ananaaaaaa

[ananaaaaaa]

Just giving a heads up for other authors to block and mute this person on AO3, so you don’t have to see their shit.

Their AO3.

And a few example of some of their bookmarks:

Please block and mute them. Save yourself the headache.

For those that don’t know this is what blocking and muting does on AO3

[ananaaaaaa]

when I was a kid I wished I had nosebleeds. I had some friends who had them and I was like. that looks so fucking cool. you're just sitting there and suddenly you're covered in blood. it looks so dramatic. it looks so... and here my language failed me. at such a humble age I did not have the vocabulary to describe the sublime. I just sat in incomprehensible jealousy. I turned out totally normal by the way

[ananaaaaaa]

Thinking about hanging out with a tgirl and calling her mom either as a joke or by accident and she just stares as me for a second before she's pinning me down and calling me daughter

[ananaaaaaa]

“nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”

damn you must suck at cooking. check out some youtube tutorials man. i believe in you.

[ananaaaaaa]

✶ 15 YEARS IN THE MAKING

summary: oscar's home race is a big deal. however, what's even bigger is the realization that he has been in love with the childhood friend waiting for him at the finish line since the day he met her. it only took him 15 years, a thousand missed opportunities and a so-called mistake to realize it.

F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST

pairing: oscar piastri x childhood bff!f!reader

wc: 11.3k

cw: aus gp 2025, unaccurate aus gp 2024 for plot purpose, use of y/n, slightly inaccurate timeline, kinda bittersweet/angsty at some point, otherwise fluff + hea

note: need to cradle that man in my arms and kiss him on the forehead, special mention to @cntappen who wanted yearning oscar, hope ur satisfied 🙏 i lowkey hate this but we carry on

soundtrack: ♫ something, somehow, someday - role model

OSCAR ALMOST DROPS his mug when Hattie tells him the news. “She’s coming to the race?”

His sister nodded, shifting from one foot to the other like she didn’t quite know where to put herself ─ which was uncharacteristic of her ─ and the first things going through Oscar’s mind were Did she know? How would she know? Did she tell her? “I texted her about it ‘cause she always comes to Melbourne. I was just curious. She said she’d be coming if she was welcome with us.”

His head was spinning. Gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, Oscar chose his next words with calculated precision. “And you said…?”

“I mean, Mom said yes, obviously,” Hattie shrugged. “She loves Y/N. And she said it’s been a while since you two saw each other, might do you some good with stress and all that.”

Of course, his mom would say that. You had always been a second daughter for her, welcoming you in her home as if your place had always been next to Oscar on the living room couch. Hattie had been as enthusiastic as her, if a little confused at first, about who had developed such an attachment to her quiet, nonchalant brother. Ever since you and Oscar were children, as soon as he told his mother about the new girl next door who cut short his remote-controlled truck training on the playground, you had been included in every Piastri family dinner.

Because you were Oscar's whole world, his personal sun, the second you stepped into view ─ it would have taken someone mute, blind, and deaf not to notice it. He was just a planet, a satellite, orbiting around you in search of meaning.

Had been. Until almost a year ago.

And nobody knew except for him.

So Oscar swallowed down the lump in his throat.  “Okay, sure, that's cool,” he let out a breath. “I missed her.” The words pained him, as veracious as they were. He didn’t simply miss you like you’d miss someone you hadn’t seen in a while ─ Oscar missed you like an amputee would miss a ghost limb. The kind of pull that tears someone from the inside out, and he only had himself to blame for the ache.

If Hattie suspected something was off, she didn't say it. She chose to scrutinize him instead, eyebrows scrunched in a silent question he answered with a vague smile, as always. She spoke about how you hadn’t come to visit in quite some time, how he rarely updated them on how you were anymore, how you blossomed in your life, but the words went in one ear and out through the other.

Because you were going to the Melbourne Grand Prix, the start of the 2025 season. He didn’t know if he could handle seeing you again, not after the fiasco of the same Grand Prix, a year ago.

Guess he didn’t have much choice.

Oscar Piastri is eight when he meets you for the first time.

He was given his first remote-controlled truck for Christmas and ever since then, rare were the times he spent his full days at home. The playground, with a lot more ground than playthings for children, was a five-minute walk from his house ─ perfect for practicing, he thought. His newfound gadget made him develop a fervency he hadn’t known before, an obsession for speed. He knew Australia had championships for remote-controlled racing, his dad told him so. He wanted a part in it like he never wanted anything in the world before. Except maybe the truck.

But before he could hope of entering, he needed to get to a certain level and that meant practice. So to the playground (or park, park was a cooler word) he went.

Today wasn’t an exception. Vacations had started not so long ago, the sun was high in the sky and Oscar’s knees were raw from being dug in the gravel for so long. His thumbs were branded by the print of the remote in his hand, sweat beaded on his forehead, hair sticking to it, and maybe his vision was blurring a little. But Oscar was nothing if not determined, so he kept going as his truck narrowly avoided obstacles he put in place.

Until a water bottle replaced the self-made circuit in his visual field.

Oscar's eyes slowly trailed up in exasperation, expecting one of his younger sisters or his mother dotting on him, telling him to come back home. Instead, his breath caught a little.

You stood there, the afternoon sun casting a golden glow around you, turning the loose strands of your hair into something almost otherworldly. Oscar had never believed in angels ─ never really thought about them at all, actually ─ but at that moment he wondered if maybe, just maybe they existed. Your sundress, once pristine, was rusted with dirt, the hem brushing against your scraped knees, blood dried in uneven patches. But you didn’t seem to mind. Instead, you smiled ─ as if scuffed knees and torn dresses were just a natural part of being you.

His wide, brown eyes glided from the lukewarm bottle to you, in wonder and shock alike. Your palm was smudged in playground dust, but Oscar barely noticed ─ his gaze caught instead on the way light tangled in your hair, your eyes sparkling with something bright, untamed, unstoppable. You spoke up. “You look like you’re gonna faint. Take it. Drivers need water, right?”

Your voice, soft, shook him out of his trance: he hesitantly took the bottle from your hand, and your fingers brushed against his. Red colored the tip of his ears. He swallowed, hard, bringing the bottle to his chest. You offered him another smile in return, and Oscar felt his heart flutter.

“My name is Y/N.” Before he could even think about protesting ─ about telling you that, actually, he hadn’t asked ─ you plopped down beside him, legs folding underneath you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your shoulder bumped against his, a casual, thoughtless kind of closeness that sent a foreign heat to the back of his neck.

Then just as he was processing that, you turned to face him- too close. Way too close.

Noses. Your noses nearly touched.

Oscar went rigid. Did you know nothing about personal space?!

You pointed behind him, at the house right next to his, visible from the park. “I live right here!”

“...No, you can’t.” Oscar finally said, frowning. He was trying to be as polite as he could muster to be in those conditions. His mom would kill him if he wasn't.

“Why?”

“Nobody lives here.”

The aggressive neutrality of his voice, a timbre unique to him, didn’t deter you in the slightest. On the contrary, it seemed like his reticence to your presence made you beam brighter at him. “That’s because we just moved here, duh. See that car? It’s my mom’s.”

The indifference in Oscar slowly turned to confusion, or as close as it could get to curiosity. There was indeed a baby blue car parked in the driveway he never saw before. For as long as he could remember, which was not a lot, it was always vacant. Until today, apparently. “Oh. We’re neighbors, then.”

Your smile widened, eyes practically shining in excitement. “That’s so cool! I was scared I was gonna be the only kid here.”

Oscar barely heard you, too busy staring at where your arm pressed against his. Was it normal? Were other kids just… this close of each other? Because he wasn’t used to it, not at all. “... How old are you?”

“Eight!” You practically bounced as you said it.

