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The Monza sun blazed over the circuit, glinting off the sleek McLaren cars as the Tifosi roared, their passion shaking the grandstands.
Lando Norris stood on the top step of the podium, his grin as wide as the Italian skyline. P1. His first win of the season, and at the Temple of Speed, no less. The champagne bottle in his hands felt like a victory lap in itself, cold and slick with condensation. He shook it hard, aiming the spray at the sea of orange-clad fans below, their cheers rattling his bones.
Oscar Piastri, on the P2 step, was less thrilled. His face was its usual mask of calm, but Lando could feel the Aussie’s side-eye slicing through him. Oscar had been this close to stealing the win, and Lando knew he was fuming beneath that cool exterior. Too bad, mate, Lando thought, popping the champagne with an extra flourish just to twist the knife.
“Oi, save some for the rest of us,” Oscar muttered, barely audible over the crowd’s roar. His voice had that dry bite, like he was already over Lando’s showboating.
“Plenty to go around, Piastri,” Lando fired back, winking as he aimed the bottle at Oscar’s pristine race suit. The spray hit its mark, soaking Oscar’s chest. The Aussie flinched, his jaw twitching, but he grabbed his own bottle and retaliated with a precise arc that nailed Lando square in the face.
Lando laughed, shaking his head like a soggy puppy, and took a step forward to escalate the chaos. Big mistake. His foot slipped on the champagne-slicked podium, and time slowed as he flailed, arms windmilling. The crowd gasped. Oscar, closest to him, instinctively reached out, but it was too late. Lando crashed into him, their bodies tangling in a mess of limbs.
And then—oh, God, no—their lips smashed together.
It wasn’t a kiss, not really. It was a clumsy, accidental collision, Lando’s momentum slamming his mouth against Oscar’s for a split second before they both recoiled like they’d been zapped. Lando stumbled back, wide-eyed, his face burning hotter than the Italian tarmac. Oscar’s expression was pure horror, his usually stoic eyes blown wide.
The crowd exploded, a mix of gasps, cheers, and laughter. Cameras flashed like a thunderstorm. Lando’s stomach dropped as he realized the giant screens around the circuit were replaying the moment in glorious slow motion. Their faces, mashed together, broadcast to 272,737 screaming fans and millions more watching at home.
“Mate, what the hell?” Oscar hissed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he could scrub away the last ten seconds.
“Not my fault!” Lando squeaked, voice cracking. “You were just… standing there!”
“You fell on me, you muppet!” Oscar’s voice was low, but the venom was clear. He glanced at the screens, then back at Lando, his ears turning pink. “This is your mess.”
Before Lando could retort, the third-place driver—Max Verstappen clearly living for the drama—sprayed them both with champagne, breaking the tension. Lando forced a laugh, playing it up for the cameras, but his gut churned. The internet was going to lose its mind.
---
Two hours later, in the McLaren hospitality suite, Lando and Oscar sat across from each other at a polished conference table, still in their damp race suits.
The air was thick with tension, the kind that made the room feel claustrophobic. Charlotte, the head of McLaren’s PR team, paced like a general plotting a war, her tablet gripped like a battle plan. The rest of the team hovered behind her, looking like they’d rather be dodging traffic on the A4.
“Alright, boys,” Charlotte said, her voice sharp enough to cut through the hum of the air conditioning. “We have a situation.”
“No kidding,” Lando muttered, slumping in his chair. He could still taste the champagne—and, mortifyingly, a hint of Oscar’s lip balm. Mint. Of course Mr. Perfect used mint.
Oscar, arms crossed, stared at the table like it held the key to escaping this nightmare. “Can we just pretend it didn’t happen?” he asked, his Australian drawl tight. “Issue a statement. Say it was an accident. Done.”
Charlotte stopped pacing and fixed him with a look. “Oh, Oscar, bless your heart. The internet doesn’t forget. #Landoscar is trending worldwide. There are GIFs. Memes. A TikTok with 4 million views already. And don’t get me started on the fanfiction.”
Lando choked on his water. “Fanfiction? Already?”
Charlotte ignored him, tapping her tablet. “The point is, we can’t ignore it. The narrative’s out of our control—unless we take it back.”
“Take it back how?” Oscar asked, suspicion dripping from every syllable.
Charlotte exchanged a glance with her deputy, who looked like he was praying for a sudden meteor strike. She took a deep breath. “We lean into it. You two are going to… date.”
Lando’s jaw hit the floor. Oscar’s chair scraped back an inch. They spoke at the same time.
“Date him?”
“You’re joking.”
“Not joking,” Charlotte said, her smile tight as a pit stop. “Fake dating. A PR relationship. You do some public appearances, post a few cute Instagram stories, hold hands at a sponsor event or two. We sell the podium kiss as a ‘spontaneous moment of passion’ instead of a clumsy disaster. The fans will love it, the media will eat it up, and McLaren looks like the progressive, lovable team with a fairy-tale romance.”
Lando laughed, a high, nervous sound. “You want me to pretend to be in love with him?” He jerked a thumb at Oscar, who looked like he’d just been asked to swallow a live eel. “We can barely stand each other!”
“Exactly,” Charlotte said, unfazed. “That’s why it’s perfect. You’re rivals. The tension’s already there. Fans are halfway to shipping you anyway. We just… nudge it along.”
Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is insane. I’m not doing it.”
“You will,” Charlotte said, her voice like steel. “Your contracts say you’ll cooperate with reasonable PR requests. This is reasonable. And necessary. Unless you want to be the punchline of every F1 podcast for the next decade.”
Lando groaned, sinking lower in his chair. “What’s in it for us?”
“Besides saving your reputations?” Claire raised an eyebrow. “Good press for McLaren means more sponsor money, which means better cars, which means more wins. You want to keep those podiums coming, don’t you?”
Oscar’s jaw worked, but he said nothing. Lando could practically hear the gears grinding in his head. Finally, Oscar leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Fine. But I’m not kissing him again.”
“God, no,” Lando blurted, then caught Oscar’s glare. “I mean, uh, yeah, no kissing. Strictly professional fake dating.”
Claire clapped her hands. “Excellent. We’ll draft a schedule. First up: a cozy dinner in Monaco tomorrow night. Photographers will be tipped off. You’ll smile, laugh, maybe share a dessert. Sell the romance.”
Lando groaned, sinking lower in his chair. “Okay, but a dinner in Monza tomorrow night? Isn’t that, like, way too fast?”
Charlotte fixed him with a deadpan stare. “Lando, you literally just kissed in front of the entire world.”
Lando’s face flushed crimson. “It wasn’t a kiss! It was a… a face collision!”
Oscar snorted, the sound almost a laugh. “Face collision. That’s what you’re going with?”
“Shut up,” Lando muttered, shooting him a glare. “You didn’t exactly dodge, mate.”
“You didn’t give me a chance!” Oscar’s voice rose, his calm facade cracking just a bit.
“Enough,” Charlotte snapped, though her lips twitched. “The dinner’s happening. That's final."
“But sharing a dessert?” Lando echoed, horrified. “What, like, feed each other tiramisu?”
Oscar’s mouth twitched again, almost a smirk. “You’d probably miss my mouth and get it in my hair.”
“Better than you eating like a bloody robot,” Lando shot back, a grin sneaking through despite himself.
Charlotte clapped her hands. “Excellent. We’ll draft a schedule. You’re a couple now. Act like it.”
As the PR team filed out, Lando and Oscar sat in silence, the weight of the absurdity pressing down like the Italian heat. Lando stole a glance at Oscar, who was staring at the ceiling like he was mentally drafting his resignation letter.
“This is your fault,” Oscar said finally, not looking at him.
“My fault?” Lando spluttered. “You’re the one who didn’t dodge!”
“You’re the one who fell like a drunk toddler!”
They glared at each other, but the corner of Oscar’s mouth twitched, and Lando felt an unwilling laugh bubble up. This was going to be a disaster. A messy, ridiculous, champagne-soaked disaster.
And yet, as they left the room, Lando couldn’t shake the tiny, traitorous thought that maybe—just maybe—it wouldn’t be all bad.
****
The Monza evening was warm, the kind of golden Italian dusk that made everything look like a postcard. Lando, however, felt like he was walking into a horror movie.
He adjusted the collar of his crisp white shirt, already regretting the outfit McLaren’s PR team had forced him into. “Look effortlessly charming,” Charlotte had said. As if Lando needed help with charm. He tugged at his sleeves, glancing at Oscar, who was striding beside him in a tailored navy blazer, looking annoyingly composed.
“You’re gonna scowl through this whole thing, aren’t you?” Lando asked, his voice half-teasing, half-dreading the answer. They were headed to a swanky restaurant just outside Monza’s old town, a place Charlotte had picked for its “romantic ambiance” and paparazzi-friendly outdoor seating.
Oscar didn’t break stride, his expression as flat as the track’s main straight. “I’m here, aren’t I? That’s enough.”
Lando snorted. “Mate, you look like you’re going to a funeral, not a date.”
“It’s not a date,” Oscar said, his Australian drawl sharp. “It’s a PR stunt. And I’m only doing it so Charlotte doesn’t have my head on a pike.”
Lando grinned, despite the knot in his stomach. “Yeah, well, try to smile at least. You’re supposed to be in love with me, remember?”
Oscar’s eyes flicked to him, one eyebrow twitching. “In love with you? I’d rather crash into the wall.”
“Harsh,” Lando said, clutching his chest dramatically. “You wound me, Piastri.”
They reached the restaurant, a cozy spot called La Terrazza with fairy lights strung across a vine-covered patio. The hostess, clearly in on the plan, led them to a candlelit table in full view of the street. Lando could already spot a couple of photographers lurking across the road, their lenses glinting like sniper scopes. Great. Just great.
As they sat, Lando leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “Okay, game plan. We laugh, we chat, we act like we don’t want to strangle each other. Easy.”
Oscar picked up the menu, scanning it like it was a race strategy. “You’re the one who’ll mess this up. You can’t shut up for five seconds.”
“Oi, I’m a professional,” Lando shot back, grabbing his own menu. “I can fake it better than you. You’ll probably just sit there like a cardboard cutout.”
Oscar’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Better than overacting like you’re in a rom-com.”
Before Lando could fire back, a waiter appeared, all smiles and Italian charm. “Buonasera, signori! Something to drink? Wine, perhaps, for the happy couple?”
Lando nearly choked. Oscar’s ears went pink again, but he recovered faster. “Just water,” he said, his tone clipped. “Still.”
“Same,” Lando added, flashing the waiter his best grin to cover the awkwardness. The waiter nodded and vanished, leaving them in a bubble of tense silence.
Lando fiddled with his napkin, trying to ignore the weight of the cameras outside. “So, uh, what do we even talk about? We’re supposed to look… couple-y.”
Oscar leaned back, crossing his arms. “Don’t ask me. This was your fault.”
Lando groaned, tossing his napkin at Oscar, who caught it without blinking. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you? It was an accident!”
“An accident that’s got us fake-dating in front of half of Italy,” Oscar muttered, tossing the napkin back. “You owe me big time.”
“Fine, I’ll buy you a pizza,” Lando said, smirking. “Oh, wait, we’re supposed to share one. Charlotte’s orders.”
Oscar’s face twisted in mock horror. “I’m not sharing food with you. You’d probably eat it all before I get a bite.”
Lando laughed, louder than he meant to, and for a second, it felt… normal. Like they were just two mates ribbing each other, not two rivals stuck in a PR nightmare. The moment was broken when the waiter returned with their waters and a basket of breadsticks. Lando grabbed one, pointing it at Oscar like a sword.
“Alright, serious question,” Lando said, chewing thoughtfully. “If we’re fake-dating, what’s our origin story? Like, how’d we go from hating each other to… this?”
Oscar raised an eyebrow, snapping a breadstick in half. “Hating’s a strong word. I don’t hate you. You’re just… annoying.”
“Wow, such romance,” Lando said, clutching his heart again. “Come on, give me something. What’s the fake love story?”
Oscar sighed, leaning forward like he was briefing a pit crew. “Fine. We say it started after a race. Maybe Silverstone. We had that big fight in the garage, remember? When you accused me of cutting you off in Turn 3?”
Lando grinned. “Yeah, you totally did.”
“I didn’t,” Oscar said, his voice flat but his eyes glinting with a hint of amusement. “Anyway, we say we talked it out afterward, cleared the air, and… I dunno, realized we had chemistry.”
Lando burst out laughing, drawing stares from nearby tables. “Chemistry? You? Mate, you’re about as romantic as a leaf.”
Oscar’s mouth quirked, a real smile threatening to break through. “Better than your pickup lines. What was that one you tried on that reporter last year? ‘Is your name Wi-Fi? Because I’m feeling a connection’?”
Lando’s jaw dropped. “You heard that?”
“Everyone heard that,” Oscar said, deadpan. “It was painful.”
Lando was still laughing when the waiter brought their food—pizza, naturally, because Charlotte had insisted on something “shareable.” The photographers outside were snapping away, and Lando could practically feel the headlines forming. He grabbed a slice, nudging the plate toward Oscar.
“Go on, love, take a bite,” he teased, winking for the cameras.
Oscar rolled his eyes but picked up a slice, muttering, “Call me ‘love’ again, and I’ll shove this in your face.”
“Promises, promises,” Lando said, grinning as he took a bite. The pizza was good—wood-fired, cheesy perfection—but the whole scene felt surreal. Here they were, eating pizza, pretending to be smitten while the world watched.
Lando caught Oscar’s eye mid-bite, and for a split second, they both froze, like they were seeing each other for the first time. Oscar’s gaze flicked away fast, but Lando’s heart did a weird little stutter.
The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of forced smiles and staged moments. Lando made a show of offering Oscar a bite of his pizza, which Oscar declined with a look that could curdle milk.
They managed to get through dessert—a tiramisu they did not share, despite Charlotte’s suggestion—without any major disasters. But as they left the restaurant, Lando’s arm brushing against Oscar’s by accident, he felt that same stupid heart stutter again.
Outside, the paparazzi swarmed, shouting questions. “Lando, Oscar, when did you get together?” “Was the podium kiss planned?” Lando plastered on his media smile, waving as he climbed into the waiting car. Oscar slid in beside him, his face back to its default stoic setting.
“Well,” Lando said as the car pulled away, “that wasn’t a complete trainwreck.”
Oscar snorted, staring out the window. “Speak for yourself. I’m never eating pizza again.”
Lando laughed, but his mind was stuck on that moment at the table, that fleeting look in Oscar’s eyes. It was nothing, he told himself. Just the stress of this ridiculous charade. But as the car wound through Monza’s streets, Lando couldn’t shake the feeling that this fake relationship was about to get a lot messier than either of them expected.
****
The next morning, Lando woke to the sound of his phone buzzing like an angry hornet. He groaned, rolling over in his hotel bed, the Monza sunrise creeping through the curtains.
His head was still foggy from the previous night’s dinner, the memory of Oscar’s half-smile and that weird heart-stutter moment lingering like a bad hangover. He grabbed his phone, squinting at the screen. Fifty-seven notifications. Great.
The first thing he saw was a text from Charlotte: 'Check the McLaren Instagram. And don’t freak out.'
Lando’s stomach dropped. He opened Instagram, and there it was: a carefully curated post from the official McLaren account. A photo of him and Oscar at La Terrazza, laughing over their pizza, the candlelight making them look… cozy. The caption read, “Celebrating a Monza double podium with some team spirit 🍕💕 #Landoscar #McLarenFamily.” The heart emoji felt like a personal attack.
The comments were a warzone. Fans were screaming in all caps—“LANDOSCAR IS REAL OMG”—while others debated if it was a PR stunt. Someone had already made a fan edit of the podium kiss set to a cheesy love song.
Lando’s face burned as he scrolled through memes, including one of him falling into Oscar with the caption “When your crush is too literal.” He tossed his phone onto the bed like it was radioactive.
A knock at the door jolted him upright. “Lando, you alive?” Oscar’s voice, muffled but unmistakably annoyed, came through.
Lando stumbled to the door, yanking it open. Oscar stood there in a plain black hoodie, his hair still messy from sleep, holding a coffee cup like it was his lifeline. “You seen the internet?” Oscar asked, pushing past him without waiting for an invite.
“Yeah,” Lando said, shutting the door. “We’re basically the internet’s favorite soap opera now.”
Oscar dropped onto the couch, sipping his coffee. “Charlotte’s lost her mind. That Instagram post? I look like I’m enjoying myself.”
Lando snorted, flopping onto the bed. “Mate, you looked like you were plotting my murder half the night. But yeah, the fans are eating it up. #Landoscar’s got, like, a million posts already.”
Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t say that hashtag like it’s a thing.”
“It’s a thing,” Lando said, grinning despite himself. “We’re a thing. A fake thing, but still.”
Oscar groaned, rubbing his temples. “This is worse than quali at Monaco. At least there I can crash and walk away.”
Lando laughed, then caught himself. Why was bantering with Oscar starting to feel… fun? He shook it off, grabbing his phone again. “Charlotte wants us to post something ourselves today. ‘Keep the momentum going,’ she said. Any ideas, lover boy?”
Oscar shot him a look that could’ve stopped a Ferrari at full speed. “Don’t call me that. And no, I’m not posting some sappy selfie with you.”
“Come on,” Lando teased, scooting closer on the bed. “We could do one of those couple-y things. Like, I dunno, you pretending to laugh at my jokes. Or us at the track, looking all smitten.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched, but he hid it behind his coffee cup. “Your jokes aren’t funny enough to fake-laugh at.”
“Rude,” Lando said, clutching his chest. “I’m hilarious. Ask anyone on the grid.”
“Anyone on the grid would say you’re a menace,” Oscar fired back, but there was a glint in his eyes, like he was enjoying this a little too much.
Lando’s phone buzzed again—another text from Charlotte: 'Team meeting at 10. Bring ideas for your next appearance. And behave.' He showed it to Oscar, who sighed like a man sentenced to the gallows.
---
The McLaren hospitality suite was buzzing when they arrived, the air thick with the smell of espresso and stress. Charlotte stood at the head of the table, her tablet glowing like a war map. The rest of the PR team looked frazzled, probably because #Landoscar was still trending and the media was churning out headlines like “F1’s Hottest New Romance?”
“Gentlemen,” Charlotte said, her voice cutting through the chatter. “The dinner was a success. The fans are obsessed, and our sponsors are thrilled. But we need to keep the story alive. Ideas?”
Lando raised a hand, half-joking. “Can we just retire to a remote island and never do this again?”
Charlotte’s deadpan stare was back. “Hilarious. Try again.”
Oscar leaned back, arms crossed. “What if we just… do our jobs? Race, podium, repeat. No need for this fake romance nonsense.”
Charlotte sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Oscar, the world saw you two kiss on live TV. If we back off now, it looks like you’re ashamed, which tanks McLaren’s image. We double down. Next up: a joint interview with Sky Sports. You’ll talk about your ‘relationship,’ how it’s brought you closer as teammates. Maybe throw in a cute anecdote.”
Lando’s jaw dropped. “An interview? I can barely keep a straight face around him as it is!”
“Then practice,” Charlotte said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re professionals. Act like it.”
Oscar muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “bloody nightmare.” Lando couldn’t help but snicker, earning a glare from his fake boyfriend.
“Fine,” Lando said, leaning forward. “But if we’re doing this, we need a better story than ‘we talked it out after Silverstone.’ No one’s buying that.”
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “What do you suggest?”
Lando glanced at Oscar, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “How about… it was the team bonding karting day last season. Oscar beat me by, like, a tenth, and I was so impressed I just had to ask him out.”
Oscar choked on his coffee. “You’re delusional. I beat you by three seconds.”
“Details,” Lando said, waving a hand. “Point is, it’s cute. Fans’ll eat it up.”
Charlotte nodded, jotting it down. “Not bad. Oscar, anything to add?”
Oscar’s jaw tightened, but he shrugged. “Whatever. Just don’t make me say anything too sappy.”
“Deal,” Charlotte said, a rare smile flickering. “Now, go post something on your personal accounts. Keep it light, flirty, but subtle. And for God’s sake, coordinate so it doesn’t look like you’re fighting.”
---
Back in Lando’s hotel room, they sat on the floor, scrolling through their phones, trying to craft the perfect “couple” post. Lando held up a selfie from the dinner, one where Oscar was mid-eye-roll but still looked unfairly good. “This one’s gold. Caption: ‘When your date’s annoyed but still cute 😘.’”
Oscar grabbed the phone, deleting the caption. “Absolutely not. You’re not emoji-kissing me in public.”
“Fine, Mr. Boring,” Lando said, typing a new one. “How about: ‘Pizza nights with this guy 🍕 #MonzaMemories’?”
Oscar read it, then nodded grudgingly. “Better. But I’m posting a track photo. Something about teamwork. None of this pizza nonsense.”
Lando grinned, hitting post. “You’re no fun, Piastri.”
