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Waves upon waves upon waves, that’s all there is to Sardinia, if you know or need to look past the boats. There isn’t Kimi’s body near naked under them, there is only his upper half, waving up at George at the prow, and otherwise the silence.
His young teammate only thought it was weird they were spending vacation in the same place and no time together, like last year again; George didn’t have the heart to tell him that it’s going to be like this for the rest of his time in F1, everyone in the same place all the time but never together.
George also had illusions, once. That isn't something he'll try to deny.
He didn’t have the heart to tell him no too vehemently either, when Kimi started kissing his neck from behind, having pretended to go in just for a hug. It’s an Italian thing, maybe, he thinks. This is Kimi’s country, and George still can’t speak a word of what he hears sometimes on the shore; if everything goes wrong, Ferrari would not have him if he paid them for a seat. Lewis isn’t so good at Italian either—but he is Lewis, which makes up for it.
It tends to make up for most things, being Lewis. (It made up for the cold shoulders and the silent rooms, waiting for someone else to get there so they'd have a thing to talk about. George still tried.)
And Kimi is what came after Lewis. What made up for Lewis’ absence, what had to.
It was because George made the mistake of thinking that the honour belonged to him that it started hurting, but no, everything is clear now, and glass you can see through is glass that doesn’t cut.
George hadn’t known what to say, with Kimi’s open mouth on his pulse point, his tongue hot and humid and lingering too long where it shouldn’t; he’d pressed there in the same way he does with track limits, bordering on reckless and mostly getting, anyway, what he wants.
It’s because he’s looking at the waves that he doesn’t realize Kimi is back up on the boat, not bothering to dry himself. George doesn’t have the heart to tell him to mind that; it’s a boat, to be in water, yes, but it’s better not to— “You are not going to swim?” his teammate asks, that same innocent tone he uses when they have media duties and the camera is on. “Just tanning? Lame.”
George snorts. Waves, waves, waves, the horizon. “I’m not such a young pup anymore. I’ve got to save my energy. You go swim to your heart’s content.” Far away. “I’ll be watching from here, thank you.”
When Kimi laughs it’s with that embarrassment, like George is his dad and he just told a terrible joke in front of his friends from school. But they’re alone. He wonders if Toto would want to— “Yeah, yeah. You look like… you think I will try drowning you,” Kimi points out, somewhere behind George. He does not turn to look. He is afraid of what he’d see.
He thinks, jumping into the water, what would they do? There is a wet slide to underwater bodies that makes George uncomfortable, as if there are less layers of skin to hide the slime underneath.
“Maybe you would,” George jokes—does he? “You’re a felon.”
“But I can still push you.”
There is a little shove, near his hips; George barely startles. It wasn’t meant to throw him off, he knows this for sure, they know the limits of each other’s bodies better than they know anyone else’s.
As drivers, of course. They share the data, on the car. They share the exhaustion, after. They know what is enough, and when, and how.
“Just you try, you rapscallion,” George laughs, toeing the line between insincere and just a little bit tired.
Kimi laughs; he pushes again, but this time his hands stay. He is not wearing a towel, and is therefore still wet all over. George wants to say mind the floor, he wants to say lots of things, but Kimi is faster. Seems like a trend. “Where do you learn these words? Are you reading the dictionary or something?”
He says it like it’s something George would genuinely do. Like he goes to sleep at six in the afternoon with a Merriam-Webster on his lap and a cuppa on his nightstand, like that is the person Kimi imagines him to be behind closed doors. “It’s a common word,” George hums, “rapscallion.”
“Ras… Rat—nah, I haven’t heard this before. You’re lying,” Kimi says. The seawater on his chest is dripping onto George’s lower back. So much for the sunscreen. He’ll tan alright.
“I lie all the time,” George replies sardonically, though there is a hitch in his breath which he hates with a passion, when it’s all of Kimi suddenly pressed against his back, only in swimming shorts, and wet. “And I keep playing mind games. That’s just who I am, isn’t it.”
The sun is too bright, the space between them will dry soon. He would rather drown them both than allow the degree of separation to become absolute zero.
Kimi does have the decency to sound ashamed, but he’s still doing that Italian thing where he hugs and touches and won’t let go, a thumb pulling slightly down on George’s swimming shorts, almost accidental. “I didn’t say it like that, you are exaggerating.”
He doesn’t have the heart to argue more. The point has been made. Kimi can do whatever he pleases with it.