“Me too.”

Your face lit up. Oh no.

“That’s even better! We can be friends! Best friends, even!”

Wait, what.

Oscar blinked, his mind screeching to a halt. That escalated fast. Weren’t there supposed to be multiple steps before deciding to be lifelong friends? Had he missed something? “Uh─”

“What’s your name?” You asked with renewed enthusiasm if it was even possible to add to that.

“... Oscar. Oscar Piastri.”

“Nice to meet you Oscar Piastri from next door!” You held out your hand and, much to his surprise, Oscar took it. Hesitantly, awkwardly, yes, but he still did. The strange, unfamiliar feeling tugging at his stomach wouldn’t let him do otherwise. “I like your truck,” you continued, fingers still wrapped around his like you didn’t even notice. “Can I try it?”

Oscar was way too focused on your palm still sitting in his to process your words. Was he supposed to pull away first? “I… I don’t─”

“Or I could watch you! I don’t mind. I was watching you in the tree back there anyways.”

Oscar blinked. It explained the stains and the scratches, he thought. He still couldn’t believe that there was a whole girl like her in a tree, spying on him, and he had been so caught up by his remote-controlled truck to even notice it. Just as if you could read his thoughts, a sheepish look made its way to your face, lips pursuing as you finally ─ finally ─ let go of his hand. “Mom doesn’t like when I do that,” you admitted as if it were a secret. “But it’s fine. I can wash the dress.”

He stared. There was… something about you, Something about the way you sparkled even when you sat still, the way your presence felt bigger than your little body. He swallowed, nudging the controller toward you before he could regret his decision. “Try.” His voice came out weird. “It’s boring to watch.” 

The twinkling in your eyes was worth every crash that came after this. You were struggling, and hitting every obstacle he skillfully steered away from. Each and every hit was accompanied by a giggle or an exaggerated groan but even though you were terrible, as Oscar tactfully noticed, it still looked like you were having the most fun you had in years.

When he had to go home, you walked him to the door with a spring in your step, occupying the conversational space with random facts about the world. Something about how octopuses had three hearts, how clouds weren’t actually as soft as they looked, and how the color yellow made people happy. Oscar didn’t say much, he never really did, but he contentedly listened.

And then, just as the door swung open, before he could even process the way he wanted to stay a little bit longer, you turned to his mom with all the confidence of someone who had already decided the outcome. “Can Oscar come back tomorrow?” His mom barely had time to blink, but Oscar already knew─ it was over.

Because the moment she said yes, the second the fierce little girl beside him claimed more time with him like it was hers to take, it was sealed. After that, it came as naturally as breathing. Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. Never one without the other. You led, he followed. And, somewhere along the way, the rest of the world stopped mattering.

You were a constant in Oscar’s life, a lifeline he clung to without realizing he had reached for it in the first place. He got into karting at ten and nothing─ not his dad's last-minute pep talks, not the hours of practice ─ could calm the way his hands trembled on the steering wheel before his first race. His fingers curled on it, hands trembling and grip tight, knuckles aching from the pressure. What if he wasn’t actually good? What if he messed it all up? What if─?

And then, there you were. Signature grin, messy ponytail, a tiny hand sign scribbled in clashy, colorful letters: GO, OSCAR GO!! The words were surrounded by questionable doodles ─ stick-figure cars with lopsided wheels, a few stray hearts in the margins like an afterthought. “I came to watch you win,” you said, like there was no other possibility. After that, the race was just a race.

The moment you dropped a chaste kiss on his helmet, all nerves settled. When he passed by you, you brandished your sign high in the air, a beacon, the only thing he really needed to see. He won that race with his head held high and in the middle of celebration ─ his mom hugging him tight, cheers echoing all around ─ he silently dedicated his victory to you.

Because when he scanned the crowd, your eyes were the easiest to find. Because nothing ever felt better than the feeling of you running in his arms right after.

And just like that─ childhood blurred into early adolescence in a flurry of incandescent polaroids: late afternoon on track, whooping as Oscar made his laps, stolen moments on the swings at the playground between school and training, a thousand shared snacks, juice boxes, whispers, a million inside jokes and secrets. Summers spent side by side, laughter tangled in the air like something meant to last forever.

Years of Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. No space between. No questions about what you were to each other. Not yet. 

But Oscar Piastri is fifteen when he leaves you behind.

He had been offered a seat in Formula 4. The words came in a rush, tumbling from an ecstatic Chris Piastri and an equally thrilled Nicole Piastri, their voices nearly overlapping in excitement. Oscar heard them, he knew what they were saying and yet his mind refused to catch up. He sat there, cereal spoon dangling in the air, milk dripping back in his bowl.

The world around him blurred─ static in his ears, something like disbelief flooding his veins. He had wanted this. Trained for this. But now that it was real, it was as if his body had forgotten how to move. So you did it first.

Your arms wrapped around his neck without a second thought, squeezing tight. A hug that made it impossible to do anything but exist in the moment. He unfroze: the weight of your warmth, how you clung to him without any reservation, it yanked him back. His hands had found your back, gripping instinctively. It hit him all at once: Formula 4. His dream was real. And you were here, like always.

Until you wouldn’t be anymore.

Everything slipped past Oscar in a blur: he applied to a boarding school and got accepted in the same week, his parents were already looking for a house nearby, and his mom searching for job opportunities ─ in Brighton, England, closer to where he would be practicing. A thousand kilometers away from Australia, a thousand memories away from you.

One thing you learned in your years of friendship with Oscar was that he wasn’t much of a talker. He wasn’t big on the expression of feelings either ─ he showed affection softly, when he thought people wouldn’t notice. But you did, and you never planned on doing anything about it because that was just how Oscar was: reserved, hesitant in his tenderness. So the conversation about his departure never came ─ it was just a weight, hanging in the air of your every interaction, untouched. He didn’t want to venture there, to face how he wouldn’t wake up next to you anymore after another sleepover, how he would have to learn how to exist without you at arm’s reach. The lack of you was already digging a hole in his chest, and it was one of the main reasons he said no to your proposition of a send-off party.

But Oscar knew you too, too well, so he was only half-surprised when he turned on the light of his house after training and discovered the crowd of your shared friends amidst colorful balloons and cakes. You stood out in all of them when you offered him the smile that was uniquely his, and Oscar’s chest almost collapsed.

The party was fun. He got goodbye gifts ─ trinkets, plushies and books he knew he’ll lose sleep over. He didn’t dance to the music, but enjoyed watching people lose themselves in the soft light of his kitchen from the sidelines. Some friends cried and some friends didn’t ─ he side-hugged them all, never letting them too close except for a select few, and he accepted the heartfelt speeches with reassurances that he will come back during the summer, without a doubt.

The night slowed, party leftovers forgotten on the counters, and the house was quieter now that most of the guests had filtered out. Only a few stragglers remained inside, their voices dimmed to an unobtrusive murmur. But Oscar, the supposed star of the show, was hesitating in the threshold of his front door ─ because you were outside. And wherever you went, he followed.

You were sitting on the front door steps, arms wrapped around your knees, bathed in the dim glow of the porch light. The soft hum of cicadas filled the space as Oscar sat beside you. He knew he should say something, anything. Thank you for the party, even though he swore he didn’t want one. You were right, because of course, you were. Or finally address what was begging to be talked about ─ he just didn’t know how. Because sitting right here, with you just a few inches away, he realizes this is it. 

This is the last night before everything changes, and he can’t do anything about it. So he stays silent.

“You’re freaking out,” you say. Not a question. Your observant eyes flickered to his face, gaze soft in the way that makes his breath catch.

Oscar exhales sharply, tipping his head back against the wooden railing. “Am not.”

