Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Before The Australian GP
Lando POV
The thing with a rivalry, yeah… it’s fine when it’s just that. A rivalry. Bit of fun, bit of spice. You go racing, you try to beat the other guy, you move on. Easy. At the start, that’s what it was. Oscar was just the new lad. Quiet. Proper calm. Almost annoyingly calm, to be honest. Didn’t say much, didn’t look stressed, just sort of… there. And beating him? That was just work. Clock in, do your job, tick the box, go home. Nothing dramatic.
But it’s not like that now. Not even close. Somewhere along the way it stopped being us versus the field and turned into… just him. Every lap, every corner. I don’t even think about the rest of the grid half the time. I’m watching how he turns in. Where he brakes. Whether he’s going to fake the move or actually send it. It’s stupid, really. I hate admitting it, but sometimes I don’t even care where I finish as long as I’m ahead of him. Which is a bit mad when you’re meant to fight for a world title. I told myself it wouldn’t get weird. Win the Championship, great. Enjoy it for a bit, then reset. New season, same mindset. I was good through testing, through all the photos and sponsor stuff. Smiling, saying the right things. Focused on defending. All that.
But the moment we landed in Australia… yeah. Different story. First race weekend. His home race. Australia loves him. Properly loves him. Posters everywhere, massive billboards over the roads. It’s actually kind of funny. I can just picture him driving past one, rolling his eyes at how over the top it all is. He’d pretend he hates it, but I know he secretly loves it.
That thought makes me grab my phone. I scroll to Osc and hit call. He answers after a couple rings.
“Oi.” It’s loud on his end. Proper paddock chaos.
“Hello, mate.” I clear my throat. “You at the paddock?”
“Yeah. You?”
I glance at the GPS. Twenty minutes. Would’ve been ten if I was driving, but no… team wants the ‘world champion experience.’ Chauffeur and all that. Bit dramatic, but whatever. “Not far,” I say. “Be there soon.”
“You were meant to be here half an hour ago.”
“Not my fault,” I scoff. “I’d have been early if they let me drive.” I lean forward slightly. “No offense,” I mutter to the driver.
He just shrugs.
“That’s why I called,” I add. “Can you stall Andrea for a bit?”
Oscar sighs. Loud enough that I can hear it over the background noise.
“Just twenty minutes,” I say. “GPS says so.”
“The works of a world champion,” he mutters.
“Why are you so bitter?”
“I’m not. I just…” He trails off. “Fine.” And he hangs up.
Right. Okay then.
I grab my cap from the seat beside me and run my thumb over the stitched number 1. Still feels a bit surreal seeing that there. I pull it on and sink back into the seat, exhaling slowly.
Media day. Press conferences. Endless questions about the new car, the balance, the upgrades. I’ll give them the usual answers. Still learning. Lots of potential. Same script. But I know what they really want. Not the car. Not the championship. They’ll want the drama. The rivalry. And, of course, the breakup. Mine and Magui’s. They’ll poke and prod, waiting for something emotional. Something messy. They’re not getting it. If I’m going to lose my head over anything this season, it’ll be on track. And probably because Oscar brakes two meters later than me into Turn One.
___________
I spot Oscar halfway down the hallway leading to the garage. Same as always, white tee, beige shorts, head tilted down as he types on his phone.
He glances up for half a second, then does a proper double take when he realizes it’s me. His thumbs stop moving.
“Took you long enough,” he says, sliding his phone into his pocket and crossing his arms, all casual but definitely judging.
“What did you tell Andrea?” I ask, slowing to a stop in front of him.
“The truth?” He lifts an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “It’s not illegal to be stuck in traffic, you know.”
“You sure made it sound like it.” I grin.
“Yeah, sorry about that.” He exhales through his nose, gaze drifting past me for a second. “It’s been a… stressful morning, to say the least.”
That wipes the grin off my face a bit. “Everything okay, mate?”
He doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, his hand comes up and presses against the pocket where he stuffed his phone, fingers tightening slightly. A small grimace slips through before he smooths it over, like he didn’t mean for it to show at all.
“Yeah,” he says eventually, a bit too quick. “Just stuff.” He turns and starts walking with me toward the garage like nothing happened.
And that’s that. Conversation closed.
“Ready for today?” he asks instead.
“For another day pretending I love media duties?” I sigh. “Yeah, totally ready.”
