Chapter Text
And think about it he had. All afternoon, really. The whole thing felt ridiculous when he replayed it in his head the argument in the garage, the clipped words, the way Oscar wouldn’t even look at him after qualifying. Lando had tried to laugh it off when the cameras were around, tried to pretend it was just another flare up of their so called “rivalry”, the thing everyone loved so much. But the moment the door shut behind him, when the noise of the paddock faded and he was alone with the buzzing in his ears, it had stopped being funny.
He kept telling himself Oscar would cool off. He always did. Except this time felt different. Sharper. Like something had splintered just a little too cleanly for them to ignore.
Lando knew why he cared why Oscar brushing past him without a word had hit like a punch. It wasn’t just about qualifying. It was never just about that. It was the way they’d been orbiting each other for months, drawn in by something neither of them ever named out loud. A stupid, quiet thing lodged in his chest, one he tried to smother every time he caught himself staring too long.
He sits down heavily on the edge of the hotel bed. The bed, since the receptionist had apologized at least five times about the “unexpected booking error.” As if sharing a room was the problem. As if the single mattress wasn’t the real disaster waiting to happen.
He swallows hard, running a hand through his hair.
Oscar’s silence had followed him here like a shadow, lingering in the corners of the room, crawling under his skin. It frustrated him, how much it bothered him. How much Oscar bothered him. How quickly one look or lack of one could unravel him and leave him so vulnerable.
But what unsettled him most was that he couldn’t tell if Oscar was angry..or hurt.
And that distinction mattered far more than he wanted to admit.
So that’s how Lando finds himself here, sitting in a room he never meant to share, staring at the door like it holds every answer he’s been avoiding. Because Oscar is coming back at some point, and when he does, Lando knows there won’t be anywhere left to hide from him, or from whatever’s been simmering between them for far too long.
_____
The door clicks.
Oscar storms in, running a hand through his hair, muttering something sharp under his breath. He doesn’t even see Lando at first just kicks his suitcase toward the closet and starts pacing.
Great.
He doesn’t say anything. Not a greeting, Nothing. Silence fills the room as Oscar drops his keycard on the table, shrugs off his jacket, and continues pacing.
Lando forces the words out. “What happened?”
Oscar stops.
Looks at him.
And Lando’s breath catches because he knows this isn’t anger this is frustration, disappointment, something deeper bleeding through the cracks.
“Everyone kept asking what happened in qualifying,” Oscar says, voice hoarse. “And they all think it’s because of you.”
Lando freezes. “Oscar I never-“
“Oh, spare me,” Oscar says, standing abruptly. “You don’t get to say things like that and then expect everything to magically fix itself.”
Lando bristles. “I wasn’t trying to fix anything. I was being honest.”
“That’s new,” Oscar snaps. “You usually only get honest when you’ve already screwed something up.”
Lando’s jaw tightens. “Right, because you’re perfect.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Lando steps closer, heat rising in his chest. “You act like I’m some villain ruining your whole season.”
Oscar lets out a short, bitter laugh. “If the shoe fits.”
Lando feels something flare hot behind his ribs. “You think I want to fight with you?”
“You seem pretty damn good at it.”
“Oh, come on—” Lando’s voice rises before he can catch it. “You’re the one who stormed off in the garage! You didn’t even look at me.”
“Why would I? You already got what you wanted.” Oscar folds his arms. “Another qualifying where you’re ahead and I look like the idiot.”
Lando scoffs. “You think I care about that? That I’m sitting there celebrating because I beat you?”
Oscar’s eyes flash. “Isn’t that what rivals do?”
The word hits harder than Lando expects.
Rivals.
As if that’s all they’ve ever been.
As if that’s all Oscar lets them be.
Lando’s throat goes tight, frustration and something else curling inside him like smoke.
“You know what?” he says, biting the words out. “Maybe we should be rivals.”
Oscar raises a brow. “We already are.”
“No,” Lando says, stepping closer, too close, close enough he feels Oscar freeze. “We’re something else, and you know it. That’s why you get so pissed.”
Oscar’s breath stutters, but only for a second.
Then he forces a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I get pissed because you’re annoying.”
“And you’re impossible.”
“And you,” Oscar fires back, “think everything revolves around you.”
“And you pretend like nothing ever gets to you, except me.”
Silence.
Electric.
Loaded.
Oscar’s jaw clenches, a muscle twitching. “We’re teammates, Lando. Not—”
Lando cuts him off. “Rivals. Right. That’s the story, isn’t it?”
Oscar lifts his chin. “It’s the truth.”
“Sure,” Lando mutters. “If that helps you sleep.”
Oscar steps in, breaking the last inch of space between them, chests almost brushing, breath mingling, tension snapping tight like a wire.
“I sleep just fine,” he says quietly. “You’re not that important.”
Lando’s pulse jumps. “Lie again.”