You give him a look. The look that always calls his bullshit. “Alright, I am.” He swallows, voice quieter. “A little.”

A pause. And then─ a nudge. Your knee bumping into his. A small, familiar thing, but somehow it unravels him. His eyes are burning, and he can’t pinpoint why. “You’ll be fine, Osc’’,” you affirmed, as certain as the sun rising tomorrow. “As long as you don’t forget about me.” A quiet laugh escaped you.

And Oscar could feel it, the thick air between you, pressing against his throat and sitting on his tongue. How could he ever forget about you? You were sitting so close, staring at him as if tucking him in some secret place inside of you. Oscar hated it, so much that it finally slipped─ “I don’t want to go.”

It came out quieter than he expected. Your lips parted slightly, brows furrowed, and Oscar felt like he said too much and not enough at the same time. Because he did want to go, but what he meant was, I don’t want to go if it means leaving you, I don’t know how to exist without you in my orbit. What he really meant, he couldn’t understand what it was no matter how hard he tried.

He forced out a chuckle, shaking his head. “I mean─” Oscar cleared his throat. “I do. Obviously. It’s just─ It’s gonna be weird.”

“Yeah, it is,” you murmured, flushing against his shoulder. “But we’ll make it work.”

Oscar looked at you, really did. The way the light caught the edges of your face, the night breeze playing with your hair, how you existed so beautifully and effortlessly, as you belonged in all the places he had ever loved. The words almost slipped out: You could come with me.

It was right there, clawing its way up his throat.

Yet, something stopped him. Because it wasn’t fair. Because he didn’t know what it meant. Because he didn’t know if he was asking like a best friend or something else, and he didn’t know what to do with the way you were constricting his chest, how you pressed against his ribcage, demanding more. You looked at Oscar and he looked at you ─ he swallowed it down, staring at the playground far in front of you. 

And the moment passed.

Oscar left the day after, and the empty house was now the one next to yours.

Your hotel room was eerily quiet.

You were never known for silence ─ all your life, people had repeatedly told you about the overwhelming space you occupied, how loud your laugh echoed, how you never quite knew how to fold and pocket yourself to be less. Growing up, adults meant it in an endearing way. Now, you realized just how much the words stung, even if you never took them as insults. But here, in the uncomfortable coldness of the room you rented for the week-end, everything was quiet: no music, no you talking to yourself. Nothing.

It felt unnatural ─ like something was missing. The one thing that always reassured you about the room you took up.

It left you restless, and your hands trembled a little as you finished applying the last layer of mascara on your lashes. Maybe it was just nerves ─ after all, it’s been a while since you’ve been on a race and hung out with Hattie, Edie, Mae, Nicole, and Chris. Ever since you moved out for university, the city of Melbourne and all of the memories it held always managed to make you a bit anxious.

However, deep down, you knew. It’s the fact that for the first time in over a year, you were going to see Oscar.

Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror as you dropped your makeup next to the sink. You couldn’t decipher your own expression.

Hattie texted you out of nowhere, and even though it wasn’t unusual for you two to talk from time to time, it surprised you a bit when she asked you if you were going to the Grand Prix. It shouldn’t have, she didn’t know ─ or maybe she suspected something, but you still said you’d be coming. So Nicole was on her way to pick you up and take you to the same spot you’ve been occupying since 2023, and you’ll have to sit and act as if everything was alright, as if her son was the best friend you grew up with and didn’t become an acquaintance overnight that you occasionally exchanged “good morning”, “good night”, “happy birthday” and “how are you doing?” texts with.

Because ever since that fateful night after the Melbourne Grand Prix of 2024, something shifted between you and Oscar. Something that had been weighing on you both for years, waiting, waiting, waiting- until it finally cracked, only to narrowly miss you. And now? You didn’t know his weekly schedule, and you couldn’t remember the last time you complained about your teachers to him. You and Oscar weren’t quite strangers, but you weren’t you anymore either. 

Because whatever had been waiting that night never had a chance to be resolved. And maybe it never would.

You shut your eyes, your breathing quickening dangerously. No. You weren’t going to think about that right now. It’s fine ─ you’re just here to watch a race like you always did. Just another race. It didn't have to mean anything more than that, did it? You’ll cheer, you’ll congratulate him, and you’ll leave. Even if it was his home race. Even if it was in the same city you laughed in his backyard, held hands running in the streets, stayed awake at ungodly hours of the night tangled together, the city you had both known and lost each other.

Frankly, you weren’t sure what you were expecting─ what you even wanted this weekend to be. All you knew was that you desperately wanted to grasp at the last semblance of normalcy that used to be between Oscar and you, and if that meant showing up at the Melbourne race and praying for his car to see the checkered flag in pole position like the deepest parts of your heart weren’t screaming for him, so be it.

When Nicole called you to tell you she parked her car, you took a deep breath and walked to the elevator, carefully ignoring the sickening feeling of your stomach reminding you that, in Melbourne, there was no simply ignoring the past anymore.

Oscar Piastri is twenty when he tells you the news.

Five years have passed ever since he moved out of Australia, but no matter how the years stretched between then and now, racetracks and podium dreams, Oscar always made sure of one thing: that he’d come back. Back to his neighborhood, these streets, the quiet buzz of familiarity.

And back to you.

Time had tried its best to pull you apart with different schedules, different time zones, and places, but you two were still an unstoppable force. Y/N and Oscar. Oscar and Y/N. No matter how late the flights, how long the race weekends, how exhausting the training, he always called ─ even if it was past midnight, or he had to wake up in three hours, or he could barely keep his eyes open. Because your voice, distant and barely audible through the crackling of a bad signal, was home. And you always picked up.

Oscar missed it. He made friends in boarding school, a group of laid-back guys who filled the late hours with video games and terrible jokes, making his new world a little less foreign. He enjoyed their company, sure, but none of them were you. None of them could look at him and already know what he was thinking, like the syllables were etched in your bones, and they didn’t tilt their head up at the sky on a rusty swing set, taking him with them, and spun the world into something bigger. God, he missed that. He missed you.

Even though, sometimes, he wondered if you missed him just as much.

Obviously, since Oscar left, you had to build something for yourself in the space he left behind, and it only became more concrete when you enrolled in a university away from Melbourne. He tried to be happy for you when you did. But then you would tell him about a friend group he didn’t know the faces of, threading into the places he used to be and the places he’d never been, the ones he couldn’t visit with you like the café near your 10 a.m. lecture on Fridays. 

Sometimes, only sometimes, when he allowed himself to feel a bit more than he should, the scraps of emotions he usually denied himself ─ he was scared he didn’t belong in the new sphere you’ve constructed for yourself. That he was a dusty polaroid in a wooden box, waiting for the day you’d tuck him away.

But that had to be wrong. It had to be. Because the second your eyes found his as he stepped out of the airport, it was like nothing had changed. Like the months apart, the missed calls, the milestones he couldn’t be there for ─ none of it mattered.

The way you looked at him, like he was still your Oscar, the boy you always had known and always will, it made up for everything.

You had been there when Oscar graduated from Formula 4 to Formula 3. You had been right by his side when Formula 3 turned to Formula 2 the following year. Whether it be by phone or in person when the good news coincided with both of your trips to your childhood neighborhood. Your excited screech, your lips on his cheek twisting his stomach and painting his cheeks red, he figured it was just common sense for you to learn he’s been promoted a third time in person. He wanted to see your reaction.

Whenever you and Oscar came back, your mom would welcome you with open arms in your old home. There were only two bedrooms, one that was your mom’s, which used to be awkward for him before it became a common occurrence for you two to share a bed. Both your parents had forbidden it, but quickly gave up when you used to find a way to sneak into Oscar’s bedroom and keep him awake. Their resolve vanished entirely when they noticed quiet, untroubled Oscar started getting on it as well.