Oscar lets out a quiet chuckle. That soft, slightly awkward giggle of his that always sounds like he didn’t mean to laugh out loud. It echoes down the hallway.
“I think everyone knows that’s not the case,” he says.
“Rubbish,” I reply. “I’m incredibly enthusiastic. Massive fan of being asked the same question twelve different ways.”
“Mhm,” he hums. “You hide it well. Very convincing performance.”
“Thank you. Years of training.”
He glances sideways at me, amused. “You literally look offended every time someone says ‘how does it feel coming into this weekend as world champion?’” He mimics with an American accent.
“Well, because there’s no correct answer,” I defend. “If you say it feels good, you sound arrogant. If you say it doesn’t matter, everyone thinks you’re lying.”
“So the solution is to look mildly miserable?”
“Exactly,” I nod. “Keeps expectations low.”
Oscar shakes his head, smiling to himself as we reach the garage entrance, the noise of mechanics and tools spilling out toward us.
__________
There’s no coincidence they’ve put me, Oscar, Max and George together for the press conference. Not even slightly subtle, really. It practically screams please create chaos for our headlines.
Last chance before lights out. Before the season properly starts and everyone’s too busy racing to manufacture drama. They’re hoping someone says the wrong thing, rolls their eyes at the wrong moment, breathes a bit too aggressively into a microphone. Anything they can turn into a rivalry narrative.
I haven’t really spoken to any of them much over the break. Everyone disappears into their own worlds during winter. Training, sponsors, pretending to rest while secretly thinking about racing anyway. But at least the tension between Max and George seems to have cooled off. Which, honestly, is great for humanity… and terrible for the media. They absolutely loved that whole thing last year. One slightly heated moment, one interview where George looked mildly annoyed, and suddenly it was a full-blown feud according to half the internet.
Classic.
They take one clipped answer, remove all context, add dramatic music in people’s heads, and suddenly it’s “drivers at war.” Meanwhile, we’re all just tired and want coffee.
The questions are exactly what you’d expect. New regulations. New cars. Everyone adjusting. How confident are you? What are your expectations? How am I planning to defend the title? Honestly, they’re so predictable I could probably answer them in my sleep. I already rehearsed half the responses in the car on the way here.
A brunette in a sharp, too-perfect suit raises her hand, and I can practically see the curiosity radiating off her. Not curiosity about lap times or tyre degradation. The other kind.
“Lando,” she says, leaning forward slightly, “there’s been some rumors about your relationship with your girlfriend. Care to elaborate?”
And there it is.
The room goes oddly quiet. Cameras tilt a fraction closer. The unprofessionalism is honestly impressive. I shake my head slightly, not even reaching for the mic.
“You’ve probably been dying to explain?” she presses.
I sigh, already running through responses in my head, trying to find the least dramatic way out of it. But before I can say anything, Oscar reaches for his microphone.
“I thought this was a press conference about racing?” His voice is calm. Not sharp. Not emotional. Just… firm enough that everyone notices.
“It’s about the drivers,” she replies quickly and defensive.
“Correct,” Oscar says evenly. “Drivers. Under that title, we’ve only expected to discuss the cars and the race.” He sets the mic back down beside him and crosses his arms, expression returning to that neutral, unreadable calm like he didn’t just shut the whole thing down.
For a second, nobody speaks. I glance sideways at him, slightly caught off guard. Didn’t expect that.
The rest of the press conference just… carries on. Title fight questions. Last year’s drama. Whether history’s going to repeat itself. Same recycled storylines dressed up as new discussions. I hear the words, I answer when it’s my turn, but none of it really sticks. Everything feels slightly muffled, like I’m half a second behind the room.
Because my brain’s still stuck on Oscar. He’s never the one who pushes back in interviews. Ever. If anything, he lets questions roll past him, even the stupid ones. Saves his energy. Doesn’t give journalists anything extra to work with. It’s kind of his whole thing. Stay calm, stay polite, get out.
So what was that?
The final question gets asked, Max gives a short, efficient answer, and the second the moderator says we’re done, all four of us practically launch out of the couch.
I catch Oscar just outside the room and grab his elbow, pulling him back a step. “The fuck was that?” I ask.
He looks at me, completely unfazed. “You’re welcome?” he says.
“I don’t need you to defend me.”
He shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You took too long. They were already writing their own answers.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I argue. “What do you think they’ll write now? Norris Silent as Piastri Takes Control During Season-Opening Media Session. They’ll eat that straight up.”
“Don’t mind that.” He starts walking.
I stare at him and follow. “Yeah, easy for you to say.”
He frowns slightly. “Why?”
“And let’s not even start talking about the narrative the fans are going to make.”
“What do you mean?”
I gesture vaguely, already regretting bringing it up. “Half of them think we absolutely hate each other, and the other half thinks we’re… you know.”
He squints. “We’re what?”
“Fucking.”
He stops walking entirely. “Fucking? Me and you?” He lets out a surprised laugh, properly amused now.
“Have you been living under a rock?” I say. “Yes. It’s everywhere.”
Oscar shakes his head, still laughing under his breath. “So that´s what Zak meant by Landoscar?”
“You defended me in front of the entire press room,” I point out. “You’ve basically handed them material for the next six months.”
He glances sideways at me, expression settling back into something calmer. “Or,” he says, “I stopped them asking something that had nothing to do with racing.”
I open my mouth to argue, then pause. “…Still,” I mutter. “The edits are going to be unbearable.”
A small smirk pulls at his mouth. “You’ll survive, world champion.”
__________
Headed down for a quick snack, was the text I received at 11:12 p.m. I stare at it longer than I probably should. The bed is easily the most appealing option right now. Long day, early start tomorrow, social battery completely dead. Normal people would ignore the message, roll over, and go to sleep. But my curiosity wins.
Why the fuck would he send me that? Oscar doesn’t text randomly. Ever. Every message he sends has a purpose. Usually practical. Running late. Meeting moved. Simulator tomorrow. Not… snack updates. And he definitely knows I don’t care what he’s doing in his free time. We’re teammates, not flatmates.
So why tell me? I turn the phone over in my hand, reading it again like hidden meaning might suddenly appear between the words. Maybe it was meant for someone else? But he’s too precise for that. Maybe he wants company. The thought feels weirdly unlikely. Oscar doesn’t ask for company. He just exists quietly until people orbit around him.
Which leaves the worst possibility. He worded it like that on purpose. Sent it knowing exactly what it would do.
Headed down for a quick snack.
Not want to join?
Not are you awake?
Just… a statement.
I sigh, dragging a hand down my face before swinging my legs off the bed. Curiosity officially stronger than exhaustion.
“Stupid,” I mutter to myself, grabbing a hoodie. Now I have to know.
The hotel lobby’s quiet. Almost eerily so. Just the receptionist tapping away at her keyboard, occasionally glancing up like she’s trying to pretend she doesn’t recognize me.
I head straight for the bar. Oscar’s already there, perched on one of the stools, casually chatting with the bartender like this is the most normal thing in the world at nearly midnight. A simple sandwich sits in front of him, half gone. I don’t hesitate. If he wanted my attention, he’s getting it. I slide onto the stool beside him.
“You’re quick,” Oscar says around a bite of sandwich, barely even looking surprised.
“Have you always been so manipulative?”
He turns his head slowly, eyebrows lifting as he chews. “Whatever do you mean, Lando?” he says, wiggling his eyebrows with an annoyingly smug smirk. “You didn’t have to come.”
“Yes, I did,” I reply immediately. “So spit it.” I lean my elbows against the bar top, turning toward him. “Nerves for tomorrow?”
He swallows, wiping his hands on a napkin before answering. “No.” Too fast. Too flat.
I squint at him. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You texted me at eleven at night about a sandwich,” I point out. “That’s not normal behavior.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes dropping to the counter for a second. The smirk fades just slightly. “I just thought you’d still be awake,” he says.
“That doesn’t explain why.”
He taps his fingers lightly against the plate in front of him, thinking. For once, Oscar actually looks unsure of how to phrase something, which is… new.
Then he shrugs, small and almost reluctant. “Didn’t feel like sitting alone,” he admits.
I blink. “…You could’ve just said that.”
He glances sideways at me. “And ruin the mystery?”
I shake my head, a laugh slipping out despite myself. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Yet,” he says, taking another bite of his sandwich, “you came anyway.”
I chuckle. “Can I get one too?” I gesture toward the bartender, who gives me a quick nod before disappearing toward the kitchen.
The dim lighting does absolutely nothing to help me stay awake. If anything, it makes everything feel slower, heavier, like I could genuinely fall asleep sitting here if I closed my eyes for more than five seconds.
