That’s what matters.”

And then—

“Family of Andrea Antonelli?”

They all froze.

A young woman in scrubs stood near the edge of the waiting room. She had a clipboard in her hands, her hair in a tight bun, and the slight twitch of discomfort in her brow that told them she knew exactly how intense the energy in the room had been.

Lando stood first. Then Oscar. Then Charles and Max, almost simultaneously.

Ollie looked like he couldn’t breathe.

The dread set in like poison in their lungs.

“Yes,” said Max. “We’re his family.”

The medic looked down at her chart, then back at them.

“I’ll take you to the doctor.”

And the world tilted on its axis.

~~~~

The doctor approached them slowly, but his presence hit like a thunderclap.

Max and Charles were standing now—neither had sat once since they arrived—flanking their sons like pillars ready to hold up whatever collapsed next. Charles’s hand was tight on Ollie’s shoulder, a constant anchor of heat and pressure. Max had both arms crossed, jaw rigid, but his thumb was twitching against the crook of his elbow like a man trying not to unravel.

“Family of Andrea Antonelli?”

They all turned at once, and for a split second the corridor fell silent, every breath caught between the rush of hope and the scream of dread.

“Yes,” Max said, voice sharp, immediate.

“I’m Dr. Khalid. I’ve been overseeing Andrea’s care since his admission.” He looked around, reading the circle of pain and exhaustion before him. “He’s stable now. Awake. And he asked for two of you—his brother and his partner.”

Ollie choked, the sound violent and wet in his throat. Charles’s hand moved instantly from his shoulder to his back, rubbing in small, firm circles like he had when Ollie was five and trembling after a bad dream.

“He’s okay?” Oscar asked, barely above a whisper.

Dr. Khalid gave a short, grim nod. “He will be. But it was close. Very close.”

That silenced them again, and it was Max who asked, low and thunderous, “What happened to him?”

The doctor exhaled gently. “Andrea presented with a dangerously high fever—over 41°C on arrival. His body was in acute distress. He was severely dehydrated, bordering on pre-renal kidney failure, and in a state of drug-induced toxicity.”

“Drug-induced—?” Lando’s voice broke off. He blinked, once, twice, like he was trying to wake up.

“Not illicit drugs,” Dr. Khalid clarified quickly. “We’re talking about common medications—paracetamol and ibuprofen. He’d been self-medicating at high dosages over the past few days, likely in an effort to suppress his symptoms and continue racing.”

Ollie’s knees buckled and he sat down hard, face pale. “Oh my God.”

“He didn’t know,” Lando said, voice trembling. “He wouldn’t have done it on purpose. He’s just—he’s a kid. He thinks he can take care of everything himself.”

“Exactly,” the doctor said softly. “And the problem with medications like these is that their toxicity isn’t always immediate. Repeated doses, especially without food or hydration, can quietly overwhelm the liver and kidneys. Combine that with an aggressive viral infection—”

“What kind of infection?” Charles asked, eyes sharp, arms around Ollie now as if to protect him from what came next.

“We believe it’s a particularly aggressive viral strain—likely adenovirus or influenza B. We’re still confirming, but both can cause prolonged high fevers, muscle pain, and—” He hesitated, then added, “neurological symptoms. Delirium. Hallucinations. Fever-induced encephalopathy is not uncommon in pediatric cases. Andrea’s body was overheating, and the excess medication wasn’t helping—it was pushing him closer to organ failure.”

Oscar’s breath caught so loud it hurt to hear. He was frozen, and Max moved instinctively to his side, gripping his shoulder. “You said he’s okay,” Max said, this time not asking—commanding.

“He’s out of immediate danger,” Dr. Khalid affirmed. “We’ve administered IV fluids, electrolyte correction, and liver protectants. His fever has dropped to 38.5. Still high, but manageable. He’s responsive, though exhausted and extremely weak. We’ll need to monitor his liver function over the next 48 hours to ensure there’s no residual damage.”

Charles closed his eyes. “And he asked for Lando and Ollie?”

“He did.” The doctor softened. “He was disoriented at first, but the moment we calmed him down and reoriented him, he asked for them. By name.”

That broke something open. Ollie’s hand trembled as he reached blindly for Lando’s, and Lando took it instantly, squeezing tight. Max and Charles exchanged a look—an entire conversation flashing between them without a single word. Pain, guilt, pride, fear. All of it understood, all of it shared.

“How long will he need to stay?” Charles asked.

“At least three days for observation. Possibly longer. His vitals are stabilizing now, but we want to make sure no secondary complications develop.”

There was silence again. A different kind. Not fear. Not exactly. Just the quiet aftermath of being told their boy—no matter how much he fought to prove he was grown—had nearly died alone in a hotel bed, trying to be strong.

“I’ll take you to him,” the doctor finally said. “He’s in recovery. Just… be gentle. He’s very withdrawn.”

They followed, silent and taut. The hallway stretched endlessly in front of them, floor too bright, walls too clean, like the world had the audacity to stay normal while their family had nearly cracked open.

And then the door opened.

Kimi was curled into himself on the narrow hospital bed, tucked into the farthest corner like he wanted to disappear into the wall. The room was dimmed, curtains half-drawn, but they could see the sweat-stuck curls pasted to his forehead, the flushed heat lingering in his cheeks, and the dull tremble of his chest rising too fast with each breath. He was hugging his own knees, IV dangling from the crook of one arm, the other arm wrapped around his ribs like he was trying to hold himself in.

He looked like a child.

A lost, broken, guilty child.

And he hadn’t even looked up yet.

Ollie made a small, choked noise—something between a gasp and a sob—and Charles caught him by the waist to stop him from running forward too fast. Max moved in beside Oscar, gripping his son’s wrist tightly. None of them said a word.

Not yet.

They just stood there, staring at the boy they all loved in different ways, and realizing in one crushing wave just how much pain he had tried to carry alone.

And how close they had come to losing him.