Oscar’s phone pinged as his own post went live—a shot of them in the McLaren garage, Lando laughing while Oscar looked focused. Caption: “Learning to keep up with this one. #TeamMcLaren.” Lando read it and felt that stupid heart stutter again. Oscar’s post was… nice. Too nice.
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their fake relationship settling in. The internet was already flooding their posts with heart-eyes emojis and “I KNEW IT” comments. Lando stole a glance at Oscar, who was staring at his phone, his expression unreadable.
“This is gonna get worse before it gets better, isn’t it?” Lando said, half-joking.
Oscar looked up, his eyes meeting Lando’s for a beat too long. “Probably. But if I’m stuck in this mess, at least it’s with someone who’s not boring.”
Lando blinked, caught off guard. Was that a compliment? Before he could respond, Oscar stood, grabbing his coffee. “See you at the track,” he said, and he was gone, leaving Lando with a racing pulse and a million unanswered questions.
****
The drivers’ briefing room in Zandvoort was a pressure cooker of egos, and today it felt like a circus. Lando slouched in his chair, trying to look casual while his stomach churned. Oscar sat two seats away, his usual stoic mask firmly in place, but Lando could tell he was on edge too.
The #Landoscar frenzy had only grown since Monza, fueled by their Instagram posts and the looming Sky Sports interview. Every driver in the room knew about the “podium kiss,” and the air crackled with the promise of chaos.
Charlotte had briefed them that morning: keep up the act, play nice, and don’t let the other drivers bait them. Easier said than done. Lando could already feel the smirks aimed their way as they filed in.
Max, fresh off his P3 champagne spray in Monza, was grinning like a shark. George, sitting across the room, had that posh, knowing look that made Lando want to flick something at him. Even Charles was whispering to Carlos, Lando’s best mate, who was shooting him a weirdly intense stare.
The FIA official droned on about track limits, but no one was listening. Max leaned forward, catching Lando’s eye. “So, Norris,” he said, loud enough for the whole room to hear, “you and Piastri planning another podium smooch this weekend?”
The room erupted in snickers. Lando’s face went scarlet, and he forced a laugh, trying to play it cool. “Only if you join us, Max. Three-way kiss, yeah?”
That got a bigger laugh, but Max wasn’t done. “Nah, mate, I’ll leave the romance to you two. Gotta say, though, you’re selling it well. That pizza date looked proper cozy.”
Oscar’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t take the bait, staring at the FIA official like he was the most fascinating man alive. Lando, however, couldn’t resist. “Jealous, Verstappen? Don’t worry, we’ll save you a slice next time.”
George chimed in, his voice dripping with mock sincerity. “It’s just so heartwarming, you know? Rivals turned lovers. It’s like a Disney movie.”
“More like a reality show,” Daniel cut in, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m waiting for the episode where you fight over who gets to be the little spoon.”
The room howled. Lando sank lower in his chair, wishing he could teleport to the other side of the planet. Oscar finally spoke, his voice dry as desert sand. “You lot need better hobbies.”
“Oh, come on, Oscar,” Charles said, leaning back with a grin. “You can’t just kiss a guy on live TV and expect us not to have fun with it.”
“Wasn’t a kiss,” Oscar muttered, his ears turning pink. “He fell.”
“Sure, mate,” Max said, winking. “Fell right into your lips. Classic move.”
Lando caught Carlos’s eye across the room. Unlike the others, Carlos wasn’t laughing. His brow was furrowed, his arms crossed, like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Lando knew that look—Carlos could read him like a book, and right now, he wasn’t buying the #Landoscar fairy tale. Lando’s stomach twisted. He’d have to deal with that later.
The briefing dragged on, but the teasing didn’t stop. Every time the official paused, someone lobbed another jab. “You two holding hands in the paddock yet?” from Alex. “Got a couples’ discount on race gear?” from Sergio. By the time they were dismissed, Lando felt like he’d run a marathon. Oscar bolted for the door, but Lando wasn’t fast enough to escape Carlos, who grabbed his arm as they left the room.
“Mate, we need to talk,” Carlos said, his Spanish accent thick with suspicion. He pulled Lando into a quiet corner of the paddock, away from the cameras and nosy mechanics.
Lando sighed, running a hand through his curls. “What’s up, Carlos? You look like you’re about to interrogate me.”
Carlos crossed his arms, his dark eyes narrowing. “I know you, Lando. You’ve been bitching about Oscar since he joined McLaren. You said he’s too serious, too robotic, too—how did you put it?—‘like a spreadsheet with legs.’ And now you’re what, in love? After one podium crash? Come on, man.”
Lando’s heart sank. Of course Carlos would see through it. They’d been mates since Lando’s rookie days, back when Carlos was the one showing him the ropes at McLaren. He knew Lando’s tells—his nervous laugh, the way he fidgeted when he was hiding something. Lando glanced around, making sure no one was close enough to hear, then leaned in.
“Alright, fine,” he whispered. “It’s fake. The whole thing. The kiss was an accident, and Charlotte’s got us pretending to date to spin it for PR. Happy now?”
Carlos’s jaw dropped, then he let out a low whistle. “Fake dating? Madre de Dios, that’s insane. You’re actually going along with this?”
“Not like we had a choice,” Lando said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Charlotte’s got us by the contracts. It’s all staged—dinners, Instagram posts, the works. We’re supposed to do a bloody Sky Sports interview next.”
Carlos shook his head, a grin creeping onto his face. “You and Piastri, pretending to be in love? This I gotta see. You can barely stand him.”
“Yeah, well, he’s not that bad,” Lando said, then caught himself. Why was he defending Oscar? Carlos’s grin widened, like he’d just spotted a chink in Lando’s armor.
“Not that bad, huh?” Carlos teased, nudging him. “Careful, mate. Sounds like you’re catching feelings for your fake boyfriend.”
Lando scoffed, his face heating up. “Shut up, Sainz. It’s just… easier than I thought. He’s got a sense of humor, when he’s not being a robot.”
Carlos raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Right. Just don’t fall for real, yeah? I’m not ready to lose my best mate to a McLaren love story.”
“Never gonna happen,” Lando said, but his voice lacked conviction. He pushed off the wall, desperate to change the subject. “Come on, let’s grab a coffee before quali. You’re buying.”
As they headed to the hospitality area, Lando’s mind was racing. Carlos’s suspicion had been a wake-up call. If his best mate could see through the act, how long until the fans or the media did? And why did his chest feel tight at the thought of Oscar not being that bad? It was just the stress, he told himself. Just the pressure of this stupid charade.
---
Later that evening, Lando and Oscar were summoned to a McLaren meeting room for a prep session for the Sky Sports interview. Charlotte was there, her tablet glowing with notes, and a nervous-looking PR assistant named Tom, who was holding a stack of index cards with “approved talking points.”
“Alright,” Charlotte said, her voice all business. “The interview’s tomorrow, live from the paddock. You’ll be asked about your relationship, your teamwork, and how it’s affected your racing. Stick to the script: you’re smitten, you’re professional, and you’re stronger as a team because of it.”
Lando groaned, slumping in his chair. “Can’t we just say we’re mates now? Why’s it gotta be all lovey-dovey?”
“Because ‘mates’ doesn’t sell,” Charlotte said, her deadpan stare back in full force. “The fans want romance. Give them romance.”
Oscar, sitting across from Lando, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. “What’s the script, then? I’m not saying anything embarrassing.”
Tom handed them each a set of index cards. Lando flipped through his, snorting at lines like “Oscar’s smile lights up my day” and “We balance each other on and off the track.” He held one up, waving it at Oscar. “Mate, you’ve got to say I’m your ‘rock.’ You gonna manage that without gagging?”
Oscar scanned his own cards, his face blank. “I’d rather crash into the barriers than say half this stuff.”
Charlotte sighed. “You’ll say it, and you’ll sell it. Practice tonight. I want you word-perfect by tomorrow.”
As they left the meeting, Lando caught Oscar’s arm, pulling him aside. “Hey, we gotta make this believable, yeah? Maybe we… I dunno, rehearse a bit? Like, get the cringe out of our systems?”
Oscar raised an eyebrow, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Rehearse? What, like role-playing our fake love story?”
Lando grinned, despite the butterflies in his stomach. “Yeah, exactly. Come on, Piastri, tell me how my eyes sparkle like the Zandvoort dunes.”
Oscar snorted, but he didn’t pull away. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, but his voice was softer than usual, and for a moment, they stood there, closer than they needed to be, the air between them charged with something Lando couldn’t name.
****
The night was chilly, the sea breeze sneaking through the cracks of Lando’s hotel room window. The clock on the nightstand glowed 11:47 p.m., and Lando was sprawled on his bed, one leg dangling off the edge, flipping through Charlotte’s index cards like they were a deck of cards in a losing poker game.
Oscar sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the couch, his own set of cards scattered around him like debris from a crash. The Sky Sports interview loomed in less than twelve hours, and neither of them was anywhere near ready to sell this fake romance to the world.
“Alright, hit me with it,” Lando said, tossing a card onto the bed. “What’s the sappiest thing you’re supposed to say about me?”
Oscar picked up a card, his face scrunching like he’d just tasted sour milk. “Your passion for racing inspires me every day,” he read, his voice flatter than the Dutch landscape. He dropped the card, shaking his head. “I can’t say that with a straight face.”
Lando laughed, propping himself up on his elbows. “Come on, mate, you’ve gotta sell it. Picture me as, like, your racing hero. Channel some of that Piastri focus.”
Oscar snorted, grabbing another card. “You’re about as heroic as a wet sock. Here’s yours: ‘Oscar’s calm under pressure keeps me grounded.’ Good luck with that one.”
Lando clutched his chest, feigning a heart attack. “Grounded? Me? I’m a bloody whirlwind, and you love it.” He winked, but the joke felt a bit too close to the truth, and his grin faltered. Oscar’s eyes flicked to him, catching the slip, but he didn’t comment.
They’d been at this for an hour, running through Charlotte’s script in Lando’s room after dinner, trying to make the lines sound less like a bad rom-com and more like something believable. But every time Lando tried to say something like “Oscar’s my rock,” he’d crack up, and every time Oscar attempted “Lando lights up my day,” he’d grimace like he was swallowing glass. It was a disaster, but the kind that was starting to feel… fun.
“Okay, new plan,” Lando said, sitting up and tossing the cards aside. “Forget the script. Let’s just practice, like, actually talking. Like we’re on the couch with Sky Sports, and they ask us how we got together. Go.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the couch. “You first. You’re the one who’s good at talking nonsense.”
“Rude,” Lando said, but he grinned, scooting to the edge of the bed to face Oscar. “Alright, picture it. Ted Kravitz is all, ‘Lando, tell us about your special someone.’ And I’m like…” He cleared his throat, putting on his best media voice. “Well, Ted, it all started when I saw Oscar’s lap times in practice. I mean, those sectors? Pure poetry. Had to ask him out after that.”
Oscar’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Poetry? My lap times? That’s the best you’ve got?”
“Hey, it’s romantic,” Lando protested, laughing. “Your turn, robot boy. Wow me.”
Oscar sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “Fine. Uh… Ted, it was the team karting day last season. Lando was so annoying, bragging about his win, but when he smiled…” He paused, his voice softening just a fraction. “I don’t know. Something clicked.”
Lando blinked, caught off guard. Oscar’s tone was different—less sarcastic, more… real. For a second, the room felt smaller, the air heavier. “Mate,” Lando said, forcing a chuckle to break the tension, “that was almost convincing. You been practicing in front of the mirror?”
Oscar rolled his eyes, but his cheeks were faintly pink. “Shut up. Your turn.”
They went back and forth, tossing out increasingly ridiculous stories—Lando claiming they bonded over a shared love of gelato, Oscar countering that Lando’s terrible taste in music was “weirdly endearing.” The laughter came easier, the banter flowing like it did in the garage when no one was watching. But as the clock ticked past midnight, the energy shifted. The jokes slowed, and the silences stretched longer, filled with something neither of them wanted to name.
Lando leaned back on his hands, staring at the ceiling. “Okay, real talk,” he said, his voice quieter. “If we’re gonna pull this off tomorrow, we need, like… one true thing to say. Something that doesn’t sound like Charlotte wrote it.”
Oscar looked at him, his usual guarded expression softening just a bit. “One true thing?” He hesitated, then set his coffee cup down, like he was bracing himself. “Alright. I… I admire how confident you are. On the track, in the media, everywhere. You just… own it. I’ve never been good at that.”
Lando’s breath caught. He’d expected a jab, maybe a backhanded compliment at best. Not this. Oscar’s eyes were steady, no hint of his usual sarcasm, and Lando felt that stupid heart stutter again. “You serious?” he asked, his voice softer than he meant it to be.
Oscar shrugged, looking away. “Yeah. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
Lando swallowed, his throat tight. He should’ve let it go, kept it light, but something pushed him to speak. “Okay, my turn. I… kinda get intimidated by you sometimes. You’re so bloody calm, like nothing rattles you. I’m over here freaking out half the time, and you’re just… solid. It’s annoying, but it’s also… impressive.”
Oscar’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. For a moment, they just stared at each other, the weight of their words hanging in the air. Lando’s pulse raced, and he wondered if Oscar could hear it. This wasn’t part of the script. This was real, raw, and way too close to something Lando wasn’t ready to unpack.
Then Oscar coughed, breaking the spell. “Well, that’s… uh, not what I expected,” he said, his voice a little rough. “You’re intimidated by me? You, Mr. Media Darling?”
Lando forced a grin, desperate to claw back to familiar ground. “Yeah, well, don’t let it go to your head, robot. You’re still a pain in my arse.”
Oscar smirked, the tension easing. “And you’re still a walking disaster. Guess we’re stuck with each other.”
They laughed, the sound a little too loud, like they were both trying to drown out the moment they’d just shared. Lando grabbed a pillow and tossed it at Oscar, who caught it and threw it back, harder. “Oi, watch it,” Lando said, dodging. “You’re supposed to be in love with me, not starting a pillow fight.”
“Keep dreaming,” Oscar shot back, but his smile lingered, softer than usual.
They settled back into practicing, running through the interview questions again, but the air felt different now—charged, like the moment before a race start. As Oscar gathered his cards to leave, Lando caught his wrist, just for a second. “We’re gonna nail this tomorrow, yeah?” he said, his voice quieter than he meant.
Oscar looked at him, his expression unreadable. “Yeah,” he said finally. “We’ll be fine.” He pulled away, heading for the door, but he paused, glancing back. “Get some sleep, disaster. You’ll need it.”
Lando laughed, but as the door clicked shut, he flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. His heart was still racing, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d just crossed a line—one they could laugh off with banter, but one that wasn’t going away.
****
The Zandvoort paddock was a hive of activity, the weekend in full swing with fans chanting and cameras everywhere. Lando stood under the bright lights of the Sky Sports set, his McLaren cap pulled low to hide the nervous sweat beading on his forehead.
Oscar stood beside him, his face a mask of calm, but Lando could see the telltale twitch in his jaw. The Sky Sports interview was live, broadcast to millions, and they had one job: sell the #Landoscar romance without looking like complete idiots. Lando wasn’t optimistic.
The interviewer, Natalie Pinkham, flashed a megawatt smile, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Lando, Oscar, what a treat to have McLaren’s golden couple here! The fans are buzzing after that Monza podium moment. Tell us, how’s the romance going?”
Lando plastered on his media grin, leaning into the mic like he was born for this. “Oh, Natalie, it’s been a wild ride,” he said, throwing an arm around Oscar’s shoulders with a theatrical flourish. “This guy’s got my heart racing faster than a quali lap.”
The crowd behind the set erupted in cheers, waving #Landoscar signs. Oscar stiffened under Lando’s arm, his smile so forced it looked like it hurt. “Yeah,” he said, his Australian drawl drier than the Zandvoort dunes. “He’s… something, alright.”
Natalie laughed, sensing blood in the water. “Oscar, you’re the quiet one, but that podium kiss wasn’t quiet! How did you two go from rivals to, well, this?”
Lando jumped in before Oscar could open his mouth. “It’s like I told him last night, Natalie,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “We were up late, you know, just chatting, and I realized Oscar’s not just a great driver—he’s got this… vibe. Like, he’s all calm and cool, and it’s kinda hot.”
The crowd roared, and Natalie’s eyebrows shot up. Oscar’s head whipped toward Lando, his eyes wide with a mix of panic and betrayal. Lando’s stomach dropped. Oh, crap. He’d just mentioned their late-night talk—on live TV. The one where Oscar said he admired Lando’s confidence, and Lando admitted he was intimidated by Oscar’s calm. That was supposed to stay private.
Natalie pounced. “Late-night chats, Lando? Sounds intimate! Care to spill any details?”
Lando laughed, a high-pitched, nervous sound, his brain scrambling for damage control. “Oh, you know, just… team stuff. Strategy. Pizza. The usual.” He nudged Oscar, praying he’d back him up.
Oscar, to his credit, didn’t miss a beat, though his voice was tight.
“Yeah, Lando talks a lot. I just nod and try to keep up.” The crowd laughed, but Oscar’s smile was too genuine for a split second, his eyes softening as they met Lando’s. It was fleeting, but the cameras caught it, and the fans went wild, screaming like they’d just seen a proposal.
Natalie grinned, clearly loving the chaos. “Oscar, you’re blushing! Come on, give us something. What’s the sweetest thing Lando’s done for you?”
Oscar froze, his media training clearly failing him. He glanced at Lando, who was still recovering from his own slip-up, and then—miraculously—his lips twitched into a small, real smile. “He, uh… he made sure I had coffee this morning. Black, no sugar. Got it right for once.”
Lando blinked, caught off guard. That wasn’t in the script. It was true, though—Lando had grabbed Oscar a coffee from the hospitality suite, mostly to annoy him with a “see, I’m boyfriend material” quip. But Oscar mentioning it, and with that soft look? It hit Lando like a front-wing failure at 200 kph.
The crowd awwed, and Natalie clapped her hands. “That’s adorable! Lando, you’re a keeper. Any sweet gestures you want to share about Oscar?”
Lando’s mind blanked, his usual charm short-circuiting. He looked at Oscar, who was watching him with an unreadable expression, and the words tumbled out. “He’s just… solid, you know? Like, when I’m freaking out, he’s there, all calm and collected. Makes me feel like I can handle anything.” He stopped, realizing he’d gone off-script again, his voice too earnest. The crowd went quiet for a beat, then erupted again, chanting their names.
Natalie’s eyes sparkled. “Wow, you two are giving us all the feels! One last question: any plans for a romantic getaway after the season?”
Oscar jumped in this time, his voice steady but his ears pink. “Uh, we’re focused on racing right now. Maybe a coffee run if we’re lucky.”
Lando laughed, the tension easing. “Yeah, I’ll take him to the best Starbucks in Monaco. Real romantic.”
The interview wrapped with more cheers, and as they stepped off the set, Lando felt like he’d just survived a high-speed crash. The fans were still screaming, and Twitter was already exploding—he could see #Landoscar trending higher than ever on the screens around the paddock. Charlotte was going to have a field day.
As they walked back to the McLaren garage, Oscar grabbed Lando’s arm, pulling him behind a stack of tires. “What the hell was that?” he hissed, his calm facade cracking. “You mentioned last night and called my vibe hot?”
Lando winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know, I know, it just slipped out! You didn’t help, going all soft about the coffee thing. What was that?”
Oscar’s face flushed. “I panicked, alright? She put me on the spot, and it was the first thing I thought of."
Lando snorted, but his heart was still racing. “Yeah, well, now the internet thinks we’re planning our wedding. Good job, mate.” Oscar groaned, leaning against the tires. “This is a nightmare. I can’t believe I have to keep pretending to be in love with you.”
Lando grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “Come on, I’m not that bad. You said it yourself—my confidence is admirable.” Oscar shot him a look, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”
“Not a chance,” Lando said, winking. But as they headed back to the garage, the playful banter couldn’t drown out the thoughts swirling in his head. That interview had felt too real—his words, Oscar’s smile, the way their eyes kept finding each other.
He’d meant what he said about Oscar being solid, and Oscar’s coffee comment had hit him harder than it should’ve. Were they still just pretending?
Oscar glanced at him as they walked, his expression unreadable again. “We need to be more careful,” he said quietly. “This is getting… messy.”
Lando nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah. Messy.” But as they stepped into the garage, the roar of the crowd still echoing in his ears, he couldn’t shake the feeling that “messy” was starting to feel a lot like something else entirely.
****
The circuit roared with life, the Dutch Grand Prix in full swing under a gray, windswept sky. The crowd’s energy was electric, orange flags waving like a sea of fire, but Lando’s focus was razor-sharp as he strapped into his McLaren.
Qualifying had been tight—Lando in P2, Oscar in P3—and the race promised a brutal fight. Their fake romance was the talk of the paddock after the Sky Sports interview disaster, but on the track, none of that mattered. It was just them, the asphalt, and a rivalry that burned hotter than ever.