“I’m not—” he gets interrupted when Kimi decides to do the same thing from before, where instead of taking a hint and going away he opens his mouth and takes the salty skin of George’s neck in it, prodding with his tongue at the built muscle underneath.
George grabs the railing, mouth open in a gasp, innards aflame. He tries not to make it too obvious. That would be quite the HR nightmare. He’s had enough nightmares this season already, and he’s got the biggest one right behind him, with his hands wet and cold and touching his hips—given, lightly. He’s not pushing much.
But Kimi never has to push much to give a nudge, to get it handed to him. George has seen the size of those arms. Too many times. More times he has looked away, in all fairness, trying not to ogle. He has been told it’s impolite—and besides, he has to remind himself sternly, not really eligible to be an object of whatever sick attraction or fascination they make George feel when he is not quick enough to look away. Kimi is nineteen.
Nineteen and a head shorter; goes to the gym half as much and still can eat twice as many times a day if he wants to. George does not think about the what ifs of spending the years of his life where his body will give him the best performance possible trying to shave off weight he therefore cannot turn into strength.
All that to say, Kimi would beat the shit out of him, hand to hand as well. George has figured out, quite recently, that the only reason he looks strong is because he is all muscle. (In Charles’ building, there is a huge pool. He’s been there sometimes. Bigger than all the other pools in Monaco. Even then, you would not call it large, if you happened to come across it while floating in the Mediterranean, whichever way is up, or down.)
This is why he doesn’t look right now, even though he can probably imagine, the flex of the muscles and the fingers curling on his hips, he tries not to feel it either, but he’s shuddering, his hairs are standing up.
Thank the heavens he shaved recently, for some photoshoot. Maybe Kimi won’t notice that, on top of everything else.
“Kimi,” he breathes, a little alarmed. It feels a little more than just affectionate, whatever he is doing. But George knew that already.
“Mhm?” Kimi hums, apparently too distracted by mouthing at the taut sinews of George’s neck, wandering little hands unable to stay still, to decide in which way they want to torture George.
“Kimi, you… you—” It should not be so hard to find the words. It’s not like this is unrehearsed, like he’s been caught, pun woefully intended, with his pants down. “Kimi, you can’t—you’re so young. Way too—”
Kimi unlatches himself from his neck for a moment, sighing like he is already tired of the charade. The same, every time. “You aren’t doing anything,” he counters, tugging at George’s shorts, a little bit down. “I do it.”
Kimi does, George takes, if he does nothing then his agency is removed. “It’s still—”
“Wrong?” Kimi complains, his hands stilling for a moment. George, shamefully, really wants the argument to be done. The argument he started, which is not even an argument, is only a theatre for he and himself to watch from the inside of his skull and pat himself on the back for being such an upstanding person.
George nods anyway. It is wrong. Kimi seems to think about it. It’s cold, wet, seawater. George is wet now too, their bodies slot together strangely, slippery, surreal. “It’s more wrong,” he starts, in his all-knowing voice of teenage overconfidence, “if you just leave me here and don’t let me. Making me wait, on purpose. To mess with me.”
Kimi means that to be quippy, to be smart. It sends a shudder through George though, category eight, the kind that collapses all the good things inside him—the ones that’d let him open his mouth and go, that is such a childish thing to say, you are a child, you need to leave, why are you on my boat.
“Right,” George huffs instead, breath shaky. Kimi decides that’s permission enough to slide his hands around to the front, sticking closer, palming George’s abs for a patronizingly appreciative second before reaching down to undo the tie of his shorts, just enough to slip a hand in.
George isn’t doing anything. He’s not the one doing anything, he’s not the one making Kimi’s seawater salty hand wrap around his already aching dick, the other one gripping his waist in place, against the railing. He’s not the one, in Kimi’s own dripping pants, making him equally as hard, he’s not making him press it where George can feel it, large and warm and undoubtedly throbbing under all the wet fabric.
His mouth waters a little at all of the thoughts it provokes; thankfully he can spit it into the sea. He would like to let go and mindlessly grind against Kimi’s erection, but that would mean doing something, so he holds onto the railing, going limp as Kimi does the job of that too, pressing himself closer, greedier, more insistent, sort of using George like the kind of pillow you’d hump in your first year of high school because you were horny all the time and terrible at talking to girls. (Not that Kimi is terrible at talking to girls. They love him. His girlfriend—well, his ex, now. George has no idea why they broke up, just recently and he hasn’t asked, and he doesn’t want to know.) (He wonders—and it’s just wondering—if Kimi will ever go as far as fucking him, if that’s something he’d do without the permission George never explicitly gives him.)