So there you were, twenty years old in your childhood bedroom, sharing a bed too small for your height. The window was half-opened, the air thick and unmoving, letting in the last shreds of sunset that danced across your skin in soft, golden streaks. You were facing each other, which allowed him to see your eyes flutter, heavy with exhaustion, your breathing slow and even as if the mere act of being near him was enough to let you rest.

Oscar flushed at that thought. You had spent hours driving just to come and get him, to fall in bed beside him, limbs tangled, words fading into the quiet comfort of home. Just to be here, with him.

He wanted to wait. Until your eyes were wide open and you were awake enough to react like you always did: in screams and hugs and plans of the future. But the warmth curling in his chest wasn’t allowing him to keep it from you any longer.

“I got a seat in Formula One,” Oscar announced in the silence of the room.

“What?” Your voice was hoarse from tiredness, but it didn’t stop your sharp gaze from snapping to his. Your lips parted, just barely, an inhale caught in your throat, and Oscar gets distracted.

He shouldn’t, not now, but─ he can’t help it.

How many times had he seen you like this? Sleep-heavy, warm with exhaustion, curled up beside him. Too many to count. Not once had it felt like this, like something heavier rested on his shoulders.

He repeats with a little difficulty, forcing himself back to the moment. “I got a seat in Formula One.” He swallows before precising, “Not Alpine. McLaren.”

You blinked. Once, twice, your brain catching up with the weight of his words. Then, before Oscar could brace himself, you were moving.

You crashed into him, as much as you could in the position you were, tucking yourself against his chest in the semblance of a hug. The pressure was nothing, still, the air was knocked out of his lungs. “You did it!” You whispered-yelled against his shoulder, voice trembling with emotion. “Oh my god, Osc’. You did it. I fucking knew you would.”

Of course, you knew. You always knew before Oscar did, before he even started believing in it himself. A scoff, wet with feelings, escaped him as his shaky fingers hovered over your ribs, processing the situation. You pulled back, just enough to look at him, pupils blown wide. The palm that wasn’t resting on his chest slipped up, featherlight, to cup his cheek. Oscar almost flinched. “I wanted to tell you earlier, but─”

“Don’t even start,” you interrupted him. “You’re going to be in Formula One! In McLaren! That’s huge, and─”

Realization hits you like a truck. “Oh my god, Daniel Ricciardo.”

Out of all the things that could have ruined the moment, Oscar wouldn’t have expected it to be Daniel Ricciardo. “Yeah,” he deadpanned. “Everyone loves Daniel. We get it. My mom said the same thing.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped you, and you shoved him a little. “Come on, it’s a shock for me!”

“It’s also pressure, but thank you so much for your consideration.”

“I congratulated you two seconds ago!”

“I’m sure Daniel would love your condolences even more.”

By that point, you were a giggling mess beneath Oscar’s hands, so much that the sound successfully got a few huffs out of him as well. The pressure of the news evaporated at each new chuckle out of your mouth, and the room was finally big enough to breathe.

Laughter died down, reduced to heavy intakes of air between half-sentences, and that’s when Oscar realized.

Your fingers, gently brushing over his cheekbones, nails grazing his skin. His palms capturing your sides as your thigh rested between his legs. He wasn’t pulling you in, clinging to you like he always did ─ instead, he froze. His heart was stuttering too fast, too loud, in a way that had nothing to do with the news he’d just shared and you simply stared at him, eyes sparkling, as if he handed you the World Driver’s Championship trophy right here and there. Waiting for something.

The heat of your body, your usual proximity, the soft cotton of the sheets did nothing to help the blood boiling in Oscar’s veins and thoughts spiraled in a blink, of what it would be like if he just let his hand roam a little lower, if your breath swept over his lips. 

Words lodged themselves in his throat, just like they did when he was fifteen, sitting on his porch. But this time, he knew. No pretense, no excuse. He was twenty years old, not a child anymore. He knew what these words were and what they wanted to be.

You could come with me. You could come to my races. You could stay. Stay with me.

His chest squeezed. His fingers twisted. His mouth stayed shut.

Because you had a life here. A life that, lately, felt like it had more and more spaces he didn’t fit into. What was he supposed to say? Drop everything? Follow me? Give up everything you built and choose me?

Oscar Piastri wasn’t a wishful thinker, he didn’t ask for things he wasn’t sure he could have ─ and he wasn’t sure he could have you. Not because he didn’t want to, he desperately wanted to, but because he still didn’t understand it. He didn’t get why you put that ache in his chest, the weight in his ribs. Why it was more painful to be away from you, to see you live without him, than his old friend group ─ he put the fault on nostalgia, but it wasn’t it. He had spent years trying to figure it out and still ─ still ─ didn’t have the answer.

So he did what he’d usually do when meaning escaped him. 

He buried it. He’ll take a look at it. He’ll figure it out later.

“Being in F1,” he cleared his throat. “It’s going to be harder, with the schedule and all that. But I promise─”

“You don’t need to,” you cut him off and Oscar noticed the light slightly dim in your eyes, then coming back like nothing happened. “We’ll make it work, we always do.”

You pulled back again, taking your hand with you and letting the cold air replace your touch. Somehow, Oscar knew he did something, but once more he didn’t know what. Instead, he let himself believe the moment was nothing more than what it had always been. Nothing more than you, his best friend, happy for him.

But as you fell asleep, the distance put by you larger than it ever was before, even by just a few millimeters, something inside of him whispered─ liar.

Oscar got in his car, and yet his mind was as far away from it as it could be. Walking out the garage, he had seen his entire family cheering for him, his mom dropping a good-luck kiss on his cheek, and he should be grounded in the moment. He should be basking in the cheers of his home crowd and the familiarity of Australian air opening his season, but he couldn't. Because there was no sign of you.

He had thrown a glance at Hattie, a silent question, and she simply shrugged. Oscar didn't know what that meant: if you excused yourself for a moment or didn't come at all. Which one he was hoping for, that was the question.

And so the formation lap started. The car was feeling good, great even ─ Oscar had done well during the testing rounds and free practices, even landing second place in qualifications right behind Lando. His chest had swelled with hope that maybe, just maybe, he could take on his home race. He brushed the podium last year, how far could he be from taking it with both hands this time?

He could hear his race engineer checking last minute details, the impatient buzzing of the crowd, the motor of his car warming up and flaring to life. It was a sound, a rhythm he could recognize eyes closed.

As the lap concluded, cars finally ready to live through 58 rounds, a streak of hair caught his eye.

If he could decipher the metre of a Grand Prix with his eyes closed, Oscar knew he could recognize the pattern of you before you even came into view. It was brief─ almost a blur, but it was more than enough.

Through the haze of rain-slicked asphalt and the relentless roar of the engine, he caught you. Standing with his family against the edge of the garage like you belonged there, which you did, hands clasped tight against your chest like you were the one in the car, navigating the turns for him. Your hair, wild from the wind, dampened by the drizzle, framing your face. God.

You came. 

After everything, you were really there.

For him.

Oscar pulled his car in P2, but the flickering red lights above him did nothing to calm his racing mind. You always watched his races like this: lived through them like they were your own. Somehow, that made it easier. The loneliness of battling against your own, the relentless push forward. You made it lighter, less suffocating. You always have been. And you were ready to watch him race again, after everything. His chest twisted, his grip on the steering wheel tightened.

And even in the current circumstances, Oscar wasn’t thinking about the race. Not at all.

For what he wished could have been the first time, but wasn’t, the car was filled with the thought of you.

Because it hits him. Like a crash, full speed, sparks flying. Why missing you hurt so much. Why, after a year of unnatural distance of swallowing down whatever had possessed him that night in Melbourne a year ago, he still felt like something lacked.