Lando glanced at Oscar’s car in the garage, where the Aussie was adjusting his gloves with that infuriating calm. The memory of their late-night talk and the interview slip-ups lingered like a ghost, but Lando shoved it down. Today, he wasn’t Oscar’s fake boyfriend. He was his rival, and he was going to prove it.
The race started with a chaotic sprint into Turn 1. Lando held his line, fending off Max’s Red Bull, but Oscar was right on his tail, his McLaren a relentless shadow. By lap 10, they were nose-to-tail, trading tenths through the banked corners. Lando’s radio crackled with his engineer’s voice: “Oscar’s close, keep it clean.” Clean? Lando scoffed. Oscar wasn’t playing dirty, but he was ruthless, diving for every gap like he had a point to prove.
On lap 27, Oscar made his move. He slipped inside at Tarzan, the first corner, forcing Lando to brake late to defend. Their tires brushed, a heart-stopping moment that sent Lando’s pulse into overdrive. “Tell him to back off!” Lando snapped into the radio, but his engineer only replied, “Focus, Lando. You’ve got this.”
They battled lap after lap, the crowd roaring as McLaren’s two drivers put on a show. Oscar took the lead on lap 42 after a daring overtake in the final sector, but Lando clawed it back three laps later with a bold move through the chicane. It was fierce, almost feral, their rivalry stripped bare on the track.
Lando’s heart pounded, not just from the race but from the thrill of going wheel-to-wheel with Oscar. It felt personal, like every overtake was a challenge to their shaky truce off the track.
By the final lap, they were still locked in a duel for P2, Max having secured P1. Lando held the inside line into Turn 10, but Oscar’s late braking forced them side-by-side, their cars inches apart.
The crowd was on its feet as they crossed the line, Lando edging out Oscar by a tenth for second place. The McLaren garage erupted, but Lando’s adrenaline was still spiking, his hands shaking as he climbed out of the car.
In the cooldown room, the tension was thicker than the Dutch fog. Lando yanked off his helmet, his curls plastered with sweat, and glared at Oscar, who was calmly sipping water, his face unreadable. The room was small, the air heavy with the hum of a TV replaying their battle. Max, lounging in a chair, grinned like he was watching a soap opera.
“That was aggressive, mate,” Lando said, his voice sharp as he tossed his gloves onto the table. “You nearly took me out at Tarzan.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow, setting his water down. “You’re one to talk. You pushed me wide in Turn 7. What was that, a love tap?”
Lando snorted, stepping closer, his hands on his hips. “Love tap? You were driving like you wanted to end me, not date me.”
Oscar stood, matching Lando’s height, his calm cracking just enough to show a spark of fire. “Maybe if you didn’t block every corner, I wouldn’t have to. You’re not the only one fighting for a podium.”
They were nose-to-nose now, the argument heating up, their voices rising over the TV’s commentary. Max leaned forward, clearly loving the drama, but Lando barely noticed.
All he could see was Oscar’s flushed face, his brown eyes blazing with something that wasn’t just anger. It was the same intensity they’d had during their late-night talk, and it made Lando’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t want to think about.
“You think you’re so perfect, don’t you?” Lando snapped, jabbing a finger at Oscar. “Mr. Cool and Collected, always in control. Well, newsflash, you don’t always get to win.”
Oscar’s jaw clenched, but before he could fire back, the door swung open, and a McLaren mechanic poked his head in. “Uh, guys? Cameras are live. Maybe… chill?”
Lando froze, realizing the cooldown room’s feed was broadcasting to the world. The giant screens outside were showing their argument, zoomed in on their heated glares and close proximity. To the fans, it didn’t look like a fight—it looked like passion, like two lovers caught in a fiery moment.
Oscar stepped back, his ears pink, and muttered, “Great. Just great.”
Max cackled, clapping his hands. “You two are giving the fans a show, huh? Save the kissing for the podium this time.”
Lando shot him a glare but felt his face burn. The mechanic ushered them out to the podium ceremony, where the crowd’s cheers hit like a tidal wave. As they stood on their steps—Lando on P2, Oscar on P3—the fans’ signs and screams made it clear: their “fight” had only fueled the #LandoScar mania. Lando sprayed champagne, avoiding Oscar’s eyes, but he could feel the Aussie’s presence like a magnet.
Back in the McLaren hospitality suite, Charlotte was waiting, her tablet glowing with Twitter screenshots. “You two,” she said, her voice a mix of exasperation and triumph, “just turned a cooldown room spat into the most romantic moment of the season. The fans are calling it ‘passionate tension.’ Good work, even if it was an accident.”
Lando groaned, slumping into a chair. “It wasn’t romantic! We were arguing!”
Oscar crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “Yeah, because someone can’t handle losing a corner.”
“Losing?” Lando spluttered, spinning to face him. “I beat you, mate!”
“Barely,” Oscar shot back, but there was a glint in his eyes, like he was enjoying this a little too much.
Charlotte clapped her hands, cutting them off. “Enough. The media’s eating this up, and we’re leaning into it.”
As she stormed out, Lando and Oscar exchanged a look—half-glare, half-something else. The race had brought their rivalry roaring back, but that moment in the cooldown room, the way they’d been so close, so raw, lingered like tire smoke. Lando’s heart was still racing, and not just from the race.
He wanted to brush it off as anger, as competition, but the way Oscar was looking at him now—guarded, but with a flicker of something softer—made it impossible to ignore.
“Truce for next time?” Lando said, trying to sound casual, but his voice came out too quiet.
Oscar hesitated, then nodded. “Truce. But don’t expect me to let you win next time.”
Lando grinned, despite himself. “Wouldn’t dream of it, robot.” But as they left the suite, the cheers of the fans echoing outside, Lando couldn’t shake the feeling that their “truce” was about to get a lot more complicated.
****
The McLaren team dinner was supposed to be a celebration of their double podium, but Lando felt like he was walking into an ambush. The private room at a seaside restaurant near Zandvoort buzzed with chatter, the clink of glasses, and the smell of fresh food. Fairy lights twinkled overhead, giving the place a cozy vibe that clashed with Lando’s nerves.
He and Oscar were seated side-by-side at the head of the long table, a deliberate move by Charlotte to sell their romance to the team and a few key sponsors. Lando adjusted his McLaren polo, wishing he could bolt.
Oscar, next to him, looked annoyingly unruffled, sipping water and scanning the menu like they weren’t the center of attention. “You’re fidgeting,” he muttered, not looking up. “Chill.”
“Easy for you to say, robot,” Lando hissed back, keeping his voice low. “You don’t have to deal with everyone staring at us like we’re about to snog.”
Oscar’s lips twitched, but he didn’t reply, which only made Lando more antsy. The cooldown room argument had already set the internet ablaze, with fans calling their spat “passionate foreplay.” Now, they had to play happy couple in front of the team, and Lando wasn’t sure he could pull it off without losing his mind.
Zak stood, raising a glass. “To our boys, Lando and Oscar, for a stellar double podium!” The team cheered, but Zak’s grin turned mischievous. “And to the #Landoscar love story keeping us in the headlines. Gotta say, you two are making my job easy.”
Laughter rippled through the room, and Lando forced a grin, nudging Oscar’s shoulder. “Hear that, babe? We’re the team’s secret weapon.”
Oscar’s ear went pink, but he played along, his voice dry. “Yeah, Lando’s a real romantic. Just don’t ask him to share his dessert.”
The table roared, and Lando laughed, but his stomach flipped. The “babe” had slipped out too easily, and Oscar’s quick comeback felt… flirty. Before he could dwell on it, one of the mechanics, Dave, leaned forward, grinning. “So, lads, we’ve got a bet going in the garage. How long’s this romance lasting? I’m giving it till Singapore.”
“Singapore?” another mechanic, Sarah, scoffed. “I say Abu Dhabi. They’re too stubborn to quit early.”
Lando’s jaw dropped. “You’re betting on us?” He glanced at Oscar, who looked like he was mentally calculating how to escape through the nearest window.
Zak chuckled, swirling his wine. “Oh, it’s a full-on pool. I’ve got $50 on you two making it to next season. That cooldown room fight? Pure chemistry.”
The team erupted in cheers and teasing, sponsors nodding like they were in on the joke. Lando’s face burned, but his competitive streak kicked in. He wasn’t about to let a bunch of mechanics think he couldn’t handle a fake relationship. He grabbed Oscar’s hand under the table, squeezing it dramatically. “Well, Dave, you’re gonna lose that bet. We’re in it for the long haul, right, Osc?”
Oscar’s hand tensed in his, but he didn’t pull away, his voice deadpan. “Sure, Lando. Forever and always.” The sarcasm was thick, but the team ate it up, whooping as Lando held up their joined hands like a trophy.
The dinner rolled on, with more teasing and toasts. Lando leaned into the act, draping an arm around Oscar’s chair and tossing out cheesy lines like, “Can’t resist his Aussie charm.” Oscar countered with dry quips, like, “He’s only charming when he’s not stealing my fries.” It was all for show, but when Lando reached for his drink and accidentally grabbed Oscar’s glass, taking a sip before realizing, the table went quiet for a beat.
“Whoa, sharing drinks already?” Sarah teased, winking. “That’s next-level couple stuff.”
Lando choked, setting the glass down as his face went scarlet. Oscar, to his horror, laughed—a real, low chuckle that made Lando’s heart do that stupid stutter thing again. “Mate, you’re gonna owe me a new drink,” Oscar said, his eyes glinting with something that wasn’t just annoyance.
The team’s laughter felt like a spotlight, and Lando couldn’t shake the heat creeping up his neck. Oscar’s laugh, that rare, unguarded sound, was doing things to him he didn’t want to unpack. He played it off, grabbing a new glass and sliding it to Oscar with a mock bow. “Anything for my favorite teammate.”
As the night wound down, the team started to disperse, but Charlotte insisted Lando and Oscar help tidy up to “keep up appearances.” They ended up alone in the private room, stacking their plates and gathering glasses in awkward silence. The fairy lights cast soft shadows, and the distant crash of waves outside made the moment feel too intimate.
Lando broke the quiet, his voice softer than usual. “So, uh… that betting pool. Kinda wild, right? They really think we’re gonna keep this up till Abu Dhabi.”
Oscar paused, a stack of plates in his hands, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. They’re idiots.” But then he looked at Lando, his voice dropping. “You’re leaning into this pretty hard, though. That hand-holding bit? Bold move.”
Lando shrugged, trying to play it cool, but his heart was racing. “Gotta win the bet, right? Can’t let Dave think we’re folding early.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “You’re not half-bad at this fake boyfriend thing, you know. That laugh earlier… almost fooled me.”
Oscar’s eyes flicked to him, something vulnerable flashing in them. “You’re not the worst either,” he said, almost too soft to hear. “I mean… you’re chaos, but it’s… not awful. Sometimes.”
Lando’s breath caught. That was the closest Oscar had come to admitting anything real, and it hit harder than the cooldown room argument. He stepped closer, the plates forgotten. “Not awful? High praise, Piastri. Careful, I might think you actually like me.”
Oscar’s lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile. “Don’t push it, Norris.” But he didn’t move away, and for a moment, they stood there, the air between them heavy with unspoken things.
Before Lando could say anything else, the door swung open, and Zak burst in, clapping his hands. “Oi, lovebirds, you done cleaning or what? We’ve got a Q&A to prep for Spain!”
Lando jumped back, nearly dropping a glass, his face flaming. Oscar turned away, busying himself with the plates, but his ears were pink. Zak grinned, oblivious to the tension. “You two are killing it. Keep that chemistry going, yeah?”
As Zak left, Lando and Oscar exchanged a glance, the moment shattered. “We’re so screwed,” Lando muttered, trying to laugh it off.
Oscar snorted, but his voice was tight. “Yeah. Let’s just… get through the Q&A.” He grabbed the last of the plates and headed out, leaving Lando alone with his racing pulse and a nagging feeling that “winning” this bet was about to cost him more than he expected.
****
The Spanish Grand Prix was a furnace, the sun baking the circuit and turning the paddock into a sweaty frenzy of fans and media.
Lando and Oscar stood side-by-side on a makeshift stage in the McLaren fan zone, the hype at fever pitch after their Zandvoort dinner and cooldown room “passion.” The fan Q&A, Charlotte’s latest PR stunt to capitalize on their double podium, was meant to be a controlled charm offensive.
Lando, in his bright orange McLaren cap, flashed a grin that hid his nerves. Oscar, arms crossed, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, his dry expression a stark contrast to the screaming fans waving glittery signs.
The moderator, a chirpy McLaren staffer named Elena, held a mic and beamed at the crowd. “Welcome to our special Q&A with McLaren’s favorite duo, Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri! Let’s get those questions rolling!”
The first fan, a teenage girl with a homemade #Landoscar shirt, bounced up to the mic. “When’s your next date? We need more cute moments like the pizza night!”
Lando leaned into the mic, his media charm in overdrive. “Oh, mate, we’re planning something epic,” he said, winking at the crowd. “Maybe a sunset drive in Barcelona, right, Osc?” He slung an arm around Oscar’s shoulders, ignoring the way Oscar stiffened.
Oscar’s voice was dry as the Spanish dust. “Yeah, if by ‘sunset drive’ you mean me dragging him away from his PlayStation.” The crowd roared, and Lando laughed, but his heart did that stupid stutter at Oscar’s teasing tone.
The questions started innocently enough. A kid asked who was the better cook, to which Lando claimed he made “killer avocado toast,” while Oscar deadpanned, “He burns water.”
A fan asked about their favorite race moment, and Lando spun a tale about their karting day “where Oscar’s speed stole my heart.” Oscar rolled his eyes but played along, muttering, “More like stole my line into Turn 1.” The banter was easy, practiced, but the fans ate it up, their cheers growing louder with every quip.
Things started to veer off track when a woman in her twenties, clutching a #Landoscar flag, asked, “Who said ‘I love you’ first? Come on, spill the tea!” The crowd whooped, phones raised to capture every second.
Lando’s grin faltered, but he recovered fast, leaning into Oscar with a theatrical sigh. “Well, it was me, obviously. Couldn’t resist those dreamy Aussie eyes, could I?” He batted his lashes, earning a laugh, but Oscar’s forced smile twitched, his ears pink.
“Lando says a lot of things,” Oscar said, his voice clipped but laced with dry humor. “Most of it’s nonsense.” The crowd chuckled, but there was a flicker of tension in Oscar’s eyes, like he was bracing for the next hit.
Elena, sensing the crowd’s thirst for more, picked a fan in the back—a guy with a mischievous grin. “Alright, lads,” he said, his Spanish accent thick, “we all saw that cooldown room fight in Zandvoort. So intense! Be honest: what are your real feelings for each other? Is this love for real?”
The crowd erupted, chanting. Lando’s stomach dropped, the air suddenly too hot. He glanced at Oscar, whose calm facade was cracking, his fingers tightening around the mic. They’d prepped for this, had rehearsed safe answers, but the weight of the question—and the memory of their late-night talk, the dinner, the way Oscar’s laugh had felt like a spark—made Lando’s brain short-circuit.
He laughed, too loud, and leaned into the mic. “Real feelings? Mate, I’m obsessed with this guy,” he said, gesturing at Oscar with a grin that felt too real. “Like, that night we stayed up talking, just us, no cameras… I realized he’s not just a robot. He’s, like, my robot.” The words spilled out before he could stop them, too close to the truth of their vulnerable Zandvoort moment.
The crowd screamed, but Oscar’s eyes widened, a mix of shock and something else—something soft—that made Lando’s heart lurch. Elena tried to move on, but another fan jumped up, unprompted. “Oscar, what about you? Are you in love with Lando?”
The mic was thrust toward Oscar, and the crowd held its breath. Oscar froze, his usual composure failing him. He glanced at Lando, then back at the sea of expectant faces. “I… uh…” He swallowed, his voice low but carrying over the mic. “He’s… Lando. He’s chaos, but it’s… not the worst. Keeps things interesting.”
The crowd went ballistic, interpreting Oscar’s hesitant words as a love confession. But then, a chant started in the back, low at first, then spreading like wildfire: “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” Phones were raised, the crowd’s energy a tidal wave.
Lando’s heart stopped, his panicked eyes meeting Oscar’s, whose face had gone pale, his hands gripping the chair like a lifeline.
“No way,” Lando muttered under his breath, his grin frozen as he tried to laugh it off. “They’re joking, right?”
Oscar’s jaw clenched, his eyes darting to the crowd, then back to Lando. For a second, Lando thought he’d bolt. But then, in a move that shocked Lando to his core, Oscar leaned forward, grabbed Lando’s face with both hands, and kissed him square on the mouth.
The crowd exploded, screams shaking the stage. It wasn’t a long kiss—quick, firm, and over in a heartbeat—but it sent Lando’s brain into a tailspin. Oscar pulled back, his face flushed, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe what he’d just done. Lando sat frozen, his lips tingling, his mind blank except for one thought: Oscar just kissed me. On purpose.
Elena, wide-eyed, scrambled to regain control. “Wow, okay, what a moment! Let’s… let’s wrap this up!” The Q&A ended in a blur of cheers and chants, the fans losing their minds as Lando and Oscar were hustled offstage.
In the McLaren hospitality suite, away from the cameras, Lando rounded on Oscar the second the door closed. “What the fuck was that?” he shouted, his face burning, his hands flailing. “You kissed me! In front of everyone!”
Oscar, still flushed, crossed his arms, his calm facade shattered. “They were chanting, Lando! What was I supposed to do, let it turn into a riot?”
“You could’ve ignored it!” Lando shot back, stepping closer, his heart still racing from the kiss. “You’re the one who said, that you’d never kiss me again! Remember? And now you just… dive in like that?”
Oscar’s face went crimson, his eyes flashing with a mix of embarrassment and defiance. “Yeah, well, you weren’t exactly helping, calling me your robot! You think that didn’t mess with my head? I panicked, alright?”
“Panicked?” Lando laughed, a sharp, incredulous sound. “You don’t panic, Oscar! You’re Mr. Cool and Collected! You kissed me because you wanted to, admit it!”
Oscar’s jaw dropped, and for a second, he looked like he might actually admit something. But then his expression hardened, and he stepped closer, his voice low and sharp. “Don’t flatter yourself, Norris. I was saving your arse from another PR disaster. You’re the one who keeps making this messy!”
“Messy?” Lando snapped, closing the gap until they were nose-to-nose, the air crackling. “You’re the one who turned a Q&A into a bloody rom-com! That kiss is gonna be all over the internet by now!”
“Good!” Oscar shot back, his voice rising. “Maybe it’ll shut up the fans for five minutes! You’re not the only one dealing with this, Lando!”
They glared at each other, breathing hard, the memory of the kiss hanging between them like a live wire. Lando’s lips still burned, and Oscar’s flustered expression—his red cheeks, his wide eyes—was doing things to Lando’s head he didn’t want to unpack. Before either could say another word, Charlotte burst in, her tablet glowing with Twitter notifications.
“Are you two insane?” she yelled, waving the tablet. “#LandoscarKiss is trending worldwide! The fans are calling it the ‘Spanish Proposal’! You were supposed to be charming, not… snogging on stage!”
Lando groaned, slumping onto a couch. “It wasn’t my idea! Blame him!” He pointed at Oscar, who looked like he wanted to sink through the floor.
Oscar crossed his arms tighter, muttering, “It was a split-second decision. Won’t happen again.”
Charlotte threw up her hands. “No no, it should happen again! You'll be doing a photoshoot soon so lean into it. Romantic, tasteful, controlled. Got it?”
As she stormed out, Lando and Oscar were left in tense silence. Lando ran a hand through his curls, his heart still pounding. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?” he said, trying to keep his voice light, but it came out shaky. “Saying you’d never kiss me, then pulling that.”
Oscar’s eyes flicked to him, still flustered but softer now. “Yeah, well… you’re not exactly making this easy, chaos boy.” He paused, then added, almost too quiet to hear, “And it’s not the worst.”
Lando’s breath caught, the air between them charged again. He wanted to push, to ask what Oscar meant, but all he managed was a weak grin. “Careful, Piastri. Keep kissing me like that, and I’ll think you’re falling for me.”
Oscar snorted, heading for the door, but his voice was tight. “In your dreams, Norris.” He left, but Lando caught the faintest smile, and it left him wondering just how much of this fight—and that kiss—was still part of the act.
****
The paddock was quiet in the late evening, the weekend winding down after the chaotic fan Q&A that had left Lando’s head spinning. The kiss—Oscar’s impulsive, heart-stopping move on stage—was all over the internet.
Lando’s lips still tingled from it, and his fight with Oscar in the McLaren hospitality suite had only made things worse, with Lando throwing Oscar’s old “no kissing” promise back in his face.