He finds himself trying to get away with the barest bit of thrusting, upwards into Kimi’s twitchy but practiced hand—he’s not looking, he’s not looking at how obscene the sight of his cock in that hand of his is—backwards against Kimi’s own arousal, the mere size of it dizzying.
“Good?” Kimi breathes into his ear, planting a soft kiss behind it. It’s the moments like these that George hates the most, when Kimi sounds a little too on the edge of veering into insecure, when he sounds exactly like a kid who thinks it’s embarrassing not to know everything.
George moans—not yes, not good, he is not stooping so low. Kimi kisses the side of his neck again, and the moan turns open-mouthed, the movement, friction-seeking, involuntary. Nothing he can do. Kimi made him. “F-fuck,” he whines, a little broken inside.
The hand on George’s waistband tugs, shakily, down. Just enough for a sudden gust of wind to give the upper half of his cheeks a nice chill, with all the water that’s dripped off Kimi. The panting behind him gets rickety, and George wonders if—
“Can I?” Kimi asks, like he has to.
He should know not to ask for a yes, that George can’t, can’t betray himself like that even if the arousal is making it almost impossible not to want it more than anything else in the world.
“Andrea,” he hisses, desperate. Kimi understands that language.
In one sharp tug down, George’s shorts are a wet stain on the prow, at his ankles, and a thick, sticky shape, warmer to the touch than anything else in the world, slides between his thighs. It’s insecure at first, too gentle and too rough at the same time, but then George remembers himself for long enough to press his thighs together with more force, to really give it that feel, of tight hole, of warm and wet and sticky and disgusting.
Which is when the thrusts, steadier now, start deepening; George imagines it, imagines the space between his thighs to be a gaping hole inside him, rather than a space all around; imagines himself stretched wide around Kimi’s cock, like that, forced open, imagines how Kimi would spill his seed inside and let it fester there.
And the worst part is George would let him, every time.
It’s with that thought that he spills himself all over the waiting hand of his teammate, muttering meek attempts at curses under his breath—and that Kimi follows soon, fast and erratic, the sticky warmth of him dripping down that space between his thighs, so much so he reckons it will be inevitable, taking a dip, quite soon, before it dries and quickens.
He feels Kimi softening before retrieving himself from George—all of it, the arms too, the body.
Waves, upon waves upon waves, that’s all there is to see. They breathe, not in unison, for what feels like a long time. Enough for George to have to shamefully waddle a little down to the nearest ladder into the sea and dip the stain between his thighs in; it was starting to become uncomfortable.
After a while, Kimi sits next to him. The ladder dives well into the water, its last steps invisible in the deep blue. Kimi’s feet can only reach one step higher, despite sitting on the same one as George.
God, he is so small.
“You called me Andrea,” he says, almost shy.
Kimi knows not to bring it up—any of it—later than when it has happened, so he must be doing this on purpose.
George sighs. Their thighs are touching, just barely. George’s is longer, Kimi’s stronger, by far. “It’s your name, no?”
He looks at George strangely. Warm in the eyes, that disarming coffee brown, his damp curls plastered to his forehead. “It’s what my family calls me,” he shrugs, a little too affectless, overcompensating.
It’s true, Marco is always saying Andre, Andrea. George misheard Andy, the first time. They had a good laugh about that.
“Sorry, sorry. You like Andy better?” he teases, elbowing Kimi a little. Resisting the urge to ruffle his hair. It’s already ruffled.
Kimi scoffs. He’s got no reply.
He doesn’t believe Marco for a second when he says he had no other inspiration for the name Kimi than his own creative mind and a Finnish dictionary. What a load of bullshit.
It’s okay, he wants to say, to be born for it.
He doesn’t, because George is just George and the William is for Shakespeare, and neither of these things were bred for racing, like the horses in the paddocks the neighbours had, just across the hill, the second biggest farm in the vicinity—after theirs.
George was barely taller than a garden rake, when, hands gripping the fence, he'd watch the stallions run around in circles, none of them realizing they went nowhere, only to the same patch of dirt. Sometimes, at night, when he couldn't sleep, he'd picture the bunch of them, and he’d think quietly, to himself, now, isn’t that so sad?