Oh.

And before he could process it all, it was lights out.

Oscar Piastri is twenty-two when he fucks it up.

The Melbourne Grand Prix didn’t go so badly, but it didn’t go well either. Oscar had been so close to getting a podium on his home race, and watching his colleague, his friend, receiving the applause of his home crowd left a bitter feeling in the back of his throat. He cheered and congratulated, because he was a good sport and genuinely happy for Lando, but the uneasiness didn’t leave him when the cameras turned off.

It was a sticky heaviness in his ribcage, glued to it like molten plastic, tightening with every half-smile and “good jobs” aimed at him. He should’ve been happy, ecstatic. But he just wasn’t.

So he forced himself to go out to celebrate anyway, even half-heartedly. He didn’t want to look like the asshole he really felt like, so he nodded at conversations he wasn’t listening to, let the bass drum against his skin in a club he didn’t even want to be into.

Oscar lasted maybe an hour.

The flashing lights felt too bright, the press of bodies too wrong for his current state of mind. The scent of alcohol curled in his nose, sharp and sour, and something in him was teetering to break the last agreeable bone in his body. As he got out of the club, he thought about how he wanted to be anywhere else but here, suffocating in his own unjustified frustration. 

The only place he wanted to be was with you.

He barely had time to see you before he got whisked away by his team and interviewers. He wanted to tell you about the race, about what he thought, because you were the only one he enjoyed being listened to by, the only one it didn’t feel awkward. No matter how much he tried to shove things down, to ignore whatever it was that had been thrumming under his skin- you were still the first person he reached for. So before he could really think about it, he’d already dialed your number. “Hey, I’m sorry, I know─ Can you hear me? Yeah? Alright. I know it’s late but… can you pick me up?”

And of course you did. Because you were Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. Because no matter where or when─ when Oscar called, you always came.

Your car was in front of the building not even ten minutes later, and he got in. His favorite music on the aux, he smiled at the attention, easy conversation started flowing between the two of you as you drove to the driveway of your house. You didn’t ask why he left. You knew he’d talk about it when he wanted to, if you pressed on the issue he would only close up more ─ get sarcastic, avoidant.

So you both sat on your front porch, the night silent around you, still warm from the heat of the day. “... don’t think he'll be able to walk home tomorrow,” Oscar commented.

“He got third and he's still getting shitfaced like that?” You asked with a disbelieving laugh. “Wonder what will happen for his first pole position.”

“I don't even want to think about it,” he sighed. “His PR team is gonna have a field day.”

“Wonder what will happen during yours, to be honest.” You bumped your shoulder with his, something so casual that still sent the familiar shivers down his spine. “What kind of celebration are you going to pull in Australia, huh?”

The simple sentence was cold rain on Oscar’s newfound relaxation. He knew you didn’t mean it like that, you never would, but his shoulders tensed up and his gaze drifted away from yours. “Yeah, well, at the rhythm it’s going, maybe we’ll have a party when I retire.”

You threw him a glance, the kind that knew what was lying behind all of his barriers, behind the sudden phone call. Oscar let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the material of his jeans. 

“Is that why you asked me to pick you up?” You ended up asking, voice soft. You weren’t trying to pry too much, and he silently thanked you for it. For everything, really.

“I didn’t want to be there,” he answered.

There was nothing more to say: Oscar was bitter and that was the end of it ─ or maybe not, but he didn’t want to get into it tonight when the feelings were still raw, painfully open to see. Yet, your hand found his, stilling the restless motion of his hand against his thigh. Slowly, deliberately, you wove them together. Your palms, warm and steady, rested above his knee. “Then why’d you go? We could have done something. Just the both of us, y’know.”

This time, Oscar looked at you.

And it was all too much. Worry laced in the edges of your expression, the subtle scrunch of your eyebrows he would have missed if he didn’t know you as well as he did, your hand in his ─ steady, grounding. It belonged there, he thought, it always did. You cared about him, that’s what scared him at first ─ because you were sunlight, not the kind that burned but the kind that warmed. The constant, unwavering glow of a beacon that guided him, never pulled him under.

And yet, there he was. Drowning in the mess he tried to push away for so long and was coming back full force, with a simple touch of the hand.

Oscar had two drinks earlier, and it made everything too sharp, his emotions too messy. His tongue a little too loose.

“I thought if I pretended hard enough, it would go away.” He didn’t know if he was talking about the race anymore.

You scooted closer, as if sharing a secret, but the closeness was too intimate for the situation. “What would?” You asked in a whisper.

Oscar’s breath hitched at the way the streetlamps caught in your hair, how your eyes searched his. There was a shift in the air, in the barely-there space between the two of you, in the way your fingers refused to let go of the grip it had on the other.

He should let go.

But your lips parted, ever so slightly, and Oscar allowed his gaze to dip to them. He kissed girls before, he even had a few short-lived relationships, but none of them ever felt right, like they belonged in a lasting manner in his life. They always felt like placeholders for something else, something more, less of a daunting feeling in his guts. He never really told you about it ─ it had always been an unspoken rule in your friendship, without knowing why. Now, he had a sneaky, unnerving suspicion.

Oscar kissed girls before, but he never kissed you.

He didn’t know if it was a mistake. He didn’t know if he should cross that line, but God he wanted to ─ he only knew that he wasn’t sure of what was waiting for him on the other side of it. His heart hammered in his chest, so hard he was afraid you’d hear it. You leaned in, imperceptibly, and your warm breath brushed against his lips. If he let himself, just for a second─ one tiny, irreversible second─ he would kiss you.

He was close. Too close. Feelings were too many. He needed to tell you before something could happen.

“Come with me,” Oscar blurted out, in a murmur along the shape of your lips, a plea in the leftover space.

And just like that, he felt the moment slip away from him. Your eyes, now sharp, snapped to him in a swift movement. And that’s when he knew. That wasn’t the right thing to say or do.

“What?” Your voice was quiet, laced with disbelief. Confusion swirled in your pupils, wondering if you misheard or if he misspoke.

Maybe he had. Maybe this wasn’t how it was supposed to come out- not here, not now, not like this.

“I- Uh…,” Oscar stammered. “Come with me. Stay. For the next races.” Please.

You pulled away, and the lack of you in his space caused his head to spin, his heart still beating violently against his chest, this time in panic. What did he do?

“What are you asking me exactly, Osc’?”

The question of the day. Because what was he asking, really? To be there for the few days in between flights and training and traveling and pretending his world wasn’t moving too fast for him to catch his breath? Sit in the stands, waiting for him to make up his mind about something he had been wondering about for the past fourteen years? Because what did he mean, and why couldn’t he understand?

It wasn’t fair. Not to you.

He swallowed, throat tight with something he couldn’t name and suddenly the night was too cold to stay outside anymore. Oscar forced out a weak chuckle, like it was just some stupid joke as if the word hadn’t crawled out of his chest on their own. “I meant─” He ran a quick hand through his hair. “Ha. Never mind. Forget it.”

And this time, when the light dimmed in your eyes, it didn’t come back. You won’t forget it. Because you saw right through him. Still, you didn’t push ─ every time you did, disappointment crawled over you like insects. After a beat of silence, one that felt like a lifetime, you exhaled, something fragile flashing across your features before you masked it with a tight-lipped smile. He hated it.

You nodded. “Sure.” Just that. Oscar didn’t know what he was expecting. No questions, accusations.

But that was almost worse, you let him get away with it, with the almost, with all of it.

When you both went to sleep that night, it was the first time in forever you didn’t sleep in the same bed. You pretended to have a headache, said you’d join him once it settled down. Oscar fell into slumber alone. 

For some reason, it felt like losing.