Reeling, angry, and confused, Lando needed someone to ground him. That someone was Carlos, his best mate and the only person who knew the romance was fake.
Lando slipped into the Ferrari motorhome, the red-and-yellow decor a stark contrast to McLaren’s orange. Carlos was sprawled on a couch, scrolling through his phone, probably laughing at the latest memes. He looked up as Lando stormed in, slamming the door behind him.
“Mate,” Lando said, pacing like a caged animal, “we need to talk. That Q&A was a disaster.”
Carlos raised an eyebrow, setting his phone down with a grin that made Lando want to punch him. “Disaster? Looked more like a love story to me. That kiss, hombre? Way too real.”
Lando froze, his face heating up. “What? No! It was… it was just Oscar panicking! The fans were chanting, and he just… did it to shut them up!”
Carlos leaned forward, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, come on, Lando. I know it’s fake, but you two looked like you forgot the cameras were there. You sure you didn’t feel something when he grabbed you like that?”
Lando’s stomach twisted, the memory of Oscar’s hands on his face, the quick press of his lips, flashing through his mind. He shook it off, running a hand through his curls. “Don’t be stupid, Carlos. It was nothing. Just PR nonsense.”
Carlos’s grin widened, like he’d just found a chink in Lando’s armor. “Nothing? You’re blushing, mate. And the way you were arguing with him after, all heated? That’s not ‘nothing.’ That’s chemistry.”
Lando groaned, flopping onto the couch next to Carlos, his hands covering his face. “Shut up, Sainz. You’re not helping. I’m already freaking out, and you’re making it worse.”
Carlos nudged him, undeterred. “I’m just saying, you looked pretty into it. And Oscar? He didn’t kiss you like it was fake. Maybe you’re both catching feelings, no?”
Lando’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. “Feelings? Are you mental? It’s Oscar! He’s… he’s a robot! A pain in my arse! I don’t feel anything except wanting to strangle him for pulling that stunt!”
Carlos leaned back, folding his arms, his smirk infuriatingly calm. “Okay, okay, relax. But be honest, Lando. You didn’t hate it, did you? That kiss? I saw your face on the livestream. You looked… shook.”
Lando’s heart pounded, Carlos’s words hitting too close to home. He hadn’t hated the kiss. It had been quick, shocking, but there’d been a split-second where his brain had gone blank, where Oscar’s lips had felt… right. And that scared him more than any race crash. He jumped to his feet, pacing again, his frustration boiling over.
“Stop it, Carlos!” he snapped, his voice louder than he meant. “You don’t get it! This whole fake dating thing is messing with my head, and that kiss made it ten times worse! I don’t know what I’m feeling, and you’re sitting there acting like it’s a bloody rom-com!”
Carlos stood, his teasing softening into concern, but he didn’t back down. “Hey, I’m just trying to help. You’re my mate, and I know you. You’re not this pissed off over nothing. Maybe you like him, maybe you don’t, but you’re not acting like it’s all fake anymore.”
Lando’s chest tightened, his anger spiking at how easily Carlos saw through him. He didn’t want to admit anything—not to Carlos, not to himself. “You’re wrong,” he said, his voice shaking. “It’s all fake, and I’m done with this conversation.”
In a burst of frustration, he kicked Carlos’s shin—not hard, but enough to make Carlos yelp and grab his leg.
“Ow! What the hell, Lando?” Carlos said, half-laughing, half-annoyed. “You’re losing it, mate!”
Lando didn’t answer. He stormed out, the motorhome door banging behind him, his head a mess of anger, confusion, and something he refused to name.
The Barcelona night air hit him like a slap, but it didn’t cool the fire in his chest. Carlos’s words echoed and the memory of Oscar’s kiss burned brighter than the paddock lights.
He needed to talk to Oscar, to yell at him, to fix this, but the thought of facing him after that kiss, after their fight, made his stomach lurch. Lando shoved his hands in his pockets, heading back to his hotel, knowing sleep wouldn’t come easy. This fake relationship was spiraling, and he wasn’t sure he could keep pretending it wasn’t tearing him apart.
****
The Spanish Grand Prix roared under a blazing sun, the Circuit packed with fans still buzzing from the Q&A kiss that had set the internet on fire. Lando gripped his steering wheel, his McLaren humming as he lined up in P3, one spot ahead of Oscar Piastri in P4.
The memory of Oscar’s impulsive kiss on stage, their heated fight afterward, and Lando’s frustrating confrontation with Carlos burned in his mind, making his focus shaky. He’d barely spoken to Oscar since storming out of the Ferrari motorhome, and on the track, he planned to keep it that way. No banter, no teamwork—just pure racing.
Oscar, in his own cockpit, was a silent storm. Lando could feel his presence in the mirrors, a constant shadow, but they hadn’t exchanged a word since their argument. The kiss had been a mistake, a split-second decision to appease the chanting crowd, but Lando’s accusation—that Oscar had wanted it—had hit a nerve. Oscar’s usual calm was fraying, and he was determined to prove himself on the track, not in some fake romance.
The race began with a clean start, Lando holding his position while Oscar fended off a charging Charles Leclerc. For the first half, they kept their distance, Lando focusing on chasing Max in P2 while Oscar battled in the midfield.
Every time Lando glanced at his mirrors, he saw Oscar’s orange McLaren, precise and relentless, but he refused to let it distract him. No way was he giving Oscar an inch—not after that kiss, not after Carlos’s teasing about “real feelings.”
By lap 35, a poorly timed pit stop dropped Lando to P5, right behind Oscar, who’d gained ground with a bold strategy. The tension crackled through Lando’s radio as his engineer urged, “Push, Lando, you’ve got Oscar ahead.” Lando gritted his teeth, diving into Turn 5 with aggression, trying to overtake.
Oscar defended hard, their cars dancing inches apart through the chicane, tires screeching. It wasn’t dirty, but it was personal, each move a silent argument.
On lap 48, it went wrong. Lando saw a gap into Turn 1, a tight inside line, and went for it, his front wing grazing Oscar’s rear tire as they barreled through the corner. The contact was light, but it sent Oscar’s car wobbling, his tires locking up as he fought to stay on track.
Lando’s heart lurched, but he held his line, taking P4 as Oscar recovered in P5. The crowd roared, sensing drama, and Lando’s radio crackled with his engineer’s warning: “No damage, but keep it clean.”
The race ended with Max on the podium, Lando in P4, and Oscar in P5, a solid McLaren result but no champagne. In the garage, Lando yanked off his helmet, sweat dripping, his pulse still racing from the near-collision.
He avoided Oscar’s gaze as they debriefed, Charlotte hovering nearby, her tablet buzzing with post-race tweets about their “fiery” on-track duel. But as the team dispersed, Lando spotted Oscar lingering by the pit wall, his face tight, and something snapped.
Lando stormed over, his voice low but sharp. “What was that out there? You blocked me like I was your enemy!”
Oscar turned, his eyes flashing, his usual stoic mask gone. “Enemy? You’re the one who clipped my tire! You trying to take me out?”
“I was racing!” Lando shot back, stepping closer, his hands clenched. “You think you can just kiss me on stage, fight with me, then act like nothing’s happened? You’re impossible!”
Oscar’s face flushed, his voice rising. “You’re the one who made it weird, Lando! Throwing my words back at me like I planned that kiss! I was trying to save the moment, not start a war!”
They were in a quiet corner of the garage now, out of earshot, but the air between them was electric, their argument a mirror of their on-track battle. Lando’s chest heaved, his frustration spilling over. “Save it? You made it worse! Now everyone thinks we’re… whatever! And then you nearly crash us both out there!”
Oscar stepped closer, his voice dropping, raw and intense. “I didn’t crash us. I kept it together. And you know why? Because I didn’t want you spinning out.” He paused, his eyes locking onto Lando’s, softer now. “You okay? Your car took a hit too.”
Lando blinked, caught off guard by the concern. His anger faltered, replaced by a confusing rush of warmth. “I’m fine,” he said, quieter, his throat tight. “You didn’t need to check on me.”
“Didn’t I?” Oscar said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re a mess, Lando. But I’m not trying to wreck you.”
For a moment, they stood there, the garage’s hum fading into the background. Lando’s heart pounded, not from anger but from the way Oscar was looking at him—like he cared, really cared, despite their fight, despite the kiss, despite everything.
It was too much, too close to something Lando wasn’t ready to face. He wanted to say something, to ask what Oscar meant, but the words wouldn’t come.
Before he could try, a mechanic called out, “Oi, Lando, Oscar, media’s waiting!” The moment shattered, and Oscar stepped back, his face closing off again.
“We’re not done,” Lando muttered, his voice shaky but firm.
Oscar nodded, his eyes still on him. “Yeah. I know.” He turned and walked away, leaving Lando standing there, frustrated, confused, and grappling with the realization that the care in Oscar’s voice wasn’t part of the act.
****
The sunset painted the sky in shades of amber and pink, a perfect backdrop for McLaren’s latest PR stunt: a romantic photoshoot to milk the Landoscar frenzy after the Spanish Grand Prix’s kiss and race-day clash.
Lando stood on a cliffside overlooking the Mediterranean, his McLaren polo swapped for a fitted white shirt, feeling like a reluctant model. Oscar, beside him in a navy jacket, looked as thrilled as someone facing a tax audit. Charlotte had orchestrated this to “cement their chemistry,” but the tension from their near-collision and garage confrontation lingered, making every glance between them electric.
The photographer, a charismatic Spaniard named Javier with a megawatt smile, clapped his hands. “Perfect light, perfect couple! Let’s make magic, sí?” His enthusiasm was infectious, but Lando caught Oscar’s eye-roll, and it took all his willpower not to snicker.
Javier started with solo shots, focusing on Lando first. “Lando, mi amigo, you’re a natural! That charisma, wow! Tilt your head, give me that cheeky smile.” He snapped away, circling Lando like a hawk, praising his “vibrant energy” and “star quality.”
Lando leaned into it, flashing grins and running a hand through his curls, but he noticed Oscar standing off to the side, arms crossed, his expression darkening with every compliment.
Oscar’s irritation was new, a restless energy that he didn’t recognize as jealousy but felt like a thorn under his skin. Javier’s fawning over Lando—calling him “radiant,” directing him into dramatic poses against the sunset—grated in a way Oscar couldn’t explain. He shifted his weight, his dry wit slipping out. “Careful, Javier, his ego’s already bigger than the circuit.”
Javier laughed, but Lando’s eyes flicked to Oscar, catching the edge in his voice. A mischievous spark ignited. If Oscar was going to be a grump, Lando could play dirty.
He turned up the charm, winking at Javier and striking a playful pose, hands on hips. “Like this, mate? Gotta keep the fans happy, yeah?” He glanced at Oscar, smirking, daring him to react.
Oscar’s jaw tightened, his frustration bubbling. “Yeah, you’re real good at that,” he muttered, loud enough for Lando to hear. “Maybe you should date the camera instead.”
Javier, oblivious to the brewing storm, clapped. “Love the passion, boys! Let’s do the couple shots now. Close, intimate, show me the spark!”
Lando sauntered over, his smirk still in place, but his heart raced as Javier positioned them chest-to-chest, Oscar’s hands directed to Lando’s waist. Oscar’s grip was firm, almost too tight, his fingers digging into Lando’s side in a way that wasn’t just for the pose.
Lando’s breath hitched, the memory of their kiss flashing through his mind—Oscar’s lips. He looked up, meeting Oscar’s eyes, and saw something raw, unguarded, that made his stomach flip.
“Oscar, closer,” Javier called, snapping shots. “Lando, tilt your head toward him, like you’re sharing a secret.”
Lando leaned in, his voice a low taunt. “What’s got you so moody, Piastri? Jealous of my star quality?”
Oscar’s grip tightened, his voice a hiss. “Not jealous. Just sick of you flirting with everyone.” The words slipped out, sharper than he meant, and his eyes widened, like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
Lando froze, his smirk faltering. Oscar’s words hit like a qualifying lap, fast and disorienting. Was that… jealousy? Before he could process, Javier shouted, “Perfect! Hold that intensity!” and the moment was swallowed by clicks and flashes.
The shoot wrapped as the sun dipped below the horizon, and Charlotte ushered them to a nearby tent for a break before the final shots. The second they were alone, Lando rounded on Oscar, his voice low but fierce. “What was that out there? You practically bruised my arm, mate! And what’s with the ‘flirting’ jab? You sound like you’re actually pissed.”
Oscar crossed his arms, his frustration spilling over, though he didn’t fully understand why Javier’s attention to Lando had him so rattled. “You were lapping it up, Lando! All that winking and posing, like I wasn’t even there. What’s your deal?”
“My deal?” Lando stepped closer, his eyes blazing. “You’re mad because I’m playing along with this stupid charade? Make up your mind, Oscar!”
Oscar’s face flushed, his calm cracking. “I’m not mad! I just…” He faltered, his voice dropping. “You didn’t need to act like Javier was your new best mate. It’s supposed to be us, yeah? For the cameras.”
Lando’s heart stuttered, the implication of Oscar’s words sinking in. “Us?” he said, quieter, searching Oscar’s face. “You saying you want this to feel real out there?”
Oscar’s eyes darted away, his frustration tinged with something vulnerable. “I don’t know what I’m saying. This whole thing’s a mess, and you’re making it harder.”
The air between them was thick, their argument teetering on something deeper. Lando wanted to push, to ask what Oscar meant, but before he could, Charlotte’s voice cut through the tent flap. “Boys, we’re losing light! Back out there, now!”
Oscar turned away, his shoulders tense. “Let’s just get this over with,” he muttered, brushing past Lando.
Lando followed, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and adrenaline. Oscar’s grip, his sharp words, the way he’d sounded almost… possessive—it was all too much.
As they stepped back into Javier’s directions, Lando couldn’t shake the feeling that this photoshoot had exposed something neither of them was ready to face, and the cameras were catching more than just their poses.
****
The flight from Barcelona to Suzuka for the Japanese Grand Prix was a grueling 17-hour haul, and Lando was stuck in a window seat next to Oscar, the last person he wanted to face after the photoshoot fiasco.
The sting of Oscar’s jealous grip on his arm, their charged argument, and the photographer’s relentless focus on Lando still hung heavy, making the air between them thick with unease.
Lando slouched in his first-class seat, tugging his McLaren hoodie over his eyes, hoping sleep would block out the tension. But every time he tried, he pictured Oscar’s flushed face, his sharp words: 'You didn’t need to act like Javier was your new best mate.'
Oscar, in the aisle seat, pretended to scroll through his phone, feigning interest in race notes, but his gaze kept slipping to Lando’s reflection in the darkened window. The way Lando’s curls poked out from his hoodie, the restless twitch of his fingers on the armrest—it pulled at Oscar in a way he couldn’t pin down.
He was still unsettled by his own reaction at the photoshoot, the irrational irritation at Javier’s praise, the way he’d held Lando too tightly. It wasn’t jealousy, he told himself, but the knot in his chest said otherwise.
The plane droned softly, cabin lights dimmed for the overnight flight. Lando shifted, his knee brushing Oscar’s. “Sorry,” he mumbled, pulling back quickly, his pulse spiking. Oscar just nodded, his expression neutral, but the brief touch lingered, a quiet echo of their unresolved mess.
An hour later, Lando gave up on sleep. He yanked off his hoodie, glancing at Oscar, still glued to his phone. “Mate, you gonna stare at that screen the whole flight? You’ll fry your eyes.”
Oscar’s lips quirked, but he didn’t look up. “Better than watching you fake-sleep like a restless puppy.”
Lando chuckled, the knot in his chest loosening slightly. “Alright, fair. So, Suzuka’s wild, yeah? Those corners are mental. You got any plans while we’re in Japan?”
Oscar glanced over, caught off guard by the casual tone. “Yeah, track’s a beast, but I like the vibe. Maybe hit up a ramen spot. You?”
Lando grimaced. “Ramen’s cool, but keep me away from anything fishy. Can’t stand the stuff—smells like a wet sock.” He shuddered dramatically, earning a rare snort from Oscar.
“No fish? You’re gonna struggle in Japan, mate,” Oscar said, his voice lighter. “I’m sticking to tempura or katsu. Something fried, no fuss.”
They slipped into easy chatter, steering clear of the fake relationship tension. They swapped stories about Suzuka’s tricky Esses, Lando raving about the arcade claw machines he’d emptied last time, Oscar mentioning a quiet tea shop he’d found near the track.
It was normal, grounding, a brief escape from the fake dating chaos that had them tangled up. For a moment, they were just two drivers, not a viral couple.
As the hours dragged on, Lando’s energy faded. The plane’s hum, their low-key banter—it pulled him under. Without noticing, he slumped sideways, his head landing softly on Oscar’s shoulder. Oscar stiffened, his phone nearly slipping from his hands.
Lando’s slow, even breaths brushed his neck, his curls grazing Oscar’s jaw. Oscar stared at Lando’s reflection in the window, a strange warmth blooming in his chest. He should’ve pushed him off, kept things clear, but instead, he adjusted slightly, letting Lando settle more comfortably.
A fan a few rows back, a teenager in a McLaren cap, noticed the moment and snapped a blurry photo, her excitement barely contained. She didn’t post it yet, but her fingers hovered over her phone, itching to share.
When the plane touched down in Tokyo, Lando woke with a start at the seatbelt chime, realizing he’d been using Oscar as a human pillow. “Oh, fuck, sorry,” he said, his face heating as he sat up, avoiding Oscar’s gaze.
Oscar cleared his throat, his voice calm but softer than usual. “No worries. You’re quieter when you’re out cold.”
Lando managed a shaky laugh, grateful for the dodge. “Yeah, well, you’re not a bad cushion, I’ll admit.”
They navigated Narita Airport’s crowded terminal, the fan’s photo hitting social media as they grabbed their bags: a grainy shot of Lando’s head on Oscar’s shoulder, captioned “#Landoscar couple vibes fr 😍.” By the time they reached their Suzuka hotel, it was trending, fans losing it over “plane cuddles.”
In the lobby, Lando’s phone lit up with notifications. He groaned, showing Oscar the viral post. “Seriously? We can’t even nap without sparking a frenzy.”
Oscar glanced at the image, his ears faintly pink. “Charlotte’s gonna have a field day.” He paused, then added, quieter, “You looked… relaxed, though. On the plane.”
Lando’s pulse skipped, caught by the gentle tone. He wanted to crack a joke, keep it light, but something in Oscar’s eyes stopped him. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low, careful. “Felt… calm, I guess. Didn’t see that coming.”
Oscar held his gaze, a fleeting vulnerability passing between them, no cameras or scripts to hide behind. But before either could say more, a McLaren staffer rushed over, looking flustered. “Uh, guys, slight mix-up with the rooms. The team… booked you a single suite. One bed. They’re sorting it, but for tonight…”
Lando’s jaw dropped, and Oscar’s eyes widened, the moment of connection replaced by sheer panic. “One bed?” Lando sputtered, his voice climbing. “You’re joking.”
The staffer winced. “Sorry, it’s a full hotel. We’ll fix it tomorrow.”
Oscar rubbed his temples, muttering, “Perfect. Just perfect.”
Lando forced a laugh, his heart racing for reasons he didn’t want to unpack. “Well, mate, hope you don’t snore. Let’s go survive this without killing each other.”
As they headed to the elevator, the viral photo still blowing up their phones, the prospect of sharing a room loomed like a new kind of turbulence.
Neither said it, but the quiet reassurance from the plane—and the unspoken question of what it meant—hung between them, promising more chaos in Japan.
****
The hotel suite was a nightmare disguised as luxury, its single king-sized bed mocking Lando and Oscar as they stood in the doorway, bags in hand. The team’s booking blunder had trapped them in a new kind of chaos, fresh off the viral plane photo and the lingering tension from the Spanish Grand Prix.
Outside, a storm brewed over Suzuka, dark clouds rolling in, the first rumbles of thunder mirroring the unease between them. Lando dropped his bag with a dramatic sigh, trying to mask his racing pulse. “Well, this is just bloody perfect.”
Oscar, clutching his backpack, scanned the room like it was a strategic grid. “It’s one night,” he said, his voice calm but tight. “We’ll survive.” His eyes avoided Lando’s, but the flush on his neck betrayed his discomfort.
Lando flopped onto the couch, kicking off his trainers. “Yeah, if we don’t murder each other first. I’m calling dibs on the left side of the bed.” He was grumbling, but deep down, the idea of sharing a bed with Oscar didn’t entirely suck—a thought he shoved away fast.
Oscar set his bag down, his movements deliberate. “Fine. I’ll take the right.” He was quieter than usual, his usual dry wit subdued, the forced proximity clearly rattling him more than he let on.
The evening unfolded in a dance of awkwardness. Lando grabbed his toothbrush, heading to the bathroom first, avoiding Oscar’s reflection in the mirror as they brushed their teeth side-by-side.