~~~~

Kimi looked so small in the hospital bed that it hurt to breathe. The oversized gown hung off one shoulder, collarbone thin and pale, trembling faintly with each shallow breath. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes, and though the fever had broken hours ago, he was still flushed and damp, curls matted slightly at the nape from sweat. He was tucked into warm blankets, a cooling fan positioned beside the bed to keep his recovering body from overheating again. But the damage lingered in his expression — the wide, wet eyes, rimmed with red, still swollen from crying, and the raw, childlike guilt that turned his face toward them slowly, as if afraid they’d vanish if he blinked too fast.

No one said a word at first. The sight of him — awake, lucid, but so subdued and ashamed — stole all the air from the room. Ollie had cried in Oscar’s arms earlier. Max had cursed his way through a wall of helpless fury. Charles had held Lando for twenty minutes in the hallway. But none of that prepared them for this: Kimi sitting upright, legs drawn slightly beneath the blanket, hands clutching the edge like a child waiting to be scolded.

It was Lando who moved first.

He sat on the edge of the bed, gingerly, as if Kimi might shatter beneath his touch, and reached for one of the too-thin hands gripping the sheet. “Piccolino,” he whispered, voice already fraying, and brought the hand to his lips. “You scared the fuck out of me.”

Kimi flinched at the curse, just barely, and his lower lip wobbled. He didn’t try to pull away. If anything, he held tighter, like he was anchoring himself there — like Lando’s touch was the only thing keeping him from drifting back into fever and guilt.

“Per favore,” Lando breathed, kissing the knuckles again, “please, for the love of God, next time… when you don’t feel good, tell me. Or Ollie. Or anyone. I can’t—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “I can’t go through that again, little one. I can’t.”

Kimi nodded so fast it looked like a desperate plea. “Mi dispiace,” he whispered, barely audible, his throat still raw, eyes swimming with tears. “Mi dispiace tanto, Lan… non volevo farti paura… non pensavo—” He hiccuped on the breath, breaking apart again, and Lando wrapped both arms around him without hesitation.

He cradled him close, careful of the IV lines and the band across Kimi’s forehead, murmuring soft, broken things into his hair. “Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay. You’re here, that’s all that matters. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Oscar sat at the bottom edge of the bed, his usual silence laced with tenderness now. He didn’t say a word, just settled his hand gently on Kimi’s ankle beneath the blanket and began stroking there, soft and grounding. He knew the boy felt touch most acutely when he was frightened — knew Kimi needed to feel connected, even if it was something as simple as a warm hand anchoring him to the present. Oscar’s touch was slow and repetitive, a silent promise: you’re safe, you’re not alone, we’re here.

Ollie had hung back, leaning in the doorway until now. But the sight of Kimi’s tears undid something in him too. He moved forward, sat on the other side of the bed, opposite Lando, and reached out to brush damp curls from Kimi’s forehead. Kimi turned to him instantly, like a sunflower to the sun — and Ollie couldn’t stop the tears from pricking his eyes again, not when he saw the way Kimi looked at him: ashamed, terrified, still desperate for reassurance.

“Hey,” Ollie said softly, fingers trembling in the curls. “Hey, no, don’t do that, don’t cry, baby. I’m not mad, I’m just—” He bit his lip. Swallowed. “Just don’t ever do that again. Please. Don’t try to handle it on your own. Especially not like that. Self-medicating… Kimi, it was bad. It was so bad.”

Kimi let out a tiny whimper, curling in on himself. “Non volevo farvi preoccupare,” he mumbled. “Solo… volevo correre, e non volevo che nessuno dicesse che sono debole…”

“Oh, amore,” Ollie whispered, leaning forward to kiss his temple. “You’re not weak. You’re the strongest boy I know. But strong people ask for help too. They tell someone when they’re hurting. I would’ve done anything for you. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, least of all to me.”

Kimi blinked up at him, teardrops clinging to his lashes. “Prometto,” he whispered, voice shaking. “Lo giuro, Ollie. Mai più. Non lo farò mai più, lo prometto. Mi dispiace… mi dispiace tanto…”

Ollie pressed their foreheads together, inhaling slowly, trying not to cry. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for promising.”

Oscar kept stroking gently at Kimi’s ankle, watching with soft, unreadable eyes. He’d never been as expressive as the others, never the first to speak. But his presence was constant — steady, grounding, deeply felt. He let the silence settle, his touch doing all the speaking for him.