Saying to have known love at eight years old would have to be a lie, but Oscar knew you jump-started his heart the minute your laugh echoed in his ear at that playground, fifteen years ago.

He had been pathetically doomed from the start.

From the first glance, to the first laugh, to when your fingers grazed his when you took the controller to his truck ─ a touch so small that had burned itself into his memory like a brand. He was too young to understand what it meant at fifteen when he sat beside you on his porch. Too blind to recognize it at twenty, lying in your childhood bedroom and hands fisting the sheets to stop them from reaching for you. Too scared to act on it last year, close enough to touch and closer than you had been in years and he still let the moment pass him.

The truth was simply this: no matter what, Oscar had always known. Maybe not at eight, maybe not at fifteen. But deep inside, he had always, always known. And he had spent every year since then trying to ignore it.

Not anymore. He couldn’t ─ not when he messed it up last time. Not when he was on the verge of losing you for good.

Oscar Piastri loves you, like a madman, and he needed to tell you like someone drowning needed air.

But to do that, he’d have to get out of the patch of grass he got himself into first.

The track was slippery due to the rain, and a simple mistake could lead to tragic circumstances: this was one of them. Oscar was stuck in the grass of the circuit after a turn he took too narrowly. He lost his P2, the one of his home race he had been searching for since last year. The scream of frustration he let out had earned a pained groan from his race engineer, and to make it worse, he was apparently already written as Out.

But that wouldn’t happen. Because Oscar didn’t go after things he knew he couldn’t have ─but he knew he could have this race. He could finish it. He wouldn’t DNF.

And after he’d be done with it, he’d go after you.

So he dragged himself out under the cheers of his home crowd, an ecstatic buzz in his ears. The last of the laps passed in an angry blur: Oscar was driven by sheer determination, rage even, he could barely remember overtaking Hamilton, fighting his way to P9, and grabbing as many points as he could have in his situation. He could do it.

The race ended in a flurry of applause, some of them surprisingly directed at him. Oscar tried to get out of his car as fast as he could but under the special circumstances of his race, he knew getting past the journalists and commentators was going to be almost impossible. And it was, because as soon as he put a foot on paddock ground, he was swarmed by microphones, cameras, and flashing lights, waiting for every tear to turn into a headline that people would twist and shape.

A few hours passed by the time he was finally able to reach his family. After the regular hugs and reassurances, one of the first things his mom said was: “That’s too bad you just missed Y/N, she had to go back. I wish she could have stayed, she always knows what to say to you,” with motherly little taps on the cheek.

Oscar felt a hole opening in his chest. “She left?” He asked, trying to muster as much nonchalance as he could. 

It wasn’t very efficient, as Nicole gave him the kind of look you’d give to a kicked puppy. “Yeah, she did.” Quickly, she added, “She didn’t go back to her hotel, though. I asked to drop her off and she refused, saying she had somewhere to be.”

It was as vague as it could possibly get, maybe because you didn’t want Oscar to seek you out. But he needed to, he had to get it off his chest before your relationship could worsen ─ and he couldn’t do that by text or calls, for the little you exchanged over the past year. He had to know if the little gap you almost crossed on that front porch meant something and could have been something if he hadn’t fucked it up. If it was too late for it to become something now. And knowing you, you’d be gone by tomorrow morning.

Oscar dashed. 

He got into his car, drove too fast under the intensifying rain. There was no time to waste for him. What he was thinking about was a long shot, an extremely long one for a non-wishful thinker, but if today put you in the same state as him ─ there was a chance, a small one, that you’d be there. 

When he pulled into your childhood neighborhood, his drenched windshield made the road and its surroundings almost indiscernible. But right before the little street leading to both of your houses, he passed by that old, worn-down playground that somehow stood against the test of time, with its rusted swing set and old dirt roads. But his breath didn’t catch on that, no.

It caught on you, sitting on the lower branches of the tree you spied him on at eight.

Oscar had never parked so hastily. He never ran so fast, soaking the McLaren hoodie he put on in a rush before going out. His hair stuck to his forehead and when he reached the dry soil underneath the tree you were hiding on. Arms around yourself, staring in the empty, like you were holding yourself together.

He hesitated momentarily, and all the fears plaguing his mind the past years came rushing back. What if it was too late? What if all he’d get was a final goodbye?

Then you turned, and your gaze found his in the settling dark. All doubts vanished at the same moment ─ he’d rather regret saying too much and grasp at the chance of something than live the rest of his life in silence, drowning in the regrets of saying nothing at all.

“Y/N,” he called, a little strangled, arms dangling at his side.

“Oscar?” You frowned, jumping the small distance separating you from the ground. “What-? How’d you know─?”

“I… guessed.”

“Oh.”

Silence. The incessant rhythm of the rain filled the space as you both stared each other down. Waiting. What was he supposed to say now? “So… uh. How are you?”

Your eyes widened, and a scoff escaped you. “How am─?” You crossed your arms on your chest, staring at Oscar like he had grown a second head ─ and maybe he had, because he couldn’t even try to think straight. “I’m good, Oscar. Great. How was the race?”

“It was─” He stopped, swallowed. It felt plastic, strange ─ the distance, the iciness. Both of you knew you weren’t really inquiring about the race, you knew him better than anyone and probably guessed how it felt already, and he wasn’t really inquiring about you.

It was the first time you saw each other after last year, and everything felt more real. Heavy.

“Did you forget how to talk, Osc’?”

Osc’. You haven't called him that in a long time.

A nervous chuckle escaped him. You were so far and so close at the same time, hair frizzy from the dampness, knees scratched from your recent climb ─ he missed you, you were right there and he still missed you, because you were slowly slipping through his fingers. The last bit of his resolve crumbled.

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Oscar never showed too much emotion. But here he was, drenched by the rainfall, eyes open and raw. And you didn't know what to do with that. You shifted on your feet. “For what?”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair, frustration bleeding into the gesture. “You know what for.”

“That’s not enough. Not anymore.” Your voice was laced with barely contained emotions, strangling you.

He knew. Oscar stepped forward tentatively, just once. Enough to make you look up at him, and he held your gaze even as it twisted with the kind of hurt he never wanted to be responsible for, but had to be faced with. Because he had. And he had to own up to it ─ so everything spilled out.

“I fucked up, last year. Big time.” His voice cracked. He couldn’t care less. “And I know- shit, I know I’m probably too late. I should’ve said something back then, but I didn’t know how or what or why.”

“I was scared. Not just of ruining things, even though it was a part of it, but of─ of what it meant. I didn’t understand, Y/N. I didn’t get why you were the first person I looked for in a room, why I felt so goddamn lost when I moved out and you weren’t there anymore, why seeing you living your own life without me was─ I don’t know, I guess I’m selfish or something.” His throat burned. “And that night─ here, last year─ I should’ve known. Fuck, I think I knew long before then but I was just so blind. When I asked you to come with me, and we─ I should’ve known why. I did. I just─ I didn’t want to mess it up. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Oscar let out a short, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “But I did anyway. I messed it all up because I couldn’t make up my mind, and I don’t blame you if you don’t─ if you can’t─”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

The rain pattered against the dirt and the surrounding pavement, unrelenting, like both of your heartbeats. Oscar’s fingers twitched, aching to reach for you ─ but he wouldn’t do it. Not unless you let him.

Finally, you spoke. “You’re the biggest idiot I met in my entire life, Osc’. You’re so stupid.”

Your voice was teary, but you didn’t cry. You weren’t angry. You weren’t turning away. You simply stared at him, lips parted ─ barely smiling, but it was there.

Oscar blinked rapidly, taken aback. “I know,” he admitted, his voice a whisper, “but I love you.”

There it was. After fifteen years, there it was: the plain truth, out in the open for you to see. What he spent his time running from, what he should have told you so long ago.