The silence was deafening, broken only by the patter of rain against the windows and the occasional thunderclap. Lando caught himself stealing glances at Oscar’s jawline, then cursed internally, focusing on his toothpaste foam like it held the secrets to the universe.
Oscar finished first, stepping out to change. When Lando emerged, he nearly choked on air. Oscar was standing by the bed, shirtless, casually toweling his damp hair. The soft hotel light caught the lean lines of his shoulders, the subtle definition of his chest, and Lando’s brain short-circuited. 'Bloody hell, he’s hot.' He coughed, turning away to hide his burning face. “Mate, put a shirt on, yeah? It’s not a beach resort.”
Oscar paused, the towel still in his hair, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Didn’t pack a spare for sleeping. Deal with it.” His voice was steady, but his ears were pink, betraying his own awareness of the moment.
Lando muttered something incoherent, busying himself with his phone to avoid staring. The storm outside intensified, wind howling, lightning flashing through the curtains.
They climbed into bed, drawing an imaginary line down the middle with unspoken agreement. Lando turned onto his side, facing the window, his back to Oscar, the mattress dipping slightly under their weight. Oscar, still shirtless, mirrored him, facing the opposite wall, his breathing shallow in the dark.
The tension was palpable, thicker than the humid air. Lando could feel Oscar’s presence, the warmth radiating from his side of the bed, and it made his skin prickle. He wanted to say something—crack a joke, ease the strain—but the words stuck. Oscar’s silence was louder, his usual calm replaced by a restless energy that Lando could sense even with his eyes closed.
Time dragged, the storm’s rumble filling the void. Finally, Lando couldn’t hold it in. He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, his voice cutting through the dark. “I didn’t want to fight. Not with you.”
The words landed heavy, raw and unguarded. Oscar’s breath caught, the mattress creaking as he tensed. A long silence followed, punctuated by a thunderclap. Then, Oscar’s voice came, low and careful, almost swallowed by the rain. “I didn’t either. It’s just… this whole thing’s messing with me. I don’t know how to do this.”
Lando’s pulse spiked, Oscar’s honesty hitting like a curveball. He turned his head, barely making out Oscar’s silhouette, his bare shoulder rising with shallow breaths. “Yeah?” Lando said, softer than intended. “Feels like we’re stuck in a bad lap, doesn’t it?”
Oscar let out a quiet huff, not quite a laugh. “Understatement. But… I don’t hate this. Us. Even if it’s a mess.” His voice was hesitant, but real, cutting through the storm’s noise. Lando’s chest tightened, a mix of relief and something warmer he couldn’t name.
He wanted to dig deeper, to talk about the fight, the photoshoot, the plane—but his tongue felt heavy. Instead, he murmured, “Same. It’s weird, but… not bad.” It wasn’t much, but it was honest. Silence settled again, the storm raging on. Lando drifted off, exhaustion winning.
In the night, their imaginary line blurred. Lando shifted, rolling toward Oscar, his head finding Oscar’s bare chest, his arm draping across him. Oscar stirred, waking to Lando’s warmth, their legs brushing. His heart raced, but he didn’t pull away, the quiet intimacy anchoring him. Lando’s steady breaths against his skin felt natural, and Oscar lingered in the moment, caught off guard by how right it seemed.
Dawn broke, gray light seeping through the curtains. Lando woke, realizing he was half-sprawled on Oscar, his cheek pressed to Oscar’s chest. He froze, face burning, but Oscar was awake, his eyes meeting Lando’s with a mix of amusement and something softer. Neither moved right away, the storm’s calm leaving a fragile stillness.
“Morning,” Lando mumbled, easing back, his voice rough. “Didn’t mean to, uh, take over your side, again.” Oscar’s lips quirked, his voice low. “You’re clingy when you sleep. Noted.” He sat up, ruffling his hair, the moment slipping as reality returned.
They didn’t mention it as they got ready, the awkwardness softer now, tinged with a new understanding. As they headed to the Suzuka paddock, Lando’s phone buzzed with notifications about the viral plane photo, and he sighed. “We’re cursed, mate.”
Oscar glanced at him, a faint smile breaking through. “Maybe. But we’ll sort it.” The words carried a quiet promise, hinting at something beyond the #Landoscar chaos, and Lando felt a spark of hope amidst the storm still simmering inside him.
****
The paddock was alive with the hum of the Japanese Grand Prix weekend, fans crowding the barriers with #Landoscar banners, their phones flashing after the viral plane photo and the lingering buzz from the Spanish GP’s kiss and photoshoot drama.
Lando weaved through the chaos, his McLaren cap pulled low, still reeling from the stormy night in the hotel suite—sharing a bed with Oscar Piastri, waking up tangled, Oscar’s honest words about not wanting to fight echoing in his head. The memory of Oscar’s bare chest under his cheek made his face heat, and he tried to focus on the paddock’s energy instead.
Oscar trailed a few steps behind, his usual calm in place but his eyes sharper, scanning the crowd. The hotel room mix-up had left him rattled. They hadn’t talked about it since morning, keeping things light, but the unspoken tension simmered.
As they reached the McLaren garage, Yuki Tsunoda, the local hero, bounded over, his grin wide. “Lando! Mate, you’re killing it with the fans!” he said, slinging an arm around Lando’s shoulders, his enthusiasm dialed to eleven. “Heard about your plane cuddle. You and Oscar are, like, Japan’s new favorite soap opera!”
Lando laughed, leaning into Yuki’s energy. “Cheers, Yuki. Gotta give the fans what they want, yeah?” He shot a playful glance at Oscar, expecting a dry quip, but Oscar’s face was stone, his arms crossed, eyes fixed on Yuki’s arm around Lando.
Yuki, oblivious, kept going, tugging Lando closer. “Come hang with me later, man. I know a killer arcade in Suzuka.” His wink was pure mischief, but to Oscar, it looked like a challenge.
Oscar’s mood shifted, his usual composure turning cold. “Sounds like a plan, Yuki,” he said, his voice flat, almost cutting. “Just don’t expect Lando to win at anything.”
Lando’s smile faltered, catching the edge in Oscar’s tone. Yuki laughed, unbothered, and jogged off to his garage, shouting, “Text me, Lando!” But Oscar’s icy stare lingered, his jaw tight, and Lando felt a spark of irritation mixed with something else—recognition. Oscar was jealous. Again.
The day dragged on with media duties and practice prep, but Oscar’s passive-aggressive digs didn’t stop. During a strategy briefing, he cut Lando off mid-sentence with a curt, “Focus on the track, not arcade plans.” At a fan signing, when Lando joked about Yuki’s invite, Oscar muttered, “Hope you two have fun,” his tone dripping with frost.
By late afternoon, Lando had had enough. He cornered Oscar in a quiet corner of the McLaren hospitality suite, away from the team and cameras, the Suzuka sunset casting long shadows through the windows. “Alright, what’s your deal?” Lando snapped, his hands on his hips. “You’ve been a proper grump all day. You don’t get to be jealous if this isn’t real, Oscar.”
Oscar’s eyes flashed, his calm cracking. “Jealous? I’m not jealous. I’m just sick of you cozying up to every driver who gives you attention. First Javier, now Yuki? Pick a lane, Lando.”
Lando’s jaw dropped, his frustration boiling. “Pick a lane? You’re the one who kissed me in front of a crowd, then acted like it was nothing! You don’t get to sulk because I’m being friendly with Yuki. This is fake, mate—remember?”
Oscar stepped closer, his voice low and sharp. “Fake? You didn’t seem fake when you were spilling your guts last night, saying you didn’t want to fight. Or when you were practically glued to me in bed. So what’s real, Lando?”
Lando’s breath caught, Oscar’s words hitting like a punch. The memory of their tangled sleep, Oscar’s honest confession in the dark, flooded back. He wanted to fire back, to deny it, but his voice came out quieter, unsteady. “You’re twisting this. I was just… I don’t know, okay? You’re messing with my head.”
Oscar’s face softened, but before he could respond, Charlotte burst in, her tablet buzzing with notifications. “Bad news, boys,” she said, her voice tense. “The hotel’s fully booked for the race weekend. No spare rooms. You’re stuck sharing that suite—and that bed—till we leave Suzuka.”
Lando’s eyes widened, and Oscar’s shoulders stiffened, the weight of their argument colliding with this new bombshell. “You’re kidding,” Lando said, his voice climbing. “The whole weekend?”
Charlotte shook her head. “Not kidding. Make it work, please.” She left, muttering about damage control.
Lando turned to Oscar, his frustration spiking. “Great. Just great. Stuck with you and your moody vibes for days.”
Oscar’s lips twitched, a flicker of his usual dry humor breaking through. “Could be worse. At least I don’t snore.” But his eyes held something heavier, the argument’s unresolved sting mixing with the looming reality of more forced proximity.
Lando ran a hand through his curls, his heart racing. “We’re gonna need a bigger imaginary line,” he muttered, trying to lighten the mood, but the words felt hollow.
As they headed back to the paddock, the Suzuka night closing in, the tension between them—jealousy, care, confusion—promised more storms ahead, with no escape from that shared bed.
****
The hotel suite was a suffocating bubble of tension as Lando and Oscar returned after a grueling day in the Japanese paddock. The fallout from Yuki’s friendliness, Oscar’s cold jealousy, and their heated argument—capped by the news they’d be stuck sharing this one-bed room for the entire race weekend—had left them silent.
They moved around each other like ghosts, avoiding eye contact. Lando tossed his McLaren cap onto the couch, his shoulders tight, while Oscar unzipped his backpack with deliberate focus, his jaw set. The air was heavy, the earlier storm replaced by a humid stillness that mirrored their unspoken rift.
Without a word, they went through their nighttime routines—Lando brushing his teeth first, Oscar changing in the corner. The silence was louder than any argument, each movement charged with the weight of their unresolved feelings.
Lando climbed into bed first, turning to face the window. Oscar followed, his back to Lando, the invisible line between them a fragile barrier. They didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge the other’s presence, and soon, the soft rhythm of Oscar’s breathing signaled he was out, sleeping like a rock, as Lando knew he always did.
Lando lay awake, his mind a mess. The day’s events—Yuki’s arm around him, Oscar’s icy comments, the way Oscar’s honesty in their last bed talk had cracked something open—swirled in his head. His body was restless, his skin prickling with a heat he couldn’t ignore. Sleep finally pulled him under, but it wasn’t peaceful.
In his dream, the suite was dark, the bed a tangle of sheets. Oscar was above him, shirtless, his lean frame pinning Lando down, eyes burning with an intensity that wasn’t cold or guarded. “You’re mine,” dream-Oscar growled, his hands gripping Lando’s hips, thrusting hard, the bed creaking under them.
Lando’s back arched, his moans echoing, pleasure spiking as Oscar fucked him into the mattress, relentless, claiming. The sensation was vivid—Oscar’s weight, the stretch, the heat of his skin—driving Lando to the edge.
He woke with a gasp, heart pounding, his cock painfully hard against his boxers. The room was dark, the faint glow of Suzuka’s city lights seeping through the curtains.
Oscar slept beside him, his bare back rising and falling, oblivious. Lando’s breath hitched, his body screaming with need, the dream’s intensity lingering like a drug. He knew he shouldn’t—Oscar was out cold, and this was crossing a line—but lust clouded his judgment, desperate and blinding.
Lando slid a hand under the sheets, careful not to shift the mattress. His fingers wrapped around his erection, stroking slowly at first, biting his lip to stifle any sound. The dream replayed in his mind—Oscar’s hands, his voice, the way he’d taken control. Lando’s strokes quickened, his hips twitching, precum slicking his palm.
He glanced at Oscar, still sleeping, his lips slightly parted, and the memory of their Q&A kiss flooded back—Oscar’s mouth, firm and unexpected, searing into him.
His mind screamed to stop, to not go further. Don’t kiss him, he’s sleeping, it’s wrong. But the intrusive thought won, the need overwhelming. Lando leaned over, heart hammering, and pressed a soft, stolen kiss to Oscar’s lips, careful not to wake him.
Oscar didn’t stir, his face peaceful, and the brief contact—warm, forbidden—pushed Lando over the edge. He came hard, a muffled groan escaping as his body shuddered, cum spilling over his hand, hot and messy. The release was intense, Oscar’s image burned into every pulse.
Panting, Lando lay still, guilt crashing in. He’d crossed a line, but the regret he expected didn’t come. Instead, there was a strange calm, a twisted satisfaction in the act, tied to Oscar in a way he couldn’t untangle.
He slipped out of bed quietly, grabbing tissues from the bathroom to clean up, wiping his hand and boxers before sliding back under the sheets. Oscar hadn’t moved, still lost in sleep, and Lando turned away, his heart heavy but his body sated. Sleep came quickly, pulling him under.
Morning light filtered through the curtains, and Lando woke to find his face inches from Oscar’s, their noses almost touching, Oscar’s breath warm against his cheek. The intimacy hit like a jolt, the memory of his midnight actions flooding back.
Oscar’s eyes were still closed, his features soft, but Lando’s panic surged. He couldn’t face this—not after what he’d done, not with the jealousy and tension still raw.
He slid out of bed harshly, the mattress creaking, and grabbed his clothes, muttering to himself about getting ready early. “Gotta… prep for practice,” he said under his breath, avoiding Oscar’s side of the room.
He dressed in record time, pulling on a fresh McLaren shirt and cap, and bolted for the door, desperate to escape the suite, Oscar’s lips, and the guilt-tinged desire still simmering in his veins.
****
The Suzuka paddock buzzed with pre-race energy. Lando moved through the chaos like a man on a mission, his McLaren cap pulled low, his steps quick to avoid lingering anywhere near Oscar.
The memory of the previous night—his vivid wet dream, jerking off beside a sleeping Oscar, the stolen kiss, and waking up face-to-face—burned in his mind, a mix of guilt and unacknowledged desire making his chest tight. He’d bolted from the hotel suite at dawn, muttering about “practice prep,” desperate to escape the intimacy of that shared bed.
Oscar, meanwhile, was a storm of confusion and irritation. Waking to an empty room, Lando’s side of the bed cold, had left him unsettled. He’d noticed Lando’s avoidance all day—dodging eye contact during the team briefing, lingering on the opposite side of the garage during practice, even laughing too loudly with mechanics to avoid their usual banter.
Oscar’s usual calm was fraying, his mind replaying their previous night’s talk—Lando’s raw confession about not wanting to fight, their accidental closeness in sleep. Why was Lando pulling away now? It stung in a way Oscar didn’t want to name, and his irritation grew with every dodged glance.
In the paddock, Lando stuck close to the team, burying himself in telemetry discussions and fan interactions to keep Oscar at a distance. Yuki’s cheerful wave from the Racing Bulls garage didn’t help, Oscar’s sharp look from yesterday still fresh in Lando’s mind.
He forced a grin, waving back, but his heart wasn’t in it. All he could think about was Oscar’s lips, the forbidden kiss he’d stolen, and the way he’d woken pressed against Oscar’s chest. He didn’t trust himself to be near him, not with that guilt simmering.
Oscar watched from afar, his jaw tight, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He wanted to confront Lando, demand why he was acting like Oscar was a stranger, but something held him back—maybe the fear of what the answer might reveal. Instead, he threw himself into practice, his lap times sharp but his focus split, Lando’s absence like a missing gear.
By evening, they were back in the cursed Suzuka hotel suite, the single bed looming like a challenge. The air was heavy, no storm tonight but the quiet just as oppressive. Lando tossed his bag on the couch, avoiding the bed, his face flushed as he fiddled with his phone. Oscar, dropping his backpack, couldn’t take the silence anymore. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his voice low but firm. “Why are you avoiding me, Lando?”
Lando froze, his phone slipping slightly in his grip. His cheeks went crimson, a flush spreading to his ears, and he fumbled for words, his usual quick wit failing him. “I… uh… what? I’m not avoiding you, mate. Just… busy day, yeah? Practice, fans, all that.” His voice cracked, high and unsteady, and he turned away, pretending to adjust his cap, his heart pounding with the memory of last night’s stolen kiss.
Oscar’s irritation softened, his eyes narrowing as he watched Lando’s nervous fidgeting. The blush, the stammering—it was… cute, in a way that caught Oscar off guard. Lando, always so loud and chaotic, looked small, vulnerable, like a kid caught sneaking sweets.
Oscar’s lips twitched, a flicker of amusement breaking through his frustration. “Busy day, huh?” he said, his tone gentler but still probing. “You’ve been dodging me like I’m a DRS zone. What’s going on?”
Lando’s blush deepened, his mind scrambling. He couldn’t tell Oscar the truth—not about the dream, the jerking off, the kiss. “Nothing’s going on,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible, his eyes fixed on the floor. “Just… tired. Need to crash.” He gestured vaguely at the bed, his hands shaky.
Oscar stepped closer, his voice dropping. “You sure? Because you’re acting like I did something wrong.” He paused, searching Lando’s face, the blush and fumble making his chest tighten in a way he didn’t expect. “You’re kind of… cute when you’re all flustered, you know.”
Lando’s head snapped up, his eyes wide, the word “cute” hitting like a stray tire. “Cute? Me? Shut up, Piastri,” he sputtered, but his voice lacked its usual bite, his face burning brighter. He turned away, grabbing his pajamas, desperate to escape the conversation. “I’m hitting the shower. Don’t… don’t make it weird.”
Oscar watched him go, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite his lingering confusion. Lando’s flustered state was disarming, stirring something warm and unfamiliar in Oscar. He didn’t push further, sensing Lando needed space, but the question of why hung heavy as he got ready for bed.
When Lando emerged from the bathroom, damp curls and all, they climbed into bed without another word, the invisible line between them drawn again. Lando faced the window, his heart still racing, Oscar’s “cute” comment echoing alongside his guilt.
Oscar faced the wall, his mind churning, wondering what had spooked Lando so badly. Sleep came slowly, the shared bed a silent battleground, their unspoken feelings and Lando’s secret weighing heavier than ever.
****
Suzuka was a whirlwind of activity between practice sessions for the race. Lando darted through the chaos, his heart racing from more than just the day’s high-speed laps. The memory of the hotel suite gnawed at him, guilt twisting with a desire he couldn’t name. Oscar’s “cute” comment from their last talk only made it worse, and Lando was determined to keep his distance.
Oscar, trailing back to the McLaren garage, was a tangle of frustration and curiosity. Lando’s avoidance all day had left Oscar on edge. The shared bed, their late-night confession about not wanting to fight, and Lando’s flustered blushing lingered in his mind, making his usual calm feel brittle.
He scanned the paddock for Lando, catching glimpses of his orange cap, but held back from confronting him, unsure what he’d even say.
Lando, weaving through a narrow hallway behind the garages to avoid the fan frenzy, was so focused on escape that he didn’t see Oscar rounding the corner. A sudden rush of crew members, hauling equipment, forced them together, the tight space leaving no room to maneuver.
Their chests brushed, Lando’s back hitting the wall as Oscar’s hands instinctively landed on Lando’s waist to steady him. Their faces were inches apart, breaths mingling in the humid air, Oscar’s eyes locking onto Lando’s with a mix of surprise and something deeper.
Lando froze, his guilt flaring as Oscar’s touch sent a jolt through him, the warmth of his hands searing through his McLaren shirt. His mind flashed to the stolen kiss, Oscar’s lips soft and unaware, and his face flushed, a traitor to his racing heart. “Uh… sorry,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible, but he didn’t pull away, caught in the intensity of Oscar’s gaze.
Oscar’s hands lingered, his voice low, teasing but soft. “Still running from me, Norris?” The words carried a gentle challenge, his thumbs brushing Lando’s waist, not quite letting go. The hallway’s confinement felt like their shared bed all over again, the air charged with unspoken questions.
Lando’s breath hitched, the proximity overwhelming. He wanted to joke, to deflect, but Oscar’s touch and the memory of their nighttime closeness made his throat tight. “Not running,” he managed, his voice shaky, eyes flicking to Oscar’s lips before he caught himself. “Just… navigating.”
Oscar’s lips twitched, a flicker of amusement breaking through, but his eyes stayed intense, searching. The moment stretched, their bodies still pressed close, until a mechanic's shout from the paddock—“Lando! Oscar! Over here!”—shattered it. Oscar dropped his hands, stepping back, and Lando exhaled, his face burning as they moved apart, the crew’s rush subsiding.
“Later,” Oscar said, his voice quiet but firm, like a promise. Lando nodded, too flustered to respond, and they parted for the next practice session, the touch lingering like a ghost.
That night, back in the cursed Suzuka hotel suite, the single bed loomed larger than ever. The humid air clung to them as they moved through their routines in silence, Lando avoiding Oscar’s eyes in the bathroom mirror. But the hallway moment hung heavy, and Lando couldn’t keep dodging.
As they sat on opposite sides of the bed, Lando broke the quiet, his voice low. “Sorry for… being weird today. Just got a lot in my head.”