Charles stepped closer to the bed then, his arms folded tight against his chest, his eyes glossy with unshed tears. Max stood beside him, jaw locked, eyes hard, shoulders tense with something volcanic. Neither of them had spoken since they walked into the room — but their silence had weight. They’d lived their whole lives preparing for war, for loss, for control. But nothing prepared them for seeing the softest member of their family curled in a hospital bed, thinking it was his fault.

“Do they know?” Kimi asked after a long pause, voice trembling. “My mom… my dad… did they call?”

Max exhaled sharply, fists clenched. “I called them,” he muttered. “Explained everything. They told me they’re away — business trip.” The way he spat the words made it clear what he thought of that. “Said if you’re in our care, you’re safe. That they’ll call you when they can.”

He paused, then added darkly in Dutch, “Godverdomme klootzakken, ze verdienen je niet,” and Charles shot him a look that meant not now. But Max didn’t apologize.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Max added more softly, stepping forward. “I tried to get them here. I really did.”

Kimi only shook his head, trying to sit up straighter. “Oh… it’s okay. You and Charlie came. You’re my family.” He said it so gently, cheeks pink with emotion, eyes blinking fast against another wave of tears.

Max’s breath caught. Charles let out a soft, wet noise and stepped in closer, cupping Kimi’s face between his hands.

“You’re right, mon bébé,” he said thickly, brushing his thumbs over Kimi’s cheeks. “Everyone in this room is your family. You never have to be alone anymore, Andrea. I’ll make sure of it.”

Kimi reached for him with small hands and whispered, “Grazie, Charlie,” before falling into his arms again, crying soundlessly against his chest. Max stepped around to rub his back, pressing a kiss to the curls near the crown of his head. Lando hadn’t let go of Kimi’s hand once.

It was too much, almost — too many emotions stuffed into one fragile body. But Kimi let it happen. He let himself be held, loved, comforted by people who had nothing to prove but everything to give.

Eventually, when the sobs had gentled and the tremors dulled, Charles kissed his temple and whispered, “We’re going to get you something sweet. Your brother and Ollie need a minute alone with you, and we all need sugar. Hospital vending machine or death.”

Oscar stood and gave Kimi’s ankle a last squeeze. “You rest. We’ll be right outside.”

Max leaned down to kiss his cheek, his voice rough but so gentle. “I’m proud of you. For waking up. For staying with us.”

And then it was quiet again. Just the beeping of monitors, the hum of the fan, and the three of them.

Ollie leaned back in the chair, Lando still perched beside the bed, Kimi’s hand cradled between both of his.

For a moment, none of them spoke. Then Kimi whispered, “I thought I was going to die.”

Ollie moved instantly, pulling his chair closer until he could rest his forehead against Kimi’s shoulder. “You didn’t. You stayed. You came back to us.”

“I heard your voice,” Kimi whispered to Lando. “Before I passed out. You were shouting my name.”

Lando’s throat worked. “I was right there, baby. I was right there the second I knew. I’ll always be there.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t let you walk me back. I was scared you’d make me stay in bed.”

“You’re right. I would have.” Lando’s lips twisted in a sad smile. “But I’d have stayed with you the whole time.”

“I was stupid.”

“You were scared,” Ollie corrected. “And you’re sixteen. You’re allowed to mess up. That’s why we’re here — to catch you. You don’t have to carry everything alone, Andrea.”

Kimi sniffled. Then, quietly, he asked, “Do you think I’m still brave?”

Ollie blinked, stunned. “Kimi—”

“I wasn’t strong enough to say I felt bad. I thought if I did, people would say I was weak. That I couldn’t race. That I wasn’t good enough.”

Lando leaned forward, cupping Kimi’s jaw. “Bravery isn’t pretending nothing hurts, piccolino. It’s letting people see you when you’re scared. It’s telling the truth even when it’s hard. It’s waking up after everything and still choosing to be here. That’s brave. That’s you.”

Kimi looked between them, breath catching, and finally — finally — let his shoulders sag. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. I believe you.”

And Lando pressed his lips to his forehead, murmuring, “Good. Because I’m never going to stop telling you.”

They stayed there in silence, their hands tangled, their hearts still beating from the edge of something too close to loss. But Kimi was here. Warm. Alive. Loved. That was everything.

And somewhere just down the hall, the rest of the family was waiting — with cookies, and chocolate milk, and enough sugar to drown the grief. They would all be okay. But for now, the only thing that mattered was the way Kimi let his head fall against Ollie’s shoulder and whispered, voice small and real, “I love you both. Thank you for coming.”

Lando smiled through his tears. “Always, baby. Always.”

The sun had tipped west by the time the car nosed up the steep road that traced the cliff edge above Port Hercule, late-gold light flashing off the water far below and strobing across Kimi’s closed eyelids. He felt the turns—every lean of the chassis—in the hollow ache behind his ribs, but he kept his head cushioned against Ollie’s shoulder and pretended the world outside the tinted glass was only lullaby shadow. Thirty-six hours earlier the world had been white hospital glare and the stench of antiseptic; now it smelled of ocean spray and the citrus cologne clinging to Ollie’s collar, and the difference was so enormous it made nausea roll low in Kimi’s stomach. He did not deserve this return, he thought hazily—not this gentle exile from consequence, not the soft hush of voices that refused to reproach him. He did not deserve the way Ollie’s arm was a constant iron band around his back, or the way Lando—curled in the backward-facing seat—never stopped tracking his breathing with those wide hazel eyes. He certainly did not deserve Charles Verstappen-Leclerc in the front passenger seat fielding yet another phone call, his French crisp and implacable as he informed a flustered press officer that “non, ni Andrea ni Oliver will be giving statements until I personally clear it,” and no, he did not require translation because a line of fear sounded the same in every language.