You didn’t react. Your eyes widened, a sharp inhale went through your mouth and you stared, frozen in place. Oscar panicked. “I understand if you don’t─ I mean, after everything, I get it if─ Or, or maybe I misread, but─”

“Say it again.”

Your voice was authoritative. Hopeful. And this time, a tear slid down your cheek. His heart skipped a bit. “I love you.”

And Oscar Piastri is twenty-three when he kisses you for the first time.

Your hands grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt, pulling him to you. The crash of your lips against his was sudden, but it didn’t take Oscar long to find a rhythm ─ not when it made so much sense, not when it felt so right. Finally.

A shudder rippled through him, something snapping back into place. It was messy, desperate ─ years of missed chances spilling out at once. You exhaled against his mouth and Oscar felt it everywhere, in the way his fingers trembled when he cupped your cheeks, how his knees almost buckled when you got closer, in the way his world narrowed down to just you. His mouth against yours. Fuck.

You pulled away, just for a second. “Osc─”

“Not yet,” he rasped. And he captured your lips a second time, choking out any other words.

How had he gone so long without this? Without knowing what it was like to have you like this?

He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips. Desire, want, love, all of it blurred in the way his fingers wove into your hair, when he slowly brought them down to your waist, pulling you against him, hungry, greedy.

If he wanted you to come with him so badly the past few years wasn’t because he needed you at his side ─ he still did, but that wasn’t the gist of it. Now that you were falling apart against his lips, hands making a mess of his rain-drenched hair, he knew he had wanted you next to him because he wasn’t allowing himself to have you. He had wanted you in his chest, curled beneath his ribs, a part of him so irrevocably that no miles, no years, no silence could ever pull you away.

And now, he had you. Shit, if that wasn’t like ascending to heaven felt like, he didn’t know what would.

You put a hand on his chest, slowly, and when you separated Oscar found himself longing for more, for every instance he passed on. Yet, the wide smile on your face stopped him ─ because you looked perfect like this, bright and open, taking up space. That’s why he fell in love with you.

“I love you too. So much,” you said, and the words softly blossomed in Oscar’s chest like spring. He dropped his forehead against yours.

“Me too. I love you. You don’t even know,” he breathed out, his lips slowly dropping a kiss on your forehead. “It feels so good to say it. To know.”

You grabbed the string of his hoodies, toying with them as you’d usually do, but every single one of your actions sent another wave of heat in Oscar’s neck when he remembered what you tasted like. “You could’ve felt good about it earlier, y’know.”

He arched a teasing eyebrow at you and you giggled. “I’m sorry, but the realizing-i’m-in-love-with-my-childhood-best-friend didn’t really come with an instruction material. The confession either.”

“You were pretty dramatic, true, with the rain and the running,” you laughed. “It was gonna be pretty easy for me last year, honestly. Until you bailed.”

Oscar groaned, and his head dropped on your shoulder. “I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?”

“Oh yeah, you’re in for a long ride, Piastri.” A long ride. That sounded amazing.

Realization hit him at full force, harder than a crash. “Wait, what do you mean last year?”

Your hand went up, wiping a raindrop dripping down his cheek, and the look you gave him was overflowing with fondness. “I mean that before you tried to kiss me, that night, I would’ve told you I’ve been in love with you ever since I started spying on you at the playground.”

“You…?” Oscar’s mouth dropped open. Had he really been that blind? How many signs had he missed, exactly? “How─”

You kissed him. A quick, hard peck on the lips, but that was enough to shut him up and get him to melt against you once more. “Let’s not talk about it here. I’m cold, and I think it’s the type of discussion that’s too long to have outside,” you said, slipping your hand in his. “My mom would love to make us coffee, if you want.”

Oscar sighed at the familiar feeling, fingers tangling with yours in a well-known pattern. He missed the both of you, and now he got to have it in a better way. “You’re sure? I’d love to, but is your mom─”

“Don’t even worry. She’s been calling me Mrs. Piastri for years now, I think the news will move her to tears.”

So you runned back to the porch of your house where you’d sat years ago, drenched in the deluge but happier than you’ve ever been. Oscar loved you, he knew now. And you loved him back, it was worth the rain, the missed opportunities, the hesitation and the heart wrenching confessions that will follow as you sit down.

You were worth the vulnerability, Oscar thought when you crossed the threshold. You were worth everything.

A year later, Oscar is standing in pole position for the Australian Grand Prix of 2026.

Qualifications went great, keeping the fastest lap position for all rounds. He was confident in his capacity ─ last year had tested his patience and goodwill, but he only came out stronger, more resilient.

The home race curse was a popular saying in Formula One, and sadly he fell victim to it ever since he put his feet in a McLaren in 2023. He had hoped to win the Melbourne race, to bring back the trophy under the cheers of his home crowd and the screams of his family ─ but this year wasn’t for hoping: if there was one thing you taught him, it is that hoping never achieved anything. Actions did. And he was going to win the Australian Grand Prix.

You were standing in your usual spot, orange headphones on, all in smiles and shouts. Hattie next to you playfully shoved an elbow in your ribs to get you to quiet down, which only made you louder. Oscar was persuaded he could hear you above the sound of his race engineer. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe the thought of you swirled around every mechanism of his car like it always did.

Today marked one year since you and Oscar got together. Since the kiss, the realization, the heartfelt confessions above a steaming cup of gingerbread coffee in the middle of summer because your mom affirmed it was a big occasion before leaving the two of you alone. And the fifteen years it took for you to finally get to that point were a painful obstacle of unsaid and what ifs, taking a few months to finally get out of the way, and plenty of awkward conversations ─ but how beautiful was the other side of it.

Devotion and love, gentle and kind. The impulsive dates, the good morning kisses when Oscar had enough time to come and visit, his hand resting comfortably on your lower back, “Oscar Piastri’s partner” on the screen when the camera was pointing at you during races, the weekend getaways.

Oscar noticed the large, varsity top hung on you, a bright orange with the large number 81 written in white. Just underneath, the words Mrs. Piastri were written in a similar font. You had it custom-made a few months into the relationship, simply because the comment about your mother the day he kissed you became a regular inside joke between the two of you.

It made Oscar’s heart flutter every time you wore it.

He observed the red lights above him, flickering out one by one. He thought about it: how the fifteen years of being apart made every day spent with you seem like too little, how he couldn’t get enough of you and how he didn’t want to.

Suddenly, Oscar couldn’t wait for the race to end. Because he was going to keep his P1 with his skills and the speed of his car, and brandish the trophy high on the podium for the country who raised him. Because after, he will rush out in your arms and kiss you until the air in his body runs out. Because he had a girl to get, and plans to make.

Because even though it was only a year spent together, Oscar Piastri is twenty-four when he decides he wants to marry you, and he was not about to wait fifteen more years to make it happen.

©DRGNSFLY 2k25 ─ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[ananaaaaaa]

✶ THE EX EFFECT

summary: being oscar piastri's pr manager is... uneventful, to say the least. that is, until your most recent ex winds up the mclaren garage. in an attempt to prove him something, the arm you end up grabbing is oscar's. now the word is spreading around the paddock that you're his (fake) girlfriend and it turns into a beneficial pr opportunity for him and a perfect cover up for you. except oscar gets a little too good at it, and all the reminders in the world are not enough for you to keep in mind that this is fake.

F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST

pairing: oscar piastri x pr manager!fake gf!reader

wc: 19.2k

cw: not proofread, past toxic relationship, annoyances/colleagues to lovers, fake dating, he falls first, sort of third act breakup, oscar is slightly ooc, very light angst, season timeline is fucked but who cares! romance! clichés! drama!

note: requested here, i know nothing about pr, this was supposed to be short but i couldn't stop myself so you have this monster of a fic! i kinda hate this. anyways, enjoy!