Oscar doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
But his breathing changes, just slightly.
Just enough.
Then—
Their shoulders brush as Oscar pushes past him, heading toward the bathroom with a sharp flick of the light, clearly intending to slam the door behind him.
But he stops.
Doesn’t turn around.
Doesn’t speak.
Just stands there, gripping the doorframe like he’s holding himself back from something.
Something dangerous.
Something real.
Lando’s had enough.
Oscar gripping the doorframe like he’s holding himself back from something, the bickering , the way everything between them feels like a match dragged across sandpaper—it all hits him at once.
He walks toward the door, jaw tight.
“Forget it,” he mutters. “I’m not doing this with you.”
Oscar doesn’t turn around. “Doing what?”
“You know exactly what,” Lando snaps. “I’m not staying in here just to be your punching bag because you had a bad day.”
“Ironic,” Oscar says, voice flat, “I thought you liked the attention.”
Lando laughs once, short, bitter.
“Yeah. Love it.”
He grabs his jacket off the chair, movements sharp, controlled only in the way someone barely holding it together can be. Oscar still doesn’t turn around, and the refusal digs under Lando’s skin more than yelling ever could.
“Where are you going?” Oscar asks, finally, not concerned, but not indifferent either. Something in between. Something messy.
“Out,” Lando says. “Anywhere that isn’t here.”
Oscar’s hand tightens around the doorframe.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“And you’re being impossible.”
Oscar huffs. “You can’t just run away every time—”
“Don’t,” Lando cuts in, turning just long enough to look at Oscar’s back. “Don’t talk to me about running away.”
That lands. Lando can see it. Oscar stiffens, breath catching just slightly, shoulders curling inward for half a second.
But Lando doesn’t give either of them time to react.
He swings the door open, the hallway’s cold air rushing in.
For a moment, he thinks Oscar might call after him.
He doesn’t.
So Lando steps out.
The door shuts behind him with a soft, final click.
And for the first time all night, Oscar is the one standing alone.
_____
Lando doesn’t sleep.
Not really.
Not after storming out of the room like that—heart racing, fists clenched, breath shaking behind the slammed door. He’d wandered the hotel corridors for nearly an hour, too wired to think straight, too furious to go back, and too ashamed to admit what he was actually running from.
And by the time he finally collapsed on the spare bed the team managed to scrounge up for him, the sun was already creeping up.
Now it’s race day.
The worst possible moment for pretending everything is fine.
The flatbed truck crawls along the track, fans screaming from everywhere, orange flares blooming like wildfire in the crowd. Music blasts; flags ripple. The air is electric.
And Lando feels nothing but the thick, stupid silence between him and Oscar.
Oscar stands on the opposite side of the truck beside Logan. Logan is talking, hands moving, laughing at something, but Oscar doesn’t seem to hear a word. He’s nodding politely, gaze drifting to the stands, then to the drivers, then down at his hands… anywhere but where Lando is.
Lando notices.
Lando notices everything.
George leans in beside him. “You alright, mate? You look like you got hit by the hospitality buffet.”
Lando forces a scoff. “Cheers, thanks.”
Alex snorts softly. “You sure? You’ve been quiet since we got on here.”
“I’m fine.”
It’s the lie of the century, and Alex gives him a look that says he doesn’t buy a single syllable.
But Lando’s eyes flick back across the truck.
Oscar is laughing at something Logan says now. A soft, polite little laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. But it still twists something low in Lando’s stomach.
George follows his stare.
“Oh,” he murmurs, “Of course.”
Lando snaps his head away. “Shut up.”
But it’s too late; George has already clocked it. Alex too. They exchange a look Lando pretends not to see.
Meanwhile, Oscar shifts his stance, hands on the railing. The sun hits him just right, sharp jawline, hair slightly mussed from the wind, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. He looks composed. Calm. Untouched.
Fake.
Because Lando knows the difference.
He can read every version of Oscar’s moods, even from across a loud, moving truck full of drivers.
And this?
This is Oscar in full shutdown mode.
Walls up. Armor on.
All because of what happened last night.
Logan nudges Oscar’s shoulder. “Earth to Piastri? You good, man?”
Oscar blinks, slow and rehearsed. “Yeah. Fine. Just tired.”
Lando hears it.
It sinks like a stone.
He hates that he wants to walk over there.
Hates that he wants to talk.
Hates that he wants to fix something he doesn’t know how to fix.
He grips the rail hard, knuckles whitening.
The parade rolls past a sea of fans chanting his name. Normally he’d wave back, smile, do a little routine. Today he barely lifts a hand.
Alex nudges him. “Dude. You’re being weird.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” George says. “You’re brooding. Like Batman. Or a teenager who lost his vape.”
Lando glares. “Can you not?”
Alex glances at Oscar again. “Did something happen between you two?”