Oscar looked over, his expression softening. “Yeah? Like what?” He shifted closer, his knee brushing Lando’s, and reached out, his hand grazing Lando’s arm, the touch deliberate, lingering. “You don’t have to run, you know.”
Lando’s heart stuttered, Oscar’s fingers warm against his skin, the contact pulling him back to the hallway, the dream, the kiss. He met Oscar’s eyes, their faces closer now, the air thick with possibility. “I’m not… running,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, leaning in slightly, their breaths almost mingling again.
Oscar’s gaze dropped to Lando’s lips, his hand still on his arm, and for a moment, it felt like they might close the gap, the pull toward a kiss almost tangible.
But a sharp buzz from Lando’s phone—Charlotte’s name flashing with a text about tomorrow’s media schedule—broke the spell. Lando jerked back, grabbing his phone, his face flushed. “Uh, Charlotte. Media stuff.”
Oscar exhaled, his hand dropping, a mix of frustration and amusement in his eyes. “Yeah. Timing’s perfect.” He leaned back, the moment gone, but the tension lingered, electric and unresolved.
As they climbed into bed, the invisible line between them felt thinner, their arms brushing as they settled. Lando turned away, his heart still racing, Oscar’s touch and nearness a promise of something more, teetering just out of reach.
****
The paddock was a chaotic swirl of noise during the race weekend, with qualifying day igniting fans. Lando and Oscar were caught in the storm, their shared hotel suite and its single bed amplifying the tension from their hallway closeness and Lando’s lingering guilt over his secret nighttime actions. Charlotte, ambushed them in the garage mid-morning, her tablet buzzing with fan tweets, her grin sharp as a tack.
“Lads, time to dial up the romance,” she said, eyes glinting. “The fans love you two, but we need more—hold hands, gaze lovingly, maybe toss in a kiss or two. Keep them hooked.”
Lando nearly dropped his energy drink, his jaw on the floor. “A kiss? In public? Are you having a laugh?”
Oscar, propped against a toolbox, sputtered on his water, eyes wide as saucers. “You want us to… what, lock lips for the cameras? That’s unhinged.”
Charlotte shrugged, unfazed. “It’s branding, boys. You’re a global sensation. Don’t let it flop.” She strutted off, leaving them gobsmacked.
“Branding?” Lando muttered, tugging at his curls. “She’s gonna have us filming a rom-com trailer next.”
Oscar snorted, ears faintly pink. “Yeah, next she’ll demand we elope on the start-finish straight.”
Qualifying, at least, was a triumph. Oscar carved through Suzuka’s corners to claim P2, his McLaren a blur, while Lando powered to P3, a hair’s breadth behind. The team was electric, fans roaring, and Lando managed a cheeky shoulder nudge with Oscar for the cameras, his heart doing a rogue flip at the contact. Oscar’s quick grin didn’t help, stirring memories of their charged hallway touch and the bed’s intimacy.
Back in the hotel suite that night, the single bed loomed like a smug referee, the humid air thick with their unspoken strain. Lando kicked off his trainers, flopping onto the bed, while Oscar perched on it already, scrolling his phone. The silence broke with Lando’s sudden cackle, sharp and incredulous. “Charlotte’s lost it, yeah? ‘Kiss more,’ like we’re her personal drama series.”
Oscar glanced up, a smirk tugging his lips. “Bet she’s got a Landoscar screenplay ready. Scene one: we smooch under the cherry blossoms.”
Lando howled, clutching his sides. “Mate, I’d trip over a the sidewalk trying to look swoony.”
Oscar’s chuckle was softer, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You’d probably sneeze mid-kiss and call it chemistry.”
Their laughter bounced around the room, slicing through the usual awkwardness. But as it faded, a heavy quiet settled, the shared bed a reminder of their tangled mess. Lando toyed with his hoodie strings, his humor dimming, while Oscar’s gaze turned pensive, fingers drumming his knee.
Finally, Oscar broke the silence, his voice low but firm. “If we’re gonna kiss in public… maybe we should make it convincing. So Charlotte isn't on our ass about it."
Lando’s head whipped up, eyebrows practically hitting the ceiling. “Convincing? What’s the plan, Piastri?” His tone was playful, but his pulse surged, a flush creeping up his neck.
Oscar’s cheeks reddened, and he cleared his throat, staring at the floor. “I mean… we could, y’know, practice. Kissing. So it’s not… awkward.” His voice wobbled, and he rubbed his neck, clearly mortified.
Lando’s heart launched into a full-throttle sprint, his eyes wide. “Practice kissing? You’re actually serious?” He let out a nervous laugh, but the idea sent a spark through him, his mind flickering to the forbidden kiss he’d stolen in the dark. “Alright, Casanova, let’s see your moves.”
They scooted closer on the bed, the mattress creaking, their knees bumping. Lando’s humor hid his jitters, but his palms were sweaty. Oscar, still blushing, leaned in first, his breath warm. “Don’t… laugh,” he muttered, and pressed a quick peck to Lando’s lips, soft and fleeting.
It was over in a flash, but the spark ignited something wild. Their eyes locked, a silent dare passing between them. Without a word, they leaned in again, slower, hungrier, their lips crashing together in a kiss that was anything but practice.
Lando’s mouth chased Oscar’s, desperate, needy, his lips parting as Oscar deepened the kiss, a soft lick against Lando’s lower lip sending a shudder through him. Lando moaned low, a quiet, involuntary sound that vibrated against Oscar’s mouth, fueling the intensity.
Oscar’s hand slid to Lando’s neck, fingers digging in, pulling him closer, while his other hand tangled in Lando’s curls, tugging just enough to make Lando’s breath hitch. Lando’s hands weren’t idle—one gripped Oscar’s jaw, angling him for more, the other fisting his shirt, knuckles brushing Oscar’s collarbone.
Their lips moved in a frantic dance, wet and urgent, Oscar’s tongue teasing Lando’s again, drawing another soft moan that made Oscar’s grip tighten. The kiss was messy, raw, a collision of want and weeks of pent-up tension, their breaths mingling in sharp gasps.
They parted slowly, reluctantly, chests heaving, lips glistening and slightly swollen, cheeks flushed bright red. Lando’s eyes were wide, Oscar’s dark and dazed, the air between them electric, like the moment before a race start. Lando’s heart pounded so hard he thought it might burst, the taste of Oscar lingering, his fingers still tingling from Oscar’s hair.
“Well,” Lando croaked, forcing a grin to cut the intensity, “that was… bloody good practice. Oscar-worthy hahaha.” He scrambled to his feet, legs wobbly, and bolted for the bathroom, tossing over his shoulder, “Gonna, uh, splash my face. Don’t steal my side of the bed!”
The door slammed, and Lando gripped the sink, his reflection a mess of flushed cheeks and wild eyes, his heart still in overdrive. The kiss—Oscar’s tongue, his hands, that moan—replayed like a highlight reel, and he splashed cold water on his face, trying to cool the fire in his veins.
Back in the room, Oscar sat frozen on the bed, running a hand through his hair, his own pulse racing, wondering if they’d just crossed a line they couldn’t uncross.
****
The hotel suite was a pressure cooker of unspoken feelings the morning after Lando and Oscar’s “practice” kiss, which had spiraled into a desperate, heart-pounding clash of lips, hands, and moans that neither could shake.
The race day loomed, but the single bed they shared felt like the real battleground. Lando woke first, his pillow hair a chaotic nest of curls, his eyes bleary but his mind instantly replaying Oscar’s tongue on his lower lip, the tug of his hair, the heat of their breaths. His heart kicked into gear, a mix of thrill and panic, as he realized Oscar was already up, moving around the room.
Oscar stood in the bathroom doorway, shirtless again, toothbrush in hand, his lean frame catching the morning light. Lando’s throat went dry, the memory of their kiss making Oscar’s bare shoulders look like a bloody masterpiece. “Mate, do you ever wear a shirt?” Lando quipped, his voice a bit too high, trying to mask the way his eyes lingered.
Oscar glanced over, toothbrush paused, a smirk flickering. “Not when it’s this humid. Your hair’s a crime scene, by the way.” His tone was light, but there was a new edge to it—a tiny pause, a flicker in his gaze that hadn’t been there before the kiss.
Lando ran a hand through his curls, laughing to break the tension. “Yeah, well, not all of us wake up looking like a bloody model.” Their banter felt different, each word laced with the memory of last night, their hands almost brushing as Lando grabbed his toothbrush.
They stood side-by-side at the sink, shoulders inches apart, the air thick with unspoken awareness. When their elbows grazed, Lando’s heart did a stupid flip, and Oscar’s toothbrush slowed, but neither said a word.
At the Suzuka paddock, Charlotte was waiting like a hawk, her tablet practically glowing with fan posts. “Right, boys,” she said, her smile all business. “Race day’s big, but we need more couple vibes. Hold hands, smile, give the fans what they want.” She gestured at a photographer setting up near the McLaren garage.
Lando’s eyebrows shot up, his mind flashing to their kiss. “More hand-holding? You’re relentless, Charlotte.”
Oscar’s lips twitched, but his eyes were guarded. “What’s next, a slow dance in the pit lane?”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Just do it. You’re naturals.” She shooed them toward the photographer, ignoring their groans.
As they posed for the cameras, Lando slipped his hand into Oscar’s, their fingers interlocking with an ease that felt too natural. The kiss lingered in every touch—Oscar’s thumb grazed Lando’s knuckles, a slow, deliberate stroke that sent a spark up Lando’s arm.
Lando squeezed back, just a bit, his pulse racing, but neither acknowledged it, their faces fixed in practiced smiles for the fans chanting their names. The contact was electric, each tiny movement a reminder of lips, hands, and moans, and Lando had to focus not to let his grin turn shaky.
During a pre-race interview, a friendly female presenter from Sky Sports leaned in close to Lando, her smile bright. “Lando, you’re on fire this weekend—P3 in quali, and the fans can’t get enough of you two! Any secret to your chemistry?” Her hand brushed his arm, her tone flirty, and Lando laughed, playing along with his usual charm.
“Secret? Just good vibes, yeah?” he said, winking, but his eyes flicked to Oscar, who stood nearby, his polite smile frozen. Oscar’s jaw tightened, his hand flexing at his side, and Lando caught the shift—a flicker of the same jealousy from Yuki’s friendliness.
When the interview wrapped, Oscar was suddenly there, closer than necessary, his hand resting lightly on Lando’s lower back to guide him through the paddock. “Good one, mate,” Oscar said, his voice calm but his fingers pressing just a bit too firmly, a possessive edge Lando hadn’t expected.
During the next interview, Oscar stood right behind him, their shoulders brushing, his presence a quiet claim. Lando’s skin tingled, the kiss’s afterglow making every touch feel like a spark.
Later, in a rare quiet moment behind the McLaren garage, Lando noticed Oscar’s collar was askew, the McLaren logo twisted. Without thinking, he reached out, his fingers brushing Oscar’s neck as he fixed it, smoothing the fabric. Oscar froze, his breath catching, and Lando’s hand lingered, their eyes locking.
The air was heavy, the memory of their kiss—Oscar’s tongue, Lando’s moan—hanging between them. Lando’s fingers grazed Oscar’s jaw, a fleeting touch, and Oscar’s gaze dropped to Lando’s lips, his pupils dark, the want so obvious it stole Lando’s breath.
“You… had a wonky collar,” Lando mumbled, his voice rough, stepping back but not breaking eye contact. Oscar swallowed, his voice low. “Thanks. You’re a mess, you know that?”
Lando grinned, his heart pounding. “Says the guy who can’t keep his hands off me in public.” It was meant as a joke, but it came out too real, and Oscar’s flush deepened, neither moving closer but neither pulling away.
Before they could say more, a mechanic’s shout—“Lando, Oscar, race brief!”—cut through, forcing them apart. The rest of the day was a blur of race prep, but the kiss colored everything—the way their hands brushed passing a water bottle, the way Oscar’s gaze lingered during the driver parade, the way Lando’s laugh caught when Oscar stood too close in the garage.
They didn’t act on it, the tension a live wire, but the want was undeniable, simmering in every glance and touch.
****
The Japanese Grand Prix was a triumph for McLaren, with Oscar and Lando storming to a double podium—Oscar in P2, Lando in P3.
The crowd roared, Lando’s heart raced as he stood on the podium, champagne dripping from his curls, his grin wide and genuine. Oscar, beside him, was all quiet intensity, his rare smile breaking through as he sprayed champagne, their eyes meeting in a shared thrill.
For once, the weight of their fake relationship, Lando’s guilt, and their charged kiss in the hotel suite felt secondary to the pure joy of the moment.
As they stepped off the podium, weaving through the paddock toward the McLaren garage, the media swarmed, cameras flashing. Lando, caught in the high of the podium, acted on impulse.
He turned to Oscar, his smile bright, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips—a quick, gentle brush, but deliberate, his hand lingering on Oscar’s arm. It was for the cameras, a nod to Charlotte’s demands, but somewhere deep in Lando’s chest, it was a gift to Oscar too, a quiet thank-you for their shared fight on track. Oscar’s eyes widened for a split second, then softened, a warm smile curving his lips as he looked down at Lando, his hand brushing Lando’s elbow in return.
The kiss felt natural, effortless, their podium glow making it easy to forget the pretense. The crowd erupted, fans screaming, cameras clicking, and Lando’s heart did a little victory lap, Oscar’s smile anchoring him. But as they reached the garage, Charlotte pounced, her tablet practically glowing with glee. “That was perfect, boys! So natural, the fans are going to lose it! Keep that up, and we’re golden.” Her praise broke the spell, the reality of their staged romance crashing back.
Lando’s grin faltered, and Oscar’s smile dimmed, his jaw tightening as they nodded, the moment’s warmth fading under the weight of PR.
The team celebration was a blur of high-fives and champagne toasts, but Lando and Oscar barely spoke, their podium kiss lingering like an unspoken question.
Hours later, on the flight from Tokyo to Singapore for the next Grand Prix, they were mercifully seated apart in first class—Lando by the window, Oscar near the aisle, a few rows between them.
The distance was a relief after the intensity of Suzuka’s shared bed, hallway closeness, and now the podium kiss, but it didn’t stop their eyes from meeting.
Every glance was electric—Lando catching Oscar’s gaze over his phone, Oscar looking up from his race notes to find Lando staring. Each time, the urge to close the distance felt visceral, like a pull neither could ignore.
Lando fiddled with his headphones, pretending to watch a movie, but his mind was on Oscar’s lips, the soft press of their podium kiss, the way Oscar had smiled down at him. He shifted, his cheeks warming, and stole another glance. Oscar was looking back, his expression unreadable but his eyes intense, like he was replaying the same moment. Lando’s heart skipped, and he quickly looked away, muttering to himself, “Get a grip, Norris.”
Oscar, meanwhile, gripped his tablet a bit too tightly, his notes forgotten. The memory of Lando’s kiss made his chest tight. He wanted to cross the cabin, to sit beside Lando, to talk or maybe more, but the distance felt safer, keeping the line they hadn’t quite crossed. Still, when their eyes met again, Lando’s quick grin and raised eyebrow sent a spark through him, and Oscar couldn’t help a small smirk in return.
The flight stretched on, their glances a silent conversation, each one heavier with the weight of their kisses and the unspoken want growing between them.
By the time they landed in Singapore, the tension was a live wire, their shared history and the promise of another race weekend making the urge to close the gap feel more real than ever.
****
The weekend was a sweltering with pressure, the humid air clinging to Lando and Oscar as they trudged back to their hotel after a grueling day of press conferences and track walks. The team’s latest blunder—booking them rooms right next to each other in Singapore’s hotel—only tightened the knot of tension between them.
In the hotel’s sleek elevator, they found themselves alone, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the tight space, sweaty from the day’s heat. Lando’s McLaren shirt stuck to his skin, his curls damp, while Oscar’s polo clung to his frame, his jaw set but his eyes restless.
The mirrored walls reflected their every move, and Lando caught Oscar’s gaze in the glass, a quick, electric glance that made his pulse spike. Oscar’s eyes flicked away, but not before Lando noticed the flush on his cheeks, mirroring his own.
The air was thick, not just with Singapore’s humidity but with the weight of their unspoken feelings. Lando’s hand brushed Oscar’s as he shifted, the contact sending a jolt through him. Neither pulled away, but neither spoke, the hum of the elevator filling the silence.
Their reflections showed their shoulders touching, Lando’s fingers twitching as if tempted to grab Oscar’s hand again, Oscar’s gaze lingering on Lando’s lips in the mirror. The charge was palpable, a live wire ready to spark.
The elevator dinged, and they stepped out, walking silently to their adjacent rooms. Lando fumbled with his keycard, muttering, “Night, mate,” his voice rough. Oscar nodded, his “Yeah, night” barely audible, and they disappeared into their rooms, the tension unresolved.
A few minutes later, frantic knocks rattled Lando’s door. He opened it, heart jumping, to find Oscar standing there, breathing hard, his eyes dark and heavy with something raw. “I think we should practice more,” Oscar said, his voice low, almost urgent, like he’d been wrestling with the words.
Lando’s breath caught, his mind flashing to their last kiss—lips chasing, moans echoing. “Yeah, same,” he said, his voice shaky but sure, a grin tugging at his lips despite the nerves.
Before he could say more, Oscar’s hands were on Lando’s face, fingers cupping his jaw, and he surged forward, kissing Lando with a hunger that stole the air from the room. The door clicked shut behind them, Lando’s back pressing against it as Oscar caged him in, his body a warm, solid wall.
Their lips crashed together, desperate and messy, Lando’s mouth opening under Oscar’s, their tongues tangling in a frantic dance. Lando moaned low, a needy sound that vibrated against Oscar’s lips, spurring him on. Oscar’s hands slid to Lando’s neck, thumbs brushing his pulse point, while Lando’s fingers dug into Oscar’s shoulders, pulling him closer, their bodies flush.
Oscar broke the kiss, his lips trailing to Lando’s neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along his jawline. Lando’s head tipped back, a soft groan escaping as Oscar’s teeth grazed his skin, not biting but teasing, his tongue flicking over the sensitive spot below Lando’s ear.
“Fuck, Oscar,” Lando gasped, his voice rough, his hands fisting Oscar’s shirt, tugging hard. Oscar groaned in response, the sound rumbling against Lando’s neck, his kisses growing sloppier, more desperate, as he sucked lightly, leaving Lando’s skin tingling and his breath ragged.
Their moans mingled, a symphony of want, their bodies pressed so close Lando could feel Oscar’s heartbeat against his chest. The door creaked under their weight, Lando’s hips shifting instinctively, chasing more contact. Oscar’s hands slid to Lando’s waist, gripping tight, his lips still working Lando’s neck, drawing another low moan that made Oscar’s breath hitch.
They pulled back slowly, reluctant, chests heaving, lips wet and swollen, cheeks flushed red. Lando’s eyes were wild, Oscar’s dark and dazed, the air between them crackling with the aftershock of their makeout. Lando leaned against the door, trying to catch his breath, his heart pounding like he’d just lapped Marina Bay at full tilt.
“Well,” Lando said, voice hoarse, forcing a shaky grin, “that’s… top-tier practice, mate. Gold star.” He gave an awkward thumbs-up, his legs still wobbly.
Oscar huffed a laugh, rubbing his neck, his flush deepening. “Yeah, good… good session.” He mirrored Lando’s thumbs-up, equally awkward, and stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “See you tomorrow?”
“Yep, don’t miss your beauty sleep,” Lando quipped, opening the door, his heart still racing as Oscar slipped out, their eyes catching one last time, heavy with unspoken want.
Alone, Lando slid down the door, his fingers touching his lips, still tingling from Oscar’s kiss, his neck burning where Oscar’s mouth had been. The race loomed, but all he could think about was how that “practice” felt too real—and how much he wanted more.
****
The weekend was a humid haze. Lando and Oscar were still reeling from their latest “practice” session, the memory of Oscar’s lips on Lando’s neck and their shared moans making every glance electric. Charlotte, cornered them in the paddock after a practice session, her eyes gleaming with a new scheme. “Guy we need you to go on a date tonight—somewhere public, romantic. Make it a show.”
Lando blinked, his water bottle pausing mid-air. “A date? Like, what, candlelit dinner and violins? You serious?”
Oscar, arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. “What’s next, matching outfits and a sunset proposal?”
Charlotte smirked, undeterred. “Just grab food somewhere nice. Post a selfie, let the fans lose their minds. You’ve got this.” She waved them off, already typing on her tablet.
Lando groaned, nudging Oscar as they left the paddock. “Fine, but I’m picking the place. Somewhere with killer pasta, none of this date nonsense.”
Oscar snorted. “Sure, mate. Pasta. Totally not a date.”
That evening, they ended up at a rooftop restaurant overlooking Singapore’s harbor, fairy lights twinkling above candlelit tables, the air scented with jasmine and sea salt.