Max drove. It was the softest thing Kimi had ever seen, a miracle of restraint: both hands steady on the wheel, elbows loose, speed hovering just below the limit. He only braked once, earlier, when a moped cut too close; the snarl that had climbed his throat was swallowed back before it reached sound. Now, approaching the wrought-iron gates of the villa, Max merely tapped the indicator, rolled to the curb, and exhaled like he’d been underwater since Genoa.

The gates swung open on silent motors. Roses spilled over the white wall, their scent a summer ghost in the salt wind. Kimi’s breath hitched. Home—though he would never call it aloud, not when shame still wrung his heart like wet cloth. Yet the house recognized him, all pale stone and shuttered windows glowing honey-soft in the lowering sun. Curtains billowed at an upper balcony: linen ghosts waving welcome.

Ollie’s hand stroked his nape. “Nearly there, love.”

Love. The word was heavy as a medal; it clinked against all the places guilt had hollowed.

The car stopped beneath the portico. Charles was out first, immaculately disheveled—loafers, cardigan, hair finger-combed into submission—moving to open Kimi’s door even as Ollie unbuckled them both. Lando bounded out the opposite side and came round, making a silent wall beside Charles, hazel eyes bright but steady. No one spoke of walking. They simply waited for Ollie, and Ollie did not hesitate: he slipped an arm behind Kimi’s knees, another across his shoulders, and lifted as if the boy were spun from thistledown and apology.

Kimi flushed. “I—I can manage—”

Ollie kissed his forehead mid-sentence. “Not a chance.”

Charles stepped back, hands hovering though they never touched. “Watch his IV site,” he murmured—gentle reminder, not rebuke—then flicked a glance up at Max. Whatever passed between husbands in that instant was an exchange of vows older than rings.

Max rounded the hood, keyed the front door, and held it wide—but he did not enter. Instead he laid one huge palm flat against the small of Ollie’s back as his son passed, as if anchoring both boy and burden to the earth. “Upstairs,” he rumbled, softer than thunder. “Blue room. Sheets changed an hour ago.”

They crossed the threshold. Cool marble met Ollie’s socked feet—he’d shed shoes in the car to climb in beside Kimi, to cradle him through every hairpin curve of the coast road. Now his toes curled against veined stone, finding purchase. The foyer smelled of bergamot and something faintly medicinal; Oscar must have lit those cleansing candles he liked, their charred wicks whispering calm into every corner.

The main lounge lay straight ahead—sea-view windows flung open, gossamer curtains floating like jellyfish in the breeze. But they turned right, toward the sweeping staircase Charles favored whenever he wanted dramatic effect. Today drama had been bled dry; what remained was necessity, and love shaped into ritual. Ollie carried Kimi up the stairs two at a time, Lando ghosting behind—one hand on the banister, other hovering an inch from Kimi’s calf as though his shadow could catch a stumble.

Halfway up, Kimi’s lashes fluttered. “Please let me down. I’m heavy.”

Ollie’s laugh was low, incredulous. “You’re the weight my arms were built for.”

Behind them Lando muttered, “Poetic prick,” but his smile cracked wide with relief.

At the landing Oscar waited, back braced against the doorframe of the blue room, brown curls still damp from a shower hurried between hospital discharge and arrival. He wore a loose ivory T-shirt that set his olive skin glowing, and in his hands he held a neatly folded stack of flannel blankets—sky blue, navy, pale grey. His eyes swept over Kimi’s face; something in them softened, as though the final coordinate in a baffling equation had resolved. He stepped aside, nodding once.

Inside, the room was ready: curtains drawn half-closed to temper sunset glare, bedside lamp casting amber over a nest of pillows that rose like gentle dunes. A small table held paracetamol, electrolyte sachets, saline flushes, a digital thermometer, four glass bottles of still mineral water. Someone—Oscar, surely—had lined the labels forward, soldier precise. At the foot of the bed lay a plush throw the color of worn denim and softness.

Ollie laid Kimi in the center of the mattress. The boy’s fingers clutched the front of Ollie’s shirt and refused release, so Ollie went down with him, settling cross-legged while Kimi reclined against a mountain of pillows. Lando peeled back the coverlet, drew it over Kimi with the care of tucking wings on a baby bird, then perched at the edge, legs dangling. Oscar draped the flannel blanket across Kimi’s shins and smoothed it flat, each motion a silent mantra: safe, safe, safe.

Footsteps in the hall—then Charles and Max entered as a single unit of quiet thunder. Charles carried a porcelain tray: teapot, two mugs, honey in a glass jar. Max gripped a tall glass full of pale lemon slivers steeping in water. He offered it to Kimi first. “Small sips,” he said, voice firm but worn at the edges.