“So…” I start, turning slightly toward him.
“I do have nerves about tomorrow.” He cuts across me so suddenly I almost flinch. The words tumble out of him, like he changed his mind halfway through deciding whether to say them at all. And it hits me straight in the gut.
“O…kay?” I say carefully.
Oscar exhales, staring down at the bar instead of at me. His fingers trace the edge of his plate, pushing crumbs into a neat little pile.
“I mean… after last year’s fiasco,” he continues quietly, “the pressure´s just…brutal.”
I lean back slightly, studying him. “You handled it fine.”
He lets out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “That’s not what people remember.”
I don’t answer straight away. Yes, people don’t remember the recovery drive, the strong pace, the work behind the scenes. They remember the headlines. The mistake. The moment replayed a hundred times.
“They’re going to expect me to dominate here,” He says eventually. “Home race. Title fight. All of it.”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
Silence settles between us, comfortable but heavier now. The bartender places a sandwich in front of me, and I mutter a quick thanks, but neither of us moves for a second.
“I thought you didn’t get nervous,” I say finally, trying to lighten up the mood.
Oscar glances at me, a faint smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. “We’re all humans.”
“Is this what’s been bothering you?”
He shrugs lightly. “Yes, of course. It’s a big part of it.”
“But it’s not all?”
Oscar just nods. No explanation. No opening for me to dig further. And I don’t. He’s never been someone who talks before he’s ready, and I respect him enough not to force it out of him.
Silence settles again, softer this time.
“I think you just need a good night’s sleep,” I say. “Get to practice tomorrow and just… feel the car underneath you. That’s all you can really do.”
“You’re right,” he says quietly.
“From experience,” I add, nudging his shoulder slightly, “you don’t let pressure overwhelm you. You made my life hell last year.” I chuckle under my breath. “Don’t forget what kind of driver you are, Oscar.” Without really thinking about it, I reach over, grabbing the back of his neck and giving it a firm squeeze. “I will kill you if you let that potential go to waste.”
He lets out a surprised laugh, shoulders loosening for the first time tonight. “Very motivational. Thank you.”
“I’m serious.”
“I can tell,” he says, shaking his head, but the smile lingers. For a moment neither of us moves. The bar is quiet, the low hum of late-night music filling the gaps between words.
Then he glances at me again, expression softer now. “You didn’t have to come down, you know.”
I take a bite of my sandwich, shrugging. “I know.” I say casually.
__________
Zak’s acting like it’s the end of the world. I barely manage to get one arm into my race suit before he appears out of nowhere and shoves his phone directly into my face.
“What’s this?” he demands.
I take the phone from him, confused, and look at the screen. It’s a picture of Oscar and me at the hotel bar last night. Taken from outside the lobby windows. It´s slightly grainy, definitely a fan photo. I’m leaning toward him, hand wrapped around the back of his neck while he’s laughing at something I said. The post already has over fifty thousand likes.
I blink. “…Uh. A picture of Oscar and I?”
Zak stares at me like I’ve personally caused an international incident. “Have I not talked to you about this?” His voice tightens, that calm-but-not-calm tone team principals use when they’re one sentence away from panicking.
“Relax, Zak,” I say, pulling my suit up over my fireproofs. “Let them have their fun. It’s good PR for the team.” I keep my voice casual. Easy. Unbothered. Meanwhile, internally, I’m absolutely losing it.
Because this shouldn’t bother me. It really shouldn’t. Fans take pictures all the time. People speculate all the time. None of it actually matters. Except the Landoscar thing has completely blown up. What started as a few jokes online somehow turned into edits, fan theories, compilation videos, analysis threads. Enough that Zak actually sat us down for a strategy meeting about how to cool it down. A real meeting. With slides and everything.
And now there’s photographic evidence of me sitting in a dimly lit bar at midnight with my hand on Oscar like we’re in a bloody romantic drama.
Yeah. Not ideal.
“This,” Zak says, pointing at the phone again, “is exactly what we discussed avoiding.”
“It’s just a picture,” I argue weakly.
“It’s never just a picture,” he replies instantly. “Narratives matter.”
I glance back at the image. Oscar’s head tilted slightly toward me, both of us looking far too relaxed for two teammates supposedly locked in a title fight.
I hand the phone back. “What do you want me to do? Pretend I hate him?”