Lando swore it was just for the carbonara, and Oscar nodded along, claiming he’d heard the tiramisu was top-notch. But the intimate vibe—soft music, glittering water, couples murmuring—felt dangerously like Charlotte’s vision.
The host, mistaking them for a real couple, led them to a tiny table for two, chairs so close their knees bumped under the cloth. Neither moved to adjust, the contact sending a quiet thrill through Lando’s veins.
They ordered—Lando picking a creamy fettuccine, Oscar eyeing it with interest. When the plates arrived, Oscar leaned over, fork poised, his voice casual but his eyes teasing. “That looks better than mine. Gimme a bite.”
Lando didn’t just slide the plate over. He twirled a forkful of pasta, holding it out to Oscar with a grin. “Open wide, princess.” Oscar rolled his eyes but leaned in, taking the bite, their gazes locking as his lips closed around the fork. The moment stretched, too long, too charged, the candlelight catching the warmth in Oscar’s eyes. Lando’s throat tightened, his grin faltering as he pulled the fork back, his fingers tingling.
A group of fans at a nearby table noticed them, phones discreetly raised. Lando, catching their stares, leaned back in his chair, voice loud enough to carry. “What? I take all my coworkers out for fancy dinners like this.” He winked, playing it up for the crowd.
Oscar’s lips quirked, his deadpan delivery perfect. “He’s lying. I’m clearly the favorite.” The fans giggled, snapping photos, and Lando laughed, but the words hit deeper, the memory of their kisses making his chest flutter.
The waiter poured them wine, and Lando, buzzed from a single glass, propped his elbows on the table, chin in hand, staring at Oscar with a lazy, lopsided smile. “You’re not bad company, Piastri. For a coworker.” His voice was teasing, but his gaze lingered on Oscar’s jaw, the curve of his lips, the way the fairy lights danced in his eyes.
Oscar pretended to study his plate, but his ankle shifted under the table, brushing Lando’s and staying there, a deliberate press. “Keep staring like that, and people’ll think this is a real date,” he muttered, his voice low, a flush creeping up his neck. Lando’s grin widened, his foot nudging back, the contact a secret conversation under the table.
After dinner, they skipped the car back to the hotel, choosing a slow stroll along the harbor. The streets were quiet, the city’s glow casting long shadows. Their hands brushed as they walked, fingers grazing, but neither pulled away nor closed the gap.
Lando kept stealing glances at Oscar’s lips, the streetlights highlighting their shape, his mind replaying their elevator makeout. Oscar kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, but his quick glances at Lando betrayed his own struggle.
They paused by a tree-lined path, the harbor’s reflection shimmering nearby. Oscar stopped abruptly, turning to Lando, his voice a rough whisper. “Practice.” Before Lando could respond, Oscar pushed him gently against a tree, hands framing Lando’s face, and kissed him.
Lando smiled against Oscar’s lips, a soft laugh escaping as he kissed back, their mouths meeting in a hungry, open-mouthed clash. The kiss was urgent but softer than before, Oscar’s tongue teasing Lando’s, drawing a quiet moan.
Lando’s hands slid to Oscar’s chest, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer, while Oscar’s thumb traced Lando’s jaw, his kisses deepening with a low groan.
They parted, breathless, lips wet, eyes locked in the dim light. Lando’s smile was shaky but bright, his voice teasing. “Solid practice, mate. You’re getting too good at this.” Oscar chuckled, stepping back, his hands lingering on Lando’s arms before dropping.
They walked back to the hotel in silence, the kiss a new weight between them, their hands brushing once more but not quite holding. Lando’s heart raced, the harbor’s glow fading behind them, the promise of more “practice” hanging in the air as Singapore’s night closed in.
****
Its been a few days, Lando and Oscar were in Austin for the race. Their “practice” kisses, once a flimsy excuse to steal moments of closeness, had become a quiet ritual, a pretense they both leaned into without admitting the truth: they weren’t practicing anymore. They just wanted to kiss.
Their dynamic had softened, the edges of their enemies-to-lovers tension smoothed by genuine warmth. In the paddock, Lando’s grins were brighter, aimed at Oscar with a playful ease, while Oscar’s rare smiles came quicker, his dry humor laced with affection.
Their touches lingered—Lando’s fingers brushing Oscar’s wrist during a team briefing, Oscar’s hand grazing Lando’s shoulder as they passed in the garage. Their conversations flowed, no longer just banter but late-night talks about favorite tracks, childhood dreams, and dumb food preferences (Lando still swore off fish). Each kiss, soft and unhurried, felt like a confession neither dared to voice.
In
their Austin hotel, a sleek suite with separate rooms but a shared living area, they found themselves on the couch one evening, the city’s skyline glowing through the window. The excuse was another “practice” session, but the air was different—charged with a tenderness that hadn’t been there before.
Lando straddled Oscar’s lap, his knees bracketing Oscar’s hips, their lips meeting in a slow, deliberate kiss. It was gentle at first, Lando’s hands resting on Oscar’s chest, Oscar’s fingers tracing Lando’s jaw, but the heat built quickly, their mouths moving with a hungry edge, tongues teasing, breaths hitching.
Lando shifted, grinding his ass against Oscar’s lap, feeling the hard press of Oscar’s cock through their jeans. Oscar groaned, a low, rumbling sound, his hands sliding down to squeeze Lando’s ass, firm and possessive, pulling him closer. Lando’s breath caught, a soft moan escaping as he rocked harder, the friction sending sparks through them both.
Their kisses grew messy, lips wet, Oscar’s teeth grazing Lando’s lower lip, drawing another moan. They paused, foreheads pressed together, breaths ragged, a silent reassurance passing between them—this is okay, we’re okay.
Lando slid off Oscar’s lap, dropping to his knees between Oscar’s legs, his eyes dark with want. Oscar’s breath hitched, his hands trembling as he watched Lando undo his jeans, tugging them down.
Oscar’s cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the sight making Lando’s mouth water. It was big, veins prominent, the head flushed and glistening, and Lando’s pulse raced, his own arousal throbbing. He leaned in, lips brushing the tip, tasting salt, before taking Oscar into his mouth, slow at first, savoring the weight.
Oscar’s head tipped back, a guttural moan escaping as Lando worked him, his tongue swirling around the head, then sliding down, taking him deeper. Lando gagged slightly, the thickness stretching his mouth, but he pushed through, his lips slick, saliva dripping as he bobbed, messy and eager.
Oscar’s hands tangled in Lando’s curls, pulling just hard enough to make Lando moan around him, the vibration sending a shudder through Oscar. “Fuck, Lando,” Oscar gasped, his voice rough, hips twitching as Lando sucked harder, cheeks hollowing, gagging again but loving the fullness, the raw intimacy.
Lando’s hands gripped Oscar’s thighs, nails digging in, his eyes watering as he took Oscar deeper, the sloppy sounds filling the room. Oscar’s moans grew louder, desperate, his fingers tightening in Lando’s hair, guiding him. Lando pulled back to swirl his tongue around the tip, then dove back in, relentless, his own cock straining in his jeans.
Oscar’s control snapped, his hips bucking as he came hard, a low groan tearing from his throat. His cum painted Lando’s face, hot and thick, streaking across his cheeks and catching in his eyelashes. Lando looked up, his face flushed, lips swollen, eyes bright, beautiful in the raw aftermath, Oscar’s release marking him like a claim.
Oscar pulled Lando up, crashing their lips together, tasting himself on Lando’s tongue, a hungry edge to the kiss. His mouth moved to Lando’s neck, kissing and sucking the sensitive skin, drawing a soft moan from Lando, whose hands clung to Oscar’s shoulders, his body trembling.
The kisses were slow, reverent, Oscar’s lips lingering where his pulse raced, both of them lost in the moment.
They parted, breathless, Lando’s face still streaked with Oscar’s cum, his eyes dazed. Oscar’s chest heaved, his hands shaky as he wiped Lando’s cheek with a gentle thumb, a silent apology and adoration mixed. Lando grinned, voice hoarse. “Well, that escalated.”
Oscar huffed a laugh, his face flushed. “Yeah, not exactly practice anymore.”
Lando stood, grabbing a tissue to clean his face, his heart pounding. “Top marks, though. You’re welcome.” He winked, but his voice wobbled, the weight of what they’d done sinking in.
Oscar nodded, still catching his breath. “You too, mate.”
They sat in silence, the air heavy with what they wouldn’t say. Lando’s guilt flickered, but the softness between them—the smiles, the touches, this moment—felt too right to regret.
Fuck, that wasn’t supposed to happen.
****
The Austin morning sun streamed through the hotel windows, casting a warm glow over the separate rooms Lando and Oscar occupied, but the memory of their heated encounter the night before—Lando on his knees, Oscar’s hands in his hair, the messy intimacy—burned brighter.
Lando woke with a jolt, his heart racing as he replayed the way Oscar’s moans had filled the room, the taste of him lingering. He scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering, “Get it together, mate,” but the thought of facing Oscar in the paddock made his stomach flip.
Oscar, in his own room, stared at the ceiling, his pulse unsteady. The image of Lando’s face, streaked and beautiful, haunted him, along with the soft kisses that followed. Their softened dynamic—smiles, touches, late-night talks—felt raw now, exposed. He wanted to see Lando, to talk, but the weight of what they’d done kept him quiet, his mind a tangle of want and uncertainty.
At the paddock, the buzz was electric. Every interaction felt loaded—Lando’s hand brushing Oscar’s when passing a water bottle in the garage, Oscar’s fingers grazing Lando’s arm during a strategy huddle.
Lando tried to diffuse it with humor, tossing out, “Oi, Piastri, stop hogging the good pens,” but his laugh was too loud, his eyes darting to Oscar’s lips. Oscar’s response was a quiet glance, his usual dry wit replaced by a look so intense it made Lando’s knees weak.
Media day brought them to a sponsor event at a local BBQ joint, the air thick with the scent of smoked brisket and tangy sauce. They were seated at a long table, pressed close among other drivers and team reps, their knees knocking under the checkered tablecloth.
The proximity was torture, each accidental brush sending a spark through Lando, who leaned in to whisper a joke about the presenter’s cowboy hat. “Mate, he’s one yee-haw from riding a bull,” Lando murmured, his breath tickling Oscar’s ear.
Oscar snorted, whispering back, “Bet he’s got spurs under the table.” Their laughter caught the cameras, heads tilted close, eyes crinkling, and the photos went viral instantly, fans swooning over their “chemistry.” Lando’s knee stayed pressed against Oscar’s, neither shifting away, the contact a silent anchor.
Mid-interview, Lando noticed a smudge of BBQ sauce at the corner of Oscar’s mouth, his thumb moving before his brain caught up, wiping it gently. Oscar froze, his eyes locking onto Lando’s, the gesture innocent but screaming intimacy to anyone watching.
Lando realized too late how it looked, his hand dropping as he laughed it off. “What a messy eater, cant take you anywhere.” The table chuckled, but Oscar’s gaze lingered, a flush creeping up his neck, the moment charged with the memory of last night.
The event dragged on, and when a crowd of fans gathered outside, Lando and Oscar slipped out the back to avoid the chaos, finding themselves in a narrow alley behind the restaurant. The space was cramped, brick walls closing them in, the distant hum of Austin’s nightlife barely audible.
Lando leaned against the wall, his heart racing, and tried to start a conversation about last night. “So, uh, about… you know, the couch thing,” he said, his voice low, scratching the back of his neck.
Oscar stepped closer, his eyes dark, voice quiet. “Yeah. That was… a lot.” He paused, his hand twitching as if to reach out, the air between them heavy with unspoken want. Lando’s breath hitched, his gaze dropping to Oscar’s lips, the memory of their kisses—soft, desperate, heated—pulling them closer.
Without a word, they leaned in, lips inches apart, the heat of their breaths mingling. Lando’s hand brushed Oscar’s chest, fingers curling into his shirt, while Oscar’s palm grazed Lando’s hip, their bodies tilting toward a kiss that promised to be as intense as the night before.
The almost was electric, hotter than any actual touch, their eyes locked, pulses racing, the tension a knife’s edge.
Voices from the end of the alley—fans or staff, it wasn’t clear—shattered the moment, forcing them apart. Lando laughed, shaky, running a hand through his curls. “Bloody timing, eh?”
Oscar’s smile was tight, his voice rough. “Yeah. Always.” They stepped back, the near-kiss burning brighter than the one they didn’t take, the want between them a fire that wouldn’t die.
****
The Austin Grand Prix had wrapped, leaving Lando and Oscar riding the high of another strong McLaren showing—Oscar in P2, Lando just behind in P3—under the Texas sun. Their softened dynamic—gentle smiles, lingering touches, and the unspoken truth that their “practice” kisses were anything but—hung heavy between them as they parted ways post-race.
Lando headed back to Monaco for a quick break, while Oscar flew to Florida to visit Logan Sargeant’s family, a second home for him during his F1 journey.
The Sargeant household in Fort Lauderdale was a warm contrast to the paddock’s chaos, filled with the smell of grilled burgers and the sound of Logan’s family laughing in the backyard.
Logan, now a reserve driver but still a close friend, welcomed Oscar with a bear hug, his easy grin a reminder of their shared karting days. The family treated Oscar like one of their own, his mom piling his plate with food, his dad cracking jokes about Oscar’s “fancy F1 life.” But as the evening settled, Oscar and Logan slipped away to the porch, beers in hand, the humid Florida air wrapping around them.
Logan leaned back in his chair, eyeing Oscar with a knowing look. “So, mate, what’s the deal with you and Lando? The internet’s losing it over your little ‘romance.’” He air-quoted the word, his tone light but probing. Logan knew the Landoscar shtick was a PR stunt, cooked up by McLaren to milk fan hype, but he’d seen the photos—the podium kiss, the BBQ closeness—and sensed something more.
Oscar took a long sip of his beer, his gaze fixed on the fireflies blinking in the yard. “It’s just… the team thing, you know? Fake it for the fans, keep Charlotte happy.” His voice was casual, but his fingers tightened around the bottle, the memory of Lando’s lips, his moans, the Austin couch flooding back.
Logan raised an eyebrow, not buying it. “Sure, fake. But you two are looking pretty cozy. That sauce-wiping move? Looked like you were about to elope.” He chuckled, but his eyes were serious, searching. “You’re getting in deep, Osc. This fake relationship’s got an expiration date. What happens when McLaren pulls the plug?”
Oscar’s stomach twisted, Logan’s words hitting a nerve he’d been ignoring. He forced a laugh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Mate, you’re overthinking it. We’re just having fun, messing around. It’s not serious.”
But even as he said it, his mind flashed to Lando’s bright grin, the way his hands felt, the way their kisses felt too real. Deep down, he knew Logan was right—their “practice” was a lie they both leaned into, and the end was looming.
Logan shook his head, setting his beer down. “Fun’s fine, but you’re not just mates anymore, are you? I’ve seen you look at him, Osc. You’re catching feelings, and that’s gonna hurt when this blows up. Fake or not, you can’t keep pretending it’s nothing.”
Oscar’s jaw tightened, his eyes dropping to the porch floor. He wanted to brush it off, to say Logan was reading too much into it, but the truth clawed at him.
Every kiss, every touch, every late-night talk with Lando had chipped away at the pretense, leaving something raw and undeniable. “It’s under control,” he said finally, his voice quieter, less convincing. “We’re good.”
Logan sighed, leaning back, his concern clear but unspoken. “Just… watch yourself, yeah? I don’t want you getting hurt.”
The conversation shifted to lighter topics—Logan’s plans, old karting stories—but Oscar’s mind stayed stuck, replaying Logan’s warning. As he lay in the guest room that night, the Florida humidity pressing in, he stared at the ceiling, Lando’s face flashing in his mind—his laugh, his touch, the way he’d looked after their Austin moment.
The fake relationship was a ticking clock, but Oscar couldn’t shake the feeling that what he and Lando had was starting to feel like something real—and that scared him more than any race.
****
The Florida sun was relentless, its late-afternoon heat seeping into the Sargeant family’s backyard where Oscar sat, still reeling from his conversation with Logan the night before. Logan’s reality check about their fake relationship—a PR stunt with an expiration date—had cracked Oscar’s carefully built walls, leaving him wrestling with feelings he couldn’t name.
The warmth of Logan’s family, with their easy laughter and home-cooked meals, was a comfort, but Oscar’s mind was elsewhere, tethered to Monaco where Lando was taking a break.
His phone buzzed on the wooden table, pulling him from his thoughts. A text from Lando lit up the screen: 'You alive, mate? Or did Florida eat you?' The words were classic Lando, playful and prodding, and Oscar’s lips twitched into a smile despite the ache in his chest.
He typed back, leaning back in his chair, the sound of cicadas filling the air. 'Still kicking. Florida’s got nothing on me. You surviving?' He hit send, picturing Lando’s chaotic energy, probably sprawled somewhere with a smoothie and a grin.
Another buzz. Barely. 'Too many fancy yachts, not enough you to mock them with'. A selfie followed—Lando cozy in his bed, hair a mess of curls, wearing a soft gray hoodie, the Monaco daylight streaming through his window. His smile was lazy, eyes crinkling, and he looked unfairly inviting, the sheets rumpled around him like an open invitation.
Oscar’s heart stuttered, a sudden, sharp wish hitting him: he wanted to be there, curled up next to Lando, trading soft kisses, his arms wrapped around him, feeling the warmth of his laugh against his skin.
He swallowed hard, typing instead, 'Nice bedhead. You planning to scare the locals with that?' His fingers hesitated, the urge to say something real—I miss you—clawing at him, but Logan’s warning echoed. He pushed the thought down, keeping it light.
Lando’s reply came fast. 'Oi, this is peak style. Bet you’re jealous in your flip-flops and sunburn'. Another text followed, quick and cheeky. 'What’s Logan feeding you? Alligator nuggets?'
Oscar chuckled, the sound catching the attention of Logan’s mom, who glanced over with a smile. 'Just burgers. You’d approve, no fish in sight.' He paused, then added, 'You look comfy. Saving a spot for me?' The words slipped out, bolder than he meant, and he stared at the screen, heart racing, hoping Lando would take it as a joke.
A pause, then Lando’s reply: 'Plenty of room, mate. Bring your own pillow, though'. A winking emoji followed, and Oscar’s chest tightened, imagining Lando’s teasing grin, the way his lips felt.
He wanted to crawl through the phone, to tangle his hands in Lando’s curls, to kiss him slow and deep until they forgot the world.
Instead, he sent, 'Deal. But I’m stealing your hoodie.' He set the phone down, his smile fading as he stared out at the Florida dusk. Logan’s words gnawed at him—this was supposed to be fake, a game for the fans, but every text, every glance, every kiss with Lando felt like a truth he couldn’t ignore.
He leaned back, closing his eyes, wishing he was in Monaco, in that bed, with Lando’s warmth against him, their laughter blending into something softer, something real.
Across the ocean, Lando stared at his phone, the selfie and their banter replaying in his mind. He pulled the hoodie tighter, his heart doing a stupid flip at Oscar’s words. The memory of their Austin night flickered, but the longing was stronger.
He wanted Oscar here, sprawled beside him, trading dumb jokes and softer touches. But with the next race was near, and the clock ticking, Lando wondered how long they could keep pretending this was just for show.
*****
The Formula 1 season was nearing its end, the air charged with the weight of races run and points tallied, but for Lando and Oscar, the real tension was the unspoken pull between them. With the Abu Dhabi finale looming, the F1 organizers threw a lavish black-tie gala in Monaco, a glittering affair to celebrate the season.
Lando and Oscar, separated for a week since Austin—Lando in Monaco, Oscar in Florida with Logan’s family—were set to reunite, the distance only sharpening their longing.
The Monaco ballroom was a vision of opulence, chandeliers casting golden light over polished floors, drivers and team members mingling in tailored suits and gowns. Oscar arrived first, his navy suit sharp, his nerves on edge as he scanned the crowd. When Lando walked in, Oscar’s breath caught.
Lando wore a sleek black suit, fitted to perfection, his curls tamed but his grin as boyish as ever. The sight hit Oscar like a qualifying lap, his heart racing—Lando wasn’t just handsome, he was radiant, the suit accentuating his lean frame, his eyes catching the light.
They met near the bar, the hum of the gala fading as they faced each other. “Hey, Osc,” Lando said softly, his voice warm, a shy smile tugging his lips.
“Hey,” Oscar replied, his tone equally soft, his eyes locked on Lando’s. He wanted to drag him away, to kiss him until they forgot the crowd, but he settled for standing close, their shoulders almost brushing.
“You look… beautiful,” Oscar said, the word slipping out before he could stop it, meant to be handsome but somehow more honest. His cheeks warmed, but he didn’t take it back.
Lando’s eyes widened, a flush spreading across his face, his grin turning bashful. “Beautiful, huh? Not the first time you’ve seen me in a suit, Piastri.” His teasing was light, but his voice trembled, betraying how much the compliment landed.