Kimi obeyed. The water tasted like morning in Sicily.

Charles set the tray on the dresser, poured tea into a mug already steaming with chamomile, stirred in a ribbon of honey. He crossed, kneeling on the mattress, and braced the mug beneath Kimi’s nose. “Drink?” he asked.

Kimi’s throat wobbled. “Later.”

Charles’s palm cupped his cheek; thumb traced the curve of eyelid to cheekbone. “Later,” he echoed, but did not withdraw the hand.

The room breathed. Outside, a gull cried once, high and sharp.

Ollie finally eased backward, sliding until his spine met the headboard. He gathered Kimi into the curve of his side, one arm banded high across the boy’s chest, his other hand stroking little half-moon shapes over the fragile hollow where throat met collarbone. Lando shifted closer until their knees brushed. Oscar crossed to the window, cracked it wider, then perched on the sill—guard dog disguised as angel, gaze sweeping sea and sky and bed again.

No one said the words he could have died, but they hung heavy in the dusky light.

Kimi exhaled. “You forgave me too fast.”

Lando’s eyebrows shot up. “Duh. That’s what brothers do.”

“Lando—”

“Shh.” Ollie pressed fingertips to Kimi’s lips. “You’re allowed to rest, not debate theology.”

A silence, then: “Still heavy,” Kimi whispered against those fingers.

“Still perfect,” Ollie murmured back.

Under the blanket, Kimi’s hand sought Lando’s wrist. Lando laced their fingers, squeezed three times—slow code they’d shared since February: here, here, here.

Max shifted. The mattress dipped as he sat at Kimi’s feet, large hand kneading gently at cramped toes through the blanket. Charles remained kneeling, thumb still stroking Kimi’s cheekbone, eyes shining in the peach light, a monarch bending over the tiniest of territories.

Kimi’s chest hitched. A tear slid; Charles wiped it away before gravity finished its work.

“I will do better,” Kimi breathed. Promise, threat, prayer.

Max’s voice, deep and slow: “You will live, that is all.”

“You will tell us,” Charles added, “the moment pain whispers.”

“You will never carry hurt alone,” Lando finished.

Ollie’s heartbeat thudded against Kimi’s shoulder blade. “You will always be mine.”

Outside, the horizon burned rose-gold, then crimson, then dimmed into violet velvet. Inside, the lamp haloed five shapes breathing as one. Someone—Oscar—rose, flicked the overhead switch; the ceiling washed soft with muted warmth.

Kimi’s eyelids drooped. The bed smelled of linen and salt and the faint tang of Ollie’s shampoo. The last thing he felt before drifting under was a press of lips to his temple—Max perhaps, or Charles—and the hush of Ollie’s voice: “Stay. Just stay.”

He stayed.

He dreamed of seawater turning to honey, of engines idling quiet, of feathers floating down to cover a body whole and unbroken. And when the dream thinned to dawn, the house still thrummed around him—heartbeats, kettle whistles, soft Dutch lullabies—and he knew in his marrow that home was not stone or sea or the Monaco sky, but the arms braided around him like rope made of love.

Morning came with the hush of a tide that had forgotten how to crash.

The windows were already open when Kimi woke, sea breeze lifting the corner of the curtain in slow, drowsy sighs. The sun crept gently across the wood floors like it, too, was afraid to wake him too fast. His body ached faintly — not the panicked spike of illness, but the lingering soreness that made everything feel fragile. A body that had survived something it wasn’t quite ready to name.

But the ache didn’t matter. Not when Ollie was still there. Still wrapped around him, still breathing slow and steady against the back of Kimi’s neck. Kimi hadn’t meant to wake him. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a sound. But something in Ollie stirred, always — as if his heart beat in tandem now, alert for any shift.

“Hey,” Ollie whispered, lips brushing the curl of his ear. “You okay?”

Kimi nodded.

“Headache? Nausea?”

“No.” His voice rasped like sandpaper. “Just sore.”

“Want water?”

Already Ollie was reaching. Kimi smiled faintly, let himself be helped upright, sipped from the straw until Ollie said “That’s enough, you’ll make yourself sick,” and then slumped back into the arms offered without thought.

Downstairs, the villa had begun to murmur awake. The clink of plates, the whistle of the kettle. Bare feet on tile. Max’s low voice drifting from the kitchen — Dutch, deliberate, calm. Charles humming something classical under his breath. It smelled like thyme and lemon, like chicken simmering in broth, and Kimi’s stomach made a soft, surprised sound that betrayed his appetite before he was ready to own it.

“You’re hungry,” Ollie murmured with a grin. “That’s good.”

“I could eat.”

“I’ll carry you down.”

Kimi groaned and tried to hide his face in the pillow. “You’re still doing that?”

Ollie didn’t answer. He simply rose, stretched once, and bent with all the drama of a boy who knew he was never going to let Kimi win this argument.

Sure enough, Kimi was scooped into his arms without ceremony.

“Feet still cold,” Ollie murmured, pressing a kiss to one bare ankle. “Good. That means your fever’s not back.”

Kimi buried his face in Ollie’s collar and gave up. “You’re deranged.”

“I’m in love,” Ollie said.