“I want balance,” Zak says. “Rivalry sells championships. Confusion sells chaos.”
I snort. “Pretty sure chaos is already sold out.”
He doesn’t laugh.
“What’s going on?” Oscar walks over from the other side of the garage, already fully suited, the balaclava tucked under his arm. Zak immediately hands him the phone. Oscar looks down at the screen, eyebrows knitting together as he studies the picture.
A beat passes. “I don’t understand,” he says finally. “Are you surprised fans take pictures of us?” He hands the phone back, completely unfazed. “Because I’ve known that for years now.”
Zak exhales slowly, the kind of breath someone takes when they’re trying very hard not to lose patience before FP1. “It’s not the picture itself,” He says. “It’s what comes with it.”
Oscar tilts his head slightly. “Which is?”
“The narrative,” Zak replies, gesturing vaguely. “Speculation. Headlines. Distraction.”
Oscar glances at me briefly, then back at Zak. “People will speculate regardless.”
“Yes,” Zak says, firmer now, “but we don’t need to feed it.”
I cross my arms, leaning against the workbench. “We were eating a sandwich, Zak. Not announcing our engagement.”
Oscar coughs, suspiciously close to a laugh, and looks down to hide it.
Zak does not find it funny. “This is exactly what I mean,” he says. “You two treat it like a joke, but suddenly the focus shifts away from racing.”
Oscar considers that for a moment, expression thoughtful rather than defensive. “With respect,” he says calmly, “if people are more interested in a blurry photo than lap times, that’s not something we can control.”
Zak opens his mouth, then pauses, clearly debating how far to push it.
I glance sideways at Oscar. Completely composed. No embarrassment, no panic. Just logic. Like the entire situation is mildly inconvenient at worst. Meanwhile my stomach is doing flips because the post has probably doubled in likes since we started this conversation.
Zak rubs his temples. “Just… try to be mindful, alright?”
Oscar nods once. “Of course.”
Zak walks off, still muttering about media cycles and messaging strategies.
I look at Oscar. “You’re taking this suspiciously well.”
He shrugs. “It’s just the internet.”
I shake my head. “You haven’t seen the edits.”
He pauses. “…I don’t want to see the edits.”
“Smart man,” I say.
Oscar pulls his balaclava over his head, smoothing it down absentmindedly as the garage buzzes around us.
“Thanks for yesterday, by the way,” he says, voice slightly muffled through the fabric. He pats my back once, casual but deliberate. “Even though it became Zak’s worst nightmare, I really needed it.”
I shrug like it’s nothing. “Anytime, mate.”
We go in for a quick dap, muscle memory after years in the paddock. But, like always, he doesn´t do it right. He grabs my thumb. Every. Single. Time. His smaller hand clamps around it for a second longer than necessary, completely unaware of how oddly specific the habit is. It catches me off guard again, and I laugh, shaking my head.
“You know that’s weird, right?” I say.
He looks genuinely confused. “What is?”
“The thumb thing,” I reply, trying to pull my hand back, but he’s still holding it absentmindedly while adjusting his glove with the other hand.
“Oh.” He releases it immediately, like he’s only just realized. “Habit.”
“From what?”
He shrugs. “No idea.”
I snort. “You’re unbelievable.”
He gives that small, almost shy smile, the one that never lasts long, before turning toward the car. “Try to keep up today,” he says over his shoulder.
I roll my eyes. “It’s my job to make your life difficult, remember?”
He glances back briefly. “You’re very committed to it.”
He climbs into the cockpit, calm and focused again, like nothing ever rattles him. Like last night didn’t happen. Just Oscar. Just racing.
I pull my helmet on and slide into my own car a moment later. The seat wraps around me, familiar and grounding. Mechanics lean in, tightening belts, checking cables, voices blending into static through my headset. Then the visor drops, and the outside world disappears.
No media. No rumors. No blurry photos or stupid narratives. No Zak stressing himself into an early retirement. Just me, my car and the track waiting outside.
The engine fires to life beneath me, vibrating through my chest. Beside me sits the only thing my brain really locks onto. Him.
Whatever happened off track doesn’t matter here. Out there, he’s one I absolutely refuse to finish behind. I flex my hands around the wheel, a grin tugging at my mouth as the pit lane light turns green. Because right now, there’s only one thought left. Let him eat my dust.