Oscar’s gaze softened, his voice low. “Yeah, but tonight’s different. You’re… different.” He meant it—Lando in this moment, under the gala’s glow, felt like a new discovery, a pull Oscar couldn’t resist.
They grabbed drinks—whiskey for Oscar, gin for Lando—and tried to mingle, weaving through the crowd. Daniel tossed a playful, “Oi, lovebirds, save some charm for the rest of us,” while Charles smirked, “You two are stealing the show.” Each tease made Lando laugh, but his eyes kept finding Oscar’s, their hands brushing as they passed a tray of canapés, the contact lingering like a promise.
The band shifted to a slow, soulful melody, couples drifting to the dance floor. Before they could escape, Daniel and Carlos pushed them forward, grinning. “Go on, give the people what they want!” Daniel said, winking.
Lando’s face went pink, but he didn’t protest, wrapping his arms around Oscar’s neck, his fingers grazing the short hairs at his nape. Oscar’s hands settled on Lando’s waist, firm and warm, pulling him close as they swayed, their movements slow, eyes locked with a tenderness that felt too real.
“So… how was Florida?” Lando asked, his voice soft, almost drowned by the music.
Oscar’s lips curved, his thumbs brushing Lando’s sides. “Nice. Family vibes, good food. You?”
Lando’s grin was cheeky, but his eyes were earnest. “Boring without you.” The words hung between them, raw and unguarded.
Oscar’s breath hitched, his grip tightening slightly. They paused, the world narrowing to their shared gaze, the music a distant hum. Lando’s hands tightened on Oscar’s neck, and without a word, he tugged Oscar away from the crowd, weaving through the gala to a quiet corner behind a velvet curtain, the ballroom’s glow muted.
Lando pushed Oscar against the wall, his hands framing Oscar’s face, and kissed him, a hungry, aching clash of lips. Their mouths moved in sync, chasing each other’s taste, the week apart fueling their need. Lando’s tongue teased Oscar’s, savoring the whiskey warmth, a soft moan escaping as Oscar kissed back, his hands sliding to Lando’s hips, pulling him closer.
The kiss was a dance of longing, lips parting and meeting again, wet and urgent, each taste a reminder of what they’d missed. Oscar’s fingers dug into Lando’s suit, Lando’s hands slipping into Oscar’s hair, tugging lightly, their breaths mingling in quiet gasps.
Lando pulled back, his lips glistening, eyes dark with want. He leaned in, whispering against Oscar’s ear, voice low and teasing, “We should get out of here. My apartment’s not far.”
****
The Monaco streets were a blur as Lando and Oscar stumbled out of the gala, lips locked, hands roaming, the electric pull of their corner kiss driving them wild. Hailing a taxi was a challenge with Lando’s mouth on Oscar’s neck, sucking lightly, his breath hot and teasing.
“Keep that up, and we’re not making it home,” Oscar muttered, voice rough, flagging down a cab with one hand while the other gripped Lando’s waist. Thank God for Monaco’s no-paparazzi policy, or their Landoscar saga would’ve been plastered across every tabloid by morning.
In the taxi, they were a tangle of want, Lando’s hand sliding up Oscar’s thigh, Oscar’s fingers digging into Lando’s hip, their breaths heavy in the dark. They barely kept it together, stealing quick, hungry kisses, mindful of the driver’s occasional glance in the rearview.
By the time they reached Lando’s apartment building, they were buzzing, stumbling into the elevator, where restraint snapped. Lando pushed Oscar against the wall, kissing him hard, tongues clashing, hands roaming under tuxedo jackets. Oscar groaned, pulling Lando closer, the ding of the elevator barely registering as they spilled out toward Lando’s door.
Inside the apartment, the air was thick with need. Lando yanked at Oscar’s tuxedo, fingers fumbling with buttons, tearing open his shirt to reveal the lean planes of his chest. “Fuck, Osc, you’re killing me,” Lando breathed, his voice raw as Oscar’s lips found his neck, licking a slow, deliberate stripe along his pulse. The taste—salt and skin—drove Lando wild, his groan vibrating against Oscar’s throat. “Love how you taste” he murmured, teeth grazing, making Oscar shiver.
The bedroom felt miles away, urgency overtaking them. Oscar pushed Lando onto the plush carpet of the living room floor, the city’s glow filtering through the windows. He stripped Lando’s suit jacket, shirt, and tie, tossing them aside, his hands greedy for skin.
“Fuck, baby,” Oscar groaned, lips trailing down Lando’s chest, kissing every inch—collarbone, nipples, the dip of his stomach—savoring the way Lando arched into him, his cock straining against his trousers, pressing into Oscar’s chest. Trembling, the petname clearly having an affect on him.
“So fucking gorgeous,” Oscar whispered, voice thick with awe, the moment teetering on something deeper, like love woven into lust.
Lando’s hands fisted Oscar’s hair, his moans soft but desperate. “Osc, I want you so bad,” he gasped, eyes locked on Oscar’s, the raw need mirrored between them. Oscar tugged Lando’s trousers down, groaning at the sight—Lando’s cock, hard and flushed, nestled in dark, curly pubes, as beautiful as the man himself. He kissed the tip, a slow, reverent press, tasting the salty bead of precum, but his plans went further.
He spread Lando’s legs, revealing the pink, puckered hole, and leaned in, kissing it softly. Lando’s body jolted, a stuttered gasp escaping as Oscar’s tongue lapped, slow and sloppy, rimming him with hungry precision. “Fuck, Lan, you taste so good,” Oscar growled, his tongue delving inside, opening Lando up, relishing every shudder and moan.
Lando’s hands gripped Oscar’s hair, grounding him, his voice breaking. “Osc, shit, don’t stop.” His moans filled the room, loud and unrestrained, as Oscar ate him out, tongue and lips working in messy tandem, lapping at Lando’s sensitive rim. Oscar pulled back, face glistening, and asked, “Baby, where’s the lube?”
Lando, dazed, pointed weakly at a drawer by the sofa. “There,” he panted. Oscar grabbed the lube and a condom, slicking his fingers and sliding one in alongside his tongue, curling it to hit the spot that made Lando cry out, a desperate, keening sound.
“Fuck, Osc, you’re gonna kill me,” Lando whined, his hips bucking as Oscar added a second finger, then a third, stretching him, loving how loud Lando was, each moan a spark to Oscar’s own arousal.
“Osc, please, I need you,” Lando cried, tears pricking his eyes, his body trembling under Oscar’s fingers and tongue. Oscar pulled back, his face slick with lube and saliva, and smiled, kissing Lando hard, letting him taste himself, their tongues tangling in a messy, emotional clash.
He reached for the condom, but Lando’s hand stopped him, voice raw. “I want you raw, please. I’m clean—tested last week.”
Oscar’s breath hitched, his own tests clear, the thought of feeling Lando bare overwhelming. “Fuck, baby, you sure?” he asked, voice thick. Lando nodded, eyes pleading, and Oscar slicked his bare cock—thick, heavy, aching—and pushed into Lando’s tight heat.
Lando gasped, nails digging into Oscar’s back, eyes watering at the stretch, but the burn was perfect, grounding, a mix of pain and pleasure that felt like them.
Oscar paused, letting Lando adjust, their foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling. “You okay, Lando?” he whispered, voice soft, reverent. Lando nodded, legs wrapping around Oscar’s waist, pulling him closer. “Move, Osc, please.”
Oscar started slow, thrusting deep, then faster, harder, his balls slapping against Lando’s ass, the sound filthy and intoxicating. He buried his face in Lando’s neck, licking the salty sweat and tears, mumbling, “So fucking perfect, baby, you feel so good.”
Lando’s moans grew louder, his voice raw. “Osc, so good—fuck me harder.” Oscar obliged, shifting to his knees, Lando’s ass in the air, one hand gripping Lando’s hip, the other stroking his leaking cock, slick with precum.
“Love this, baby, love how you take me,” Oscar groaned, fucking into Lando mercilessly, the carpet burning Lando’s knees, the pain adding to the intensity. Lando’s cries were desperate, “Fuck, Osc, I love it,” his body trembling, chasing the edge.
Oscar’s thrusts grew erratic, his hand pumping Lando’s cock in time, and they came hard, together. "Fuck, Lando." Oscar groaned as he filled Lando, his cum hot and deep, a claim that felt like love.
Lando’s release spilled onto the carpet, his body shaking, blissed out and fucked raw. Oscar stayed inside for a moment, savoring the connection, then pulled out, his cum dripping from Lando’s stretched hole, a sight that made his chest ache with want and something deeper.
Lando lay panting, eyes glassy, a lazy smile on his face. Oscar leaned down, kissing him softly, lips lingering, a gentle contrast to the raw intensity. He grabbed a towel from the bathroom, cleaning Lando gently, then fetched pillows and a blanket from the bedroom.
He laid Lando on the pillows, wrapping them in the blanket, big-spooning him on the living room floor. Oscar kissed Lando’s neck, soft and slow, murmuring, “You’re unreal.”
Lando chuckled, voice hoarse, nuzzling back. “Fuck, Osc, you broke me.” Oscar’s laugh was warm, his arms tightening around Lando, their bodies pressed close, hearts still racing.
They fell asleep on the carpet, tangled together, the season’s end looming but this moment—their closeness, their raw connection—feeling like something worth fighting for.
****
The Monaco morning light filtered through Lando’s apartment, casting a soft glow over the living room floor where he and Oscar lay tangled in a blanket, limbs entwined after their intense night.
Lando stirred first, a dull ache in his body reminding him of Oscar’s relentless passion on the carpet. He shifted, wincing slightly, and Oscar’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze soft but alert.
“You okay?” Oscar murmured, voice husky with sleep, his hand brushing Lando’s arm, noticing the wince. He pressed gentle kisses along Lando’s forearm, then up to his neck, soft and soothing, lips lingering on the warm skin. “Sore, huh?”
Lando chuckled, a bit embarrassed, nuzzling into Oscar’s chest. “Yeah, you went all in last night." His voice was teasing, but the warmth of Oscar’s kisses made his heart flutter, the tenderness grounding him.
They stayed tangled, Oscar’s arms wrapping tighter around Lando, big-spooning him as they lay on the pillows. The quiet was comfortable, filled with the soft rhythm of their breathing.
They talked, voices low—about the gala’s ridiculous opulence, Oscar’s love for Monaco’s coffee shops, Lando’s obsession with sim racing. But the ease gave way to something heavier when Lando’s voice dropped, his fingers tracing circles on Oscar’s wrist.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” Lando said, his tone hesitant, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Back in Suzuka… I, uh, did something.” He swallowed, heart pounding, the guilt he’d buried for weeks clawing up. “I… jerked off next to you while you were sleeping. And I kissed you. Without you knowing. I’m sorry, Osc. I shouldn’t have.”
He braced for anger, his stomach twisting, terrified Oscar would pull away. But when he dared to glance over, Oscar’s eyes were dark, not with anger but with something else—heat, desire. Oscar shifted, his voice low and rough. “Fuck, Lando, that’s… kinda hot.” His lips curved into a smirk, his hand tightening on Lando’s waist. “If you weren’t so sore, I’d fuck you again right now, baby.”
Lando’s eyes widened, a laugh bursting out, relief flooding him. “You’re a freak, Piastri,” he teased, leaning in to kiss Oscar, a slow, lingering press of lips, soft but charged with their shared vulnerability. Oscar kissed back, hand cupping Lando’s face, the moment a mix of forgiveness and want.
They untangled reluctantly, the ache in Lando’s body making him groan as he stood. “Shower?” Oscar suggested, his grin playful. They stumbled to the bathroom, shedding the blanket, and stepped under the warm spray together.
It wasn’t heated, just intimate—Oscar’s hands gentle as he washed Lando’s back, Lando laughing as he flicked soap suds at Oscar’s face. “You’re gonna regret that,” Oscar warned, splashing back, their laughter echoing off the tiles.
Wrapped in towels, they moved to the kitchen, lost in domestic bliss. Lando cracked eggs into a pan, Oscar slicing fruit, their movements easy, like a dance they’d done a hundred times.
“You’re shit at cutting mangoes,” Lando teased, nudging Oscar’s hip. Oscar smirked, tossing a strawberry at him. “Says the guy burning the eggs.” They ate at the counter, knees touching, stealing bites from each other’s plates, the morning feeling like a bubble they never wanted to burst.
Until Lando’s phone buzzed, shattering the spell. A text from Charlotte: 'Team meeting in an hour. Be there.' Lando groaned, tossing the phone down. “Bloody Charlotte, always ruining the mood.”
Oscar chuckled, but his eyes lingered on Lando, the weight of the season’s end and their unspoken feelings settling in. “Guess we’ve got a race to win,” he said, but his hand brushed Lando’s, a silent promise to hold onto this, whatever it was.
****
The Monaco morning after Lando and Oscar’s raw, carpet-bound night of passion was a fragile bubble, their tender cuddles and confessions still warm in their minds.
But the Formula 1 season’s end was closing in, the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix just days away, and the weight of their PR stuntl hung heavy. The reality of their connection, blurred by genuine affection, was about to face a brutal test.
In a sleek Monaco conference room, McLaren’s team gathered for a pre-Abu Dhabi strategy meeting, the air thick with the hum of race prep. Lando sat slouched, doodling on a notepad, his usual energy dimmed, while Oscar sat opposite, hands folded, his calm facade hiding a racing heart.
Their eyes met briefly, a flicker of their morning intimacy—soft kisses, shared showers—but neither spoke, the unspoken depth of their feelings a quiet storm.
Charlotte stood at the head of the table, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Final race coming up, team. We’ve crushed it with #LandoScar—fans are obsessed—but with the season ending, it’s time to ease off. We’ll let it fade after Abu Dhabi, keep it organic.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, her eyes on her tablet, oblivious to the bomb she’d dropped.
Lando’s pen froze, his breath catching as the words sank in. The fake relationship, the excuse for their kisses, their touches, their nights—it was all meant to end. His chest tightened, the memory of Oscar’s arms around him, their whispered confessions, suddenly fragile. He nodded silently, jaw tight, and stood, muttering, “Understood,” before slipping out of the room, the door closing softly behind him.
Oscar sat rooted, his heart plummeting. Logan’s Florida warning echoed, sharp and cruel: This fake relationship’s got an expiration date. Fuck, maybe Logan was right. Lando’s quiet exit, his lack of fight, twisted in Oscar’s gut like a knife.
Maybe Lando doesn’t want me like I want him. The thought burned, raw and aching, because in that moment, Oscar knew—he was in love with Lando fucking Norris. His laugh, his vulnerability, the way he felt so right in his arms—it was all real, and now it was slipping away.
Hurt flooded him, confusion tangling his thoughts. Was this really over? Every moment—their banter, their closeness, their Monaco night—felt like more than a charade, but Lando’s silence screamed doubt. Oscar’s hands clenched under the table, his mind racing. He needed space, needed to pull back from Lando before this love, this ache, tore him apart.
The meeting droned on, Charlotte’s voice a distant hum as Oscar stared at the empty chair where Lando had been. The season’s end was near, but the real end—the one between them—felt closer, and Oscar wasn’t sure he could face it.
****
The Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, the final race of the Formula 1 season, loomed over Yas Marina Circuit like a storm cloud, its glittering lights unable to pierce the heavy tension between Lando and Oscar.
The Monaco meeting, where Charlotte announced the end of their fake relationship, had shattered their fragile bubble, leaving their real feelings—forged through tender mornings and stolen nights—exposed and raw. Both believed the other didn’t want what they had, their stubborn pride and hurt building walls neither knew how to scale.
Qualifying was a triumph for McLaren, with Lando securing P2 and Oscar a close P3, their laps razor-sharp under the desert twilight. The team celebrated, fans chanting their names, but Lando and Oscar avoided each other’s gaze, their usual post-quali banter replaced by clipped nods and forced smiles.
In the paddock, Lando lingered with engineers, diving into data to dodge Oscar, while Oscar stuck to the garage’s far side, his focus on tire strategy a flimsy shield against the ache in his chest.
Lando thought Oscar’s silence meant he didn’t care, that their Monaco night was just a fleeting thrill. 'Why cry over spoiled milk?' he told himself, jaw tight, but the hurt gnawed at him. He yearned for Oscar’s touch, his laugh, but the fear of rejection kept him distant, anger masking his longing.
Oscar, meanwhile, was drowning in his own pain, convinced Lando’s quiet exit in Monaco meant he didn’t feel the same. 'If he wanted me, he’d fight for it,' Oscar thought, his confusion fueling a stubborn resolve to move on, even as his heart screamed for Lando.
In his driver’s room, Lando sat alone, the hum of the paddock muffled through the door. His P2 result should’ve felt like a victory, but all he could think about was Oscar’s absence—no texts, no glances, no fight to keep them together.
His eyes stung, and he let the tears fall, silent and hot, curling into himself on the couch. He wanted Oscar to barge in, to argue, to pull him close, but the door stayed shut, and the emptiness cut deeper than any crash.
Across the paddock, Oscar sat in his own room, staring at the floor, his P3 time meaningless. The memory of Lando’s warmth, his vulnerability, haunted him, but Lando’s silence in Monaco felt like a rejection. 'He doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want me.'
The realization hurt, a sharp, twisting pain, and though he yearned to run to Lando, to demand answers, his pride held him back. Anger and confusion swirled, but beneath it, love lingered, unacknowledged but undeniable.
They needed to talk, to unravel the misunderstanding knotting their hearts, but neither would budge. Lando wiped his tears, forcing a grin as he left for a team photo, while Oscar steeled himself, heading to a strategy briefing, both pretending they could move on.
The race day loomed, but the real battle was the one they weren’t fighting—together.
****
The Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, the final race of the Formula 1 season, glittered under the lights, the desert night alive with anticipation. Lando and Oscar, still reeling from the Monaco meeting’s gut-punch announcement, hadn’t spoken since qualifying, their P2 and P3 grid slots a testament to their skill but not their hearts.
The misunderstanding—each believing the other didn’t want what they’d built—had left them angry, hurting, and yearning, their avoidance a stubborn shield against the truth.
Before climbing into their cars, they stood in the McLaren garage, helmets in hand, eyes meeting across the chaos of mechanics. Lando’s gaze was soft, tinged with longing, while Oscar’s was guarded but aching, a flicker of their Monaco night—tangled limbs, whispered confessions—passing between them. Neither spoke, but the look said everything: I miss you, I want you. They turned away, climbing into their cars, the race their only outlet.
The battle was fierce, a dance of precision and grit. Oscar drove like a man possessed, weaving through the field to claim P1, while Lando fought tooth and nail for P2, a McLaren one-two that sent the crowd into a frenzy.
As they climbed from their cars, Lando’s heart swelled with genuine pride for Oscar, despite their silence. He caught Oscar’s eyes, offering a small, sincere smile, and Oscar’s nod in return held a warmth that cracked his walls.
On the podium, the champagne sprayed under the floodlights, the crowd roaring for their drivers. Lando laughed, aiming his bottle at Oscar, who grinned, retaliating with a wild spray.
It was a mirror of their first podium moment, back when Lando had slipped and kissed Oscar by accident, sparking this whole saga. But this time, it was Oscar who lost his footing, the slick podium catching him off-guard. He stumbled forward, crashing into Lando, his lips pressing against Lando’s in a sudden, unintended echo of that first kiss.
The crowd gasped, then cheered, but Lando and Oscar froze, the world narrowing to the point where their lips met. Unlike that first frantic pull-away, Oscar didn’t retreat. His hands found Lando’s face, cupping his cheeks gently, and he kissed him again, deliberate and tender. Lando’s eyes fluttered shut, his hands gripping Oscar’s race suit, kissing back with a softness that felt like coming home.
Their lips moved slowly, savoring each brush, each breath, the champagne on their tongues mingling with the quiet ache of weeks apart. It was gentle, unhurried, a promise woven into every touch, the podium lights casting a halo around them.
Lando pulled back first, his forehead resting against Oscar’s, their breaths mingling, eyes locked in the quiet after the storm. “I love you,” Lando whispered, voice trembling but sure, the words raw and unguarded, spilling from a heart too full to hold back.
Oscar’s smile was radiant, his eyes shining with unshed tears, the trophy in his hands forgotten as he held Lando closer, his real trophy, his real victory. “I love you too,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion, his thumb brushing Lando’s jaw, grounding them both.
The crowd roared, cameras flashing, but Charlotte’s voice cut through, shrill and panicked. “Boys! The PR plan!” She was practically having a heart attack, her tablet forgotten as she waved frantically from the sidelines. But Lando and Oscar didn’t care, their foreheads still pressed together, smiles soft and defiant.
The Landoscar stunt was over, but this—this was real, a love fought for through misunderstandings and silences, sealed on a podium with slip and an accidental kiss, where it all began.
It was back to square one but this time—it was real.