At the bottom of the stairs, Lando was waiting barefoot, hoodie too big, mug of coffee in both hands. He looked up, took one glance at Kimi half-asleep in Ollie’s arms, and smiled with something quieter than teasing. His eyes flicked over Kimi’s face — cataloguing, comparing, confirming.

“Color’s better,” he said softly. “Still a bit pale, though.”

“He’ll be flushed once he’s warm again,” Ollie replied. “He’ll glow.”

Kimi, overheated by embarrassment and the weight of being so loved, just groaned again.

The breakfast table was already set. Someone had pulled it closer to the open doors, the morning sun washing across the linen runner. There were fresh croissants, sliced fruit, bowls of warm porridge steaming gently beside tiny pitchers of honey. A separate tray held plain toast, applesauce, and herbal teas.

Max looked up from where he was chopping herbs and gave a tiny nod. “He looks good.”

“Still weak,” Ollie said, lowering Kimi into the chair Charles had padded with two cushions. “But we’re getting there.”

“I feel better,” Kimi said.

“You sound like sandpaper,” Charles replied gently, brushing the fringe from his forehead. “Try this tea. It’s good for your throat.”

Kimi did. It tasted of lemon balm and chamomile and warmth, and he let Charles guide the cup to his lips without protest.

“Soup’s nearly ready,” Max called. “Ollie, get him to eat a little toast first.”

Ollie obeyed. He sat right beside Kimi — not across, but next to, knees bumping, elbows tangled. He tore the toast into tiny pieces and fed him one at a time, like they were alone.

“Bit more,” he coaxed. “That’s it, sweetheart. You’re doing perfect.”

Kimi’s eyes fluttered. “I’m not a baby.”

“No. You’re mine. That’s different.”

There was no comeback to that. Not when Kimi still felt so thin and breakable inside his skin, not when every gentle hand on his shoulder made something in his chest ache. He just leaned into Ollie’s side and let himself be loved.

When Max brought the soup — broth and noodles and soft vegetables — Charles offered to feed him too, but Kimi shook his head. “I can try.”

“Of course you can,” Charles said, and kissed his cheek before retreating.

Still, he watched from the other end of the table. Every spoonful was tracked, every swallow measured by the angle of Kimi’s neck, the wince or ease of his throat. When Kimi finished half the bowl, Max declared victory and Lando clapped softly in triumph.

The rest of the morning passed in a soft daze. Oscar came down late, hair tousled, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie he’d definitely stolen from Lando. He crouched behind Kimi’s chair, pressed a silent kiss to the top of his head, and then busied himself checking the list of meds on Charles’s phone.

“Vitals later,” he murmured. “When he’s rested.”

They didn’t go anywhere. There was nowhere to go.

Instead, Charles opened the double doors to the garden and set up cushions beneath the lemon tree. Max unfolded the lounge chairs. Ollie brought Kimi outside wrapped in the softest blanket and settled him on a padded lounger with a straw hat to keep the sun off his face. He curled beside him and rubbed his back in soft, endless circles.

Lando pulled up a bean bag chair and set cartoons on the outdoor projector.

Oscar lay in the grass with his eyes closed, one arm flung over his face, only moving when Kimi shifted too much and needed more water.

It was peaceful, almost movie-like, the air sweet with jasmine and the occasional sound of the fountain burbling at the far end of the garden. Every now and then someone would go inside and return with snacks — soft cheese, more tea, cookies crumbled just right for Kimi to nibble.

No one rushed him. No one asked questions. They just stayed.

And yet—by late afternoon, something in Kimi began to fray.

It was nothing anyone did. It was the weight of kindness. The way Charles kept adjusting the umbrella to shield him from glare. The way Ollie held him like a priceless artifact, not a boy who’d simply made a mistake. The way Lando kept touching his ankle, like he couldn’t help it.

It all became too much.

He didn’t realize he was crying until he tried to sip from a new cup of tea and the rim clinked against his teeth.

Ollie noticed first. “Kimi? What’s wrong?”

Kimi shook his head. “I don’t know. I just— I need a second.”

“Of course,” Ollie said instantly, reaching for him. “Come here—”

“No, not—not more. Just… less. Please.”

It came out in a whisper, shame blooming bright in his throat.

Before anyone could crowd him, Oscar stood and stepped forward. He said nothing. Just held out a hand.

Kimi took it like a lifeline.

They walked—slowly, carefully—through the side gate into the courtyard garden where Oscar sometimes meditated. It was smaller, more enclosed, full of potted herbs and lavender, bees drifting lazily from bloom to bloom.

Oscar didn’t ask what was wrong.

He just sat on the edge of the old marble fountain, patted the spot beside him, and waited.

Kimi sat.

The silence felt like a relief.

After a long moment, Oscar peeled a clementine from the basket beside the bench. He broke it into segments, offered one.

Kimi took it.

Then another. Then another.

Halfway through, the tears came again — quiet and unhurried, like the wind. Oscar didn’t flinch.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Kimi whispered.

“Be taken care of?”

“Be this important.”

Oscar nodded. “It’s hard.”

“It feels like drowning sometimes. And I love them. I do. But it’s too much.”

“You’re allowed to feel that.”