Lando’s heart jumps. “No.”
George lifts a brow. “Mate. He hasn’t looked at you once.”
Lando looks again despite himself.
And yeah. Oscar is staring straight ahead, jaw tight, leash on his expression, pretending the side of the truck where Lando stands does not exist.
Something stings. Sharp and undeniable.
“I said nothing happened,” Lando mutters.
“Right,” George says dryly. “And we’re all winning the championship together.”
The truck slows to take a corner, and the movement forces everyone to shift their balance. Oscar’s gaze flicks over for half a second, half a heartbeat, just enough for Lando to catch it.
Their eyes meet.
Not long.
Not dramatic.
But enough.
Enough to see the exhaustion behind Oscar’s practiced calm.
Enough to see the crack in the mask.
Enough to feel the pull he’s been pretending isn’t there.
Oscar looks away immediately.
Back to Logan.
Back to anything that isn’t Lando.
And it’s ridiculous how much that hurts.
The truck rolls on.
Fans roar.
Cameras flash.
And between them, the distance feels bigger than the whole damn circuit.
_____
Back in the garage, the world moves fast—engine fire-ups, tire prep, mechanics moving like controlled chaos. Oscar goes through his warm-up routine automatically, stretching, hydrating, listening to the engineers without really hearing.
His eyes keep drifting toward the other side of the garage.
Toward Lando.
Lando’s with his own crew, helmet in hand, visor up. He’s listening to his race engineer, nodding, jaw set like he’s trying to turn himself into stone.
Like he needs distance to stay in control.
Like Oscar is the thing he’s trying to stay away from.
Every time a team member walks between them, it feels like another separation on top of the thousand they already have.
They don’t look at each other.
Not even for a second.
It would be too much.
Zak walks by, oblivious, cheerful. “Good pace from both of you yesterday. Let’s keep it clean into Turn One.”
Oscar forces a smile. “Of course.”
Lando doesn’t say anything. Just gives a curt nod.
The air between them shifts, tighter, colder.
Oscar pulls on his balaclava, hiding the twitch in his jaw. He hates this. Hates feeling like the villain in a story he didn’t ask to be in. Hates how easily Lando’s silence slides under his skin.
But what he hates most is that Lando leaving last night hurt.
He adjusts his gloves, tries to breathe.
A mechanic hands him his helmet. “Ready, mate?”
Oscar nods. “Yeah.”
Across the garage, Lando slips his own helmet on without glancing over. Not even once.
They walk toward their cars at the same time, parallel, close enough to touch, close enough to breathe the same air, but they don’t speak.
Not a word.
Not a look.
Not even an accidental brush of shoulders.
Just two drivers heading into battle like strangers.
Rivals, Oscar reminds himself bitterly.
If that’s what Lando wants…
If that’s easier…
Then he can do that too.
Even if it breaks something in the process.
_____
Lights out.
Lando launches cleanly, wheel-to-wheel with George, fighting for position through Turn 1. Everything is sharp, loud, fast—exactly the kind of chaos he usually thrives in.
Except his mind keeps drifting forward to the papaya car he knows is just ahead.
Oscar.
Lap after lap, the gap closes.
Lando watches the delta drop on his steering wheel, half a second, three-tenths, two-tenths
He gets DRS.
Oscar defends.
Hard.
They skim dangerously close into Turn 4, Oscar slamming the door shut with a precision that borders on personal.
Lando’s radio crackles.
“Careful, Lando. He’s not giving you room.”
“No,” Lando mutters, mind white-hot. “He never does.”
He pushes again.
Oscar blocks again, late, aggressive, daring him to try harder.
It’s the kind of battle that makes the crowd go feral.
The kind that gets replayed for years.
But neither of them are thinking about the fans or the cameras.
This is about pride.
About anger.
About something brittle and burning under their skin that neither of them will say out loud.
Lando gets alongside him into Turn 9.
Oscar squeezes him to the edge of the track.
Lando snaps, “If he wants a rival. Fine.”
He dives late into the next corner, tires screaming, overtakes Oscar with inches to spare. The car nearly snaps loose. The radio explodes with team panic.
Oscar gets the switchback.
They’re side by side again.
Every lap becomes a knife fight.
No words.
No hesitation.
Just two drivers who know each other too well trying to tear each other apart without touching.
Rivals.
Or pretending to be.
By the time a late safety car bunches the field, they’re still locked in the same brutal dance—exhausted, furious, refusing to give the other even a centimeter.
The tension isn’t just on track.
It’s personal.
It’s messy.
It’s them.
—
The champagne is cold, the crowd is deafening, and Lando feels like his veins are full of static.
Oscar stands on the step beside him. Close enough that their arms brush when they turn, far enough that it feels intentional. Too intentional. Oscar’s jaw is tight, expression carved into that perfect, polite post-race mask he uses when he doesn’t want anyone to know what he’s actually feeling.