Kimi rubbed his sleeve against his eyes. “I just wanted to race. I didn’t mean to— I thought I could handle it.”

“I know,” Oscar said gently. “I thought I could too.”

That made Kimi look up.

Oscar’s eyes were full of truth. Not pity. Not distance. Just… understanding.

“I nearly did the same thing as you once but my mistake was thinking that the Verstappen-Leclerc’s wouldn’t notice,” he said. “I get it. The way you feel. But they don’t love you because you’re strong. They love you because you’re you.”

Kimi’s breath shuddered.

“I don’t want to need all this.”

“I know. But you do. And that’s okay.”

A bee drifted past. The sky arced soft and endless above.

Oscar leaned back on his elbows and offered the last piece of fruit.

Kimi took it.

They stayed like that for a long time.

No pressure. No questions. Just air.

Just space.

Just love, held gently enough not to smother.

~~~~

Evening settled over Monaco like a velvet curtain—low and heavy with the last heat of day, threaded through with gold where the light hadn’t quite surrendered. The air outside the villa was still, fragrant with sea salt and lemon blossoms from the courtyard. Inside, it was all light and laughter and the kind of warmth that belonged to houses full of people who loved each other too much to say it out loud.

The villa glowed. Soft pools of amber light spilled across Persian rugs and danced across the clinking glassware Charles was carefully laying out on the kitchen island. The oven had been humming for the better part of an hour, filling the entire ground floor with the scent of butter and sugar slowly becoming something holy. Charles moved through the kitchen in slow, sure rhythms—an artist at work, not hurrying, just… shaping. The kitchen bore the controlled chaos of someone who knew exactly what every drawer contained and exactly how long the custard cake had left before the center turned from perfect to ruined.

He leaned down, slipped on his reading glasses, and peered through the oven door with narrowed eyes. “Can’t burn this one,” he murmured to himself in French, frowning at the rise of the cake. “Not after Kimi said he feels like eating something sweet again. Not after this week.”

From the couch, Lando’s voice rang out with perfect comic timing: “I heard that! Don’t mess it up, Papa—it’s the only reason I’m here!”

“Ta gueule!” Charles replied smoothly, barely raising his voice, though a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

Lando gasped theatrically. “The love. I feel it like a blanket. A very insulting French blanket.”

“You’re lucky I’m already making dessert,” Charles called back.

“Lucky I’m your favorite,” Lando muttered to no one, sinking deeper into the couch.

He was sprawled out like he owned the place—shirt slightly wrinkled, socks mismatched, toes dangerously close to Max’s thigh. Max didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look up from his book, just reached out with one large hand and slowly pushed Lando’s foot off the cushion without saying a word.

“Rude,” Lando said.

“You’re disgusting,” Max replied, flipping the page. “Move your feet again and I’ll break them, lovingly of course”

Across the room, Kimi was curled on the opposite end of the sectional, tucked beneath a gauzy throw blanket that someone—probably Charles, possibly Oscar—had warmed in the dryer. His legs stretched across Oscar’s lap, and his head rested in the space where Ollie’s thigh met his hip, curls damp from a bath and still faintly smelling of lavender. His oversized sweatshirt, a hand-me-down from Oscar judging by the sleeves, made him look even smaller than he was. But he was smiling now. Not the thin, watery sort of smile they’d seen over the past few days, but real—broad, bright, radiant. He laughed, and it startled the whole room into stillness for a half-second.

It was the kind of laugh that made everyone remember what they’d almost lost.

“You guys are so dramatic,” Kimi said, pushing a hand through his curls. “I’m the one who was sick, and you’re all fighting about feet and dessert?”

“I’m not fighting,” Max said, turning a page. “I’m ignoring my almost son in law like a sane man.”

Lando turned to Oscar, offended. “Did you hear that? Ignoring me, as if.”

“You’re a menace,” Oscar said mildly, peeling a clementine with one hand while absently stroking up and down Kimi’s shin with the other. “But you make good tea, so I keep you around.”

“Unpaid labor and insulted in my own home,” Lando said. “This is abuse.”

“You missed your calling,” Ollie said casually, running his fingers through Kimi’s hair like he’d been doing it for years. “You should’ve been a butler. You’ve got the ass for those tight little uniforms.”

Kimi let out a wheeze and shoved his face into Ollie’s shirt. “Oh my God. Stop. I can’t breathe.”

“You can’t breathe because your boyfriend’s a pervert,” Lando said brightly.

“Still true,” Oscar murmured, and flicked a clementine segment at Lando’s chest.

Lando swatted it off with a dramatic yelp and twisted to glare—but froze mid-turn.

Oscar was watching him with that look again. Lazy. Knowing. Dangerous.

“Don’t you dare,” Lando said.

Oscar smirked. And kissed him.

It was not a big kiss. It wasn’t tongue or teeth or chaos. It was soft, slow, and deliberate. The kind of kiss you gave someone when you wanted to remind them they were yours, and you weren’t afraid of anyone in the room knowing it.

Lando went very still. Then he blinked hard and mumbled, “Okay, that’s fine. Totally casual. Not romantic or anything. Nope.”

Kimi turned to Ollie and whispered, “Are they—?”

“They’ve been doing this all day,” Ollie whispered back. “Oscar keeps sneaking kisses when he thinks Dad isn’t looking.”

Max, still reading, said calmly, “I see everything.”

Oscar leaned back, completely unbothered, and wiped juice from the corner of Lando’s mouth. “Worth it.”

Lando, still stunned, muttered, “Okay, yeah, fine. Worth it. Shut up.”

Just then, Charles reappeared in the doorway, dish towel over one shoulder, holding a glass dish like it was a relic from the Louvre. His eyes went straight to Kimi, who was wheezing softly into Ollie’s chest.

“You okay, bébé?”

Kimi nodded, still smiling. “I’m great.”

Charles’s face softened into something warm and bright. “Then it’s time.”

He brought the dish to the coffee table and set it down gently. Steam rose in soft curls from the golden-edged cake, the center sunken just slightly in that perfect way that meant it was gooey and warm and utterly illegal. Powdered sugar dusted the top like fresh snow.

“I love you,” Lando said reverently.

“Tell me something new,” Charles replied, already cutting perfect portions.

“Will this make me stronger?” Kimi asked, eyes wide.

“If it doesn’t,” Charles said, “nothing will.”

Max fetched spoons. Charles handed out ramekins like a king blessing his subjects. Kimi got the center, the best bite, and Ollie didn’t even pretend to be jealous. He just watched Kimi taste the first spoonful, saw the way his eyes fluttered shut in bliss, and smiled like he’d just won a championship.

“Oh my God,” Kimi whispered. “That’s illegal.”

“You should see what he makes when he actually tries,” Max said, nudging Charles with his knee.

For a while, they all just sat.

Spoons clinked. Lando tried to steal a bite from Oscar’s bowl and got jabbed in the ribs for it. Charles brushed powdered sugar from Kimi’s nose with his thumb. Ollie spoon-fed Kimi a bite from his own ramekin like they hadn’t already shared half of it. Max cleared the dishes quietly, methodically, the way he always did when he didn’t want anyone to think he cared too much.

And in that soft, golden lull, Kimi sat up a little straighter. The blanket slid from his shoulders. His hands trembled slightly, but he placed them flat on the table, steadying himself. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but certain.

“Thank you.”

Ollie blinked. “For what?”

Kimi looked around the room, eyes bright and wet. “For this. For all of it. For carrying me. For not making me feel stupid. For watching Finding Nemo three times. For the soup. For the disgusting tea. For staying. For not… for not leaving when I was sobbing like a toddler in the hospital. For treating me like I mattered.”

He looked at each of them, one by one, and his voice cracked. “You’re the family I didn’t know I wished I had.”

It was not a dramatic moment. No one burst into sobs. But something shifted.

Lando blinked very fast and ducked his face into Oscar’s hoodie. Oscar sniffled and rubbed his thumb along Lando’s wrist.

Charles didn’t speak. He just reached for Max’s hand and squeezed it like the world would fall if he let go.

Ollie said nothing at all. He just pulled Kimi into his arms and kissed the top of his head, and held him like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Max stood. “Dessert’s over. That was dinner. You’re all emotionally unstable goblins. Go lounge.”

“Max,” Charles chided gently.

Max cleared his throat. “Go lounge, mon cœur.”

There was laughter again. Softer this time. Frayed around the edges.

Max let Charles pull him out to the terrace, muttering about the stars and the sea breeze and how he’d make Lando wash the ramekins later.

Lando stood with a stretch and looked at Oscar. “Guest room?”

Oscar nodded. “For moral support.”

“And maybe—”

“If you finish that sentence, I’m telling Dad you want to take my innocence.”

They vanished, giggling.

And then it was just Kimi and Ollie, curled on the couch beneath a blanket still warm from laughter and tears. The cake was gone. The candles flickered low. Outside, the ocean whispered against the cliffs.

Inside, Kimi turned to Ollie, climbed into his lap slowly, settled there with one hand on Ollie’s chest.

“Kiss me?” he asked softly.

Ollie smiled, brushed curls from his eyes, and leaned in—pressed one small, sweet kiss to his lips, feather-light.

Kimi pulled back, frowning. “You know I’m not going to break. I was sick. Not made of glass.”

“I’m sorry, amore,” Ollie said, smirking. “You’re right. You always are. Just don’t want to do anything to get you out of breath.”

Kimi let out a dramatic groan and dropped a throw pillow on his face. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re adorable.”

Kimi slapped his arm. Ollie tickled his side. They tumbled, laughing and gasping, until Kimi was on top, straddling Ollie’s lap again, both of them breathless and grinning.

Kimi leaned in, eyes wide and full of promise. “Can I?”

Ollie didn’t answer.

He just lunged—kissed him deep, one hand sliding up to cradle the nape of Kimi’s neck, the other anchoring him low, pulling him close until there was no space left between them. Kimi moaned softly, melted against him, fingers curling in his shirt.

When they broke, Ollie pressed their foreheads together and whispered, “I love you, Andrea Antonelli. Never scare me like that again.”

“I love you, Oliver Verstappen-Leclerc,” Kimi whispered. “I promise you. Never again.”

Ollie sighed and kissed him again.

They curled into each other like old vines, legs tangled, hearts calm.

And outside, the stars came out.

Inside, love held.