Lando hates it.
Hates how Oscar won’t look at him.
Hates how much he wants him to.
The anthem plays. They stand shoulder to shoulder, still as statues, but Lando feels the heat of Oscar’s body like a brand—like every nerve in him is tuned to the space Oscar takes up.
When it ends, the mechanics shove champagne bottles into their hands and the crowd roars.
George pops his cork first, spraying everyone, yelling something boyish and celebratory. Lando lifts his bottle, but his eyes flick instinctively to Oscar.
Like they always do.
Oscar already has his hand on the cork.
He glances sideways—quick, sharp, unreadable.
Their eyes meet for half a second.
Half a second too long.
Lando feels his stomach drop.
Oscar looks away first.
The cork explodes, champagne arcs through the air, and photographers rush forward. Lando splashes George, George retaliates, and the podium turns chaotic—everyone laughing, drenched, ecstatic.
Everyone except them.
Oscar lifts his bottle and sprays forward, careful to angle it away from Lando like he’s avoiding him on purpose. And that hurts in a way race crashes never have.
Lando forces his own grin, forces himself to join in, forces the cameras to get what they expect.
But every time he turns, Oscar is looking anywhere but at him, at the crowd, at George, down at his gloves.
Never at Lando.
When the champagne dies down, they gather for the group photo. Oscar ends up next to him again, because the numbers put them there, not choice.
Oscar stands stiffly, keeping a careful inch between them. Lando pretends he doesn’t notice.
A photographer shouts, “Closer! Put an arm around each other!”
Lando moves automatically, habit, muscle memory, but Oscar flinches the smallest bit. Almost nothing. But enough.
Lando drops his arm.
The cameras catch it.
Of course they do.
Oscar’s jaw tightens again, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even glance his way. He just steps forward when the officials usher them toward the interview area, leaving Lando standing alone on the podium steps, chest tight, champagne stickiness drying on his suit.
He should be happy.
He should be celebrating.
Instead he’s staring at the back of Oscar’s helmet, feeling like something between them cracked wider today.
Something he’s not sure how to fix.
____
🏁 GRIDLINE GAZETTE — POST-RACE REPORT
____________________________________________________________________________________
“Norris & Piastri: Podium Partners or Silent Rivals?”
By: Emilia Hart | Motorsport Features Writer
After a tense Grand Prix filled with strategic chaos, unexpected pace shifts, and a late safety car that changed everything, McLaren walked away with a double podium.
Oscar Piastri took the win as Lando Norris claimed P3.
Both drivers stood on the podium but the atmosphere between them was anything but celebratory.
Fans immediately noticed the unusual distance during the cooldown room: Norris avoiding eye contact, Piastri keeping his answers clipped. Even on the podium, where champagne flowed freely, the two exchanged only the briefest glance.
The tension has been building all weekend.
Sources inside the paddock told Gridline Gazette that the drivers “haven’t spoken properly since Friday.” The drivers’ parade only added fuel to the fire, with Piastri riding beside Sargeant and Norris choosing George Russell and Alex Albon. An unusual split for the typically inseparable McLaren pair.
Despite the cold atmosphere, the pair delivered one of the strongest on-track performances of the season. Norris defended fiercely in the final laps; Piastri held off pressure with flawless precision.
McLaren declined to comment on the pair’s current relationship, stating only:
“Both drivers delivered a fantastic result. That’s our focus.”
But fans are asking a different question:
Has F1’s favorite duo finally cracked? Or is there more beneath the silence than meets the eye?
view all 2,078 comments
@papayaprince:
If looks could kill, Lando would be six feet under after that podium. Oscar didn’t even blink.
@fagsaegeant:
not norris looking like he wanted to be anywhere but next to oscar Something HAPPENED.
@McLaren_Gossip:
The tension was PALPABLE. I swear you could cut it with a front wing.
@63thinking:
george saw everything during the drivers parade and you cannot convince me otherwise
@oscoverse:
Oscar smiling during the champagne but not at Lando?? I’m unwell.
@NorrisNation:
They’re fighting BUT THEY’RE STILL PODIUMING??? That’s enemies-to-lovers energy if I’ve ever seen it.
@fein4albono:
lando hanging with galex during the parade was giving avoidance issues.
@PapayaMom03:
If those two don’t make up soon I’m calling Zak myself.
@f1hotlaps:
They didn’t touch on the podium. Not even a shoulder brush. This is SERIOUS.
@SoftForLando:
This is reverse PR. They’re trying to convince us they’re not joined at the hip. Failing miserably.
@OscarUpdates:
He kept glancing at Lando when he thought cameras weren’t looking 😭😭😭 they’re so down bad & blind.
@tracktalkpodcast:
Hot take: They’re not fighting. They’re HAVING FEELINGS and don’t know what to do about it.