WHEN YOU FOUND out you’d aced your interview, you thought to yourself, the sleepless nights carrying group projects every other member had procrastinated were worth it. The number of social events you passed on to finish top of your class─valedictorian, Communications major with a Journalism minor─had paid off because you had just landed a job as PR manager in Formula One. Not just in any team, either: McLaren. You were ready to dive into the glamour, the glitz, and the hardships of the sport. To thrive in the pressure, the politics, the media storms. You were ready to shine.

Except you were managing Oscar ‘No Emotions’ Piastri, and nobody thought about telling you that.

Oscar Piastri, a quiet semi-rookie when you first crossed the headquarters’ threshold, who gave you five words max per interview, had a sarcastic comment to every command the team social media manager threw his way, and disappeared at every media opportunity like a ghost, deadpanning instead of showing enthusiasm. Needless to say, there wasn’t much for you to manage.

It’s not like you didn’t try. You nudged him gently at first: helpful suggestions, friendly reminders to loosen up a little. Be more engaging. Play the game. But every time you did, he looked at you as if you'd sprouted a second head and proceeded to swiftly ignore you. The first time it happened, you were offended, and maybe a little concerned. You complained to Charlotte, Lando’s PR manager at the time, and she gave you the wisdom of a woman who had seen some things: “Assert yourself,” she’d said.

It was your first month on the job. You were fresh out of university. You didn’t even know where the best coffee machine was. How were you even supposed to do that?

Still, you decided to try again.

During a long and taxing car drive to the McLarens’ HQ, one you were sharing with Oscar after a last-minute driver swap and a logistical disaster, you figured it was now or never. Assert yourself, Charlotte had said. Be firm. Be confident.

You went for humor instead. A joke. 

Terrible idea, in hindsight.

“You know,” you said lightly, breaking the silence that had stretched across three roundabouts, “you’re kind of boring.”

Oscar simply glanced at you, expressionless, so you clarified. “I mean, you’re not even letting me do my job. Throw me a bone here.”

And it was supposed to be playful. Oscar was supposed to quietly snort, asking how he could finally help you, and boom, you’d finally get to apply all that polished knowledge you’d studied for years.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly, puzzled, as if you’d just spoken in Morse code aloud, and said, “Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.”

“What?” You blinked. Saying you’d been taken aback would have been a euphemism.

He didn’t even look away from the road.

“You talk in your sleep. Don’t nap in the common room again.”

Silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t peaceful. It was personal.

That was the moment you decided, with startling clarity, that you very much disliked Oscar Piastri.

You didn’t know you talked in your sleep. You didn’t even know he’d stumbled upon you squeezing a thirty-minute nap in the common room of McLaren’s headquarters. And you certainly didn’t remember the dream you’d had─ or why exactly it had featured your ex out of all people. All you knew was that, no matter what he heard, it was a low blow.

Especially when it came to the one man who somehow slithered his way into your heart just to shatter it from the inside out.

Disliking the person you were assigned to manage wasn’t unheard of in the world of public relations. It was practically a rite of passage. Most of the time, it came with celebrities who were a walking headline: strippers, drugs, arrests, rumors of twins with three different people. That, you could’ve handled.

Oscar wasn’t like that at all. Oscar was just… rude.

Not loud rude, or messy rude. Just… quietly, unbotheredly rude. He was unreadable, dry, and too clever. Not a PR nightmare, just a PR black hole. Just to you.

And if there was one thing you happened to be very good at─besides the job you weren’t even getting the chance to do─it was holding a grudge.

After that episode, you kept your interactions with Oscar to the bare minimum, or as much as you could without being fired. The paycheck was just too good, especially as a fresh grad still recovering from student debt.

Any advice or directions you had for him came during team meetings, always surrounded by enough people that he couldn’t hit you with his usual blank stare. When he messed up during interviews, which was sometimes inevitable, and you followed up with a politely scathing email, bullet points and all. Face-to-face convos were reserved strictly for emergencies… or if you happened to be seated beside him, in which case you communicated via foot. Strategic, silent, and sharp. You’d step on his sneaker under the eyes of all, and he’d keep smiling at the camera like nothing happened. Except for the tiny, throbbing vein on his temple─ oh, you lived for it. 

It was a perfect arrangement. Passive-aggressive peace, mutually tolerated detachment. It worked for both of you.

Sometimes, you caught him glancing your way, wondering why you were still here. But you didn’t care. You had a system, and it was stable. It would’ve stayed that way for a long time, until your or his contract expired, whichever came first.

But then your ex decided to show up, and that messed everything up.

It was a very nice Thursday, dare you say. The kind of morning that made you think the season wouldn't be so bad.

You’d expected Bahrain to be hotter, considering the furnace it had been last year during the start of your first season with McLaren. But today, the air was warm without being unbearable, a soft breeze threading through the paddock and playing with the loose strands of your hair. Your cardigan slipped off one shoulder, but it didn’t cling or suffocate─ just draped like it was meant to be styled that way.

Oscar had just rolled out of the garage, off to log laps and data and whatever mysterious things drivers did during testing, which meant you were officially off-duty for the next three hours. You had time for yourself, maybe for a proper coffee and a chocolate croissant. Eventually, a little conversation with Lando, if you ran into him.

Yeah. This was a good morning.

You should have known it wouldn’t last.

It should have hit you when the coffee machine didn’t work, so you had to walk all the way to Lando’s side of the garage to fetch yourself a cup. It should have hit you when you didn’t even see Lando, and they were out of your favorite chocolate croissant. It should have hit you when you passed by grown men in their forties gossiping like schoolgirls about the new additions to Oscar’s car engineering team, you never heard anything about. It should have hit you when the feelings in your gut made you hesitate near the orange-colored walls.

But it really, really hit you when he grabbed your elbow.

“Y/N?”

Your body locked up like someone had flipped your off switch. The voice was familiar in the worst way─ like a nightmare you thought you’d finally grown out of. You didn’t even need to turn around. Your body already knew. Still, you did, as if asking the universe for confirmation.

And there he was. Theodore Silva, in full McLaren uniform, lanyard slung around his neck. Dark brown hair, messy, tied up in a bun, with his characteristic three o’clock shadow. Your ex-boyfriend. Your heartbreak origin story that, somehow, had the nerve to smile.

You would have backhanded him if the shock didn’t make your mind go blank.

“Wow,” he said, and you felt like a funny coincidence. “Didn’t expect to see you there. Always knew you were the ambitious one.”

Oh, you knew that tone. That patronizing little tone he used when he wanted to seem impressed while reminding you he could always do better. As if you hadn’t told him a million times about your fascination with motorsports and all of its scandals. You weren’t 19 and easily diminished anymore.

You slapped on a polite, seething smile. “I could say the same. I wouldn’t have guessed they hired people with so little… experience. Or the grades to back it up.”

Theodore Silva wasn’t the richest man alive. No, that title was reserved for his father, who owned a few businesses that took off in the early 2010s and left him with an outrageous amount of money and too much to do with it─ including sending his incompetent son to a prestigious business school even though he could barely manage to keep up half of the average required. Even his father’s money couldn’t get him to graduate the same year as you.

But after another year, it could apparently get him a job at McLaren.

Yet, Theodore still chuckled, brushing off your remark as if it were just another inside joke you two shared. “They just brought me on- engineering for Piastri’s car. Funny how life works out, huh?”

He was on Oscar’s team. You’d be obligated to see him, be near him, every day. You didn’t answer, just stared at him blankly, too busy cataloguing every sharp object in the vicinity, trying to ignore the twist of your heart.

“Small world,” he added to your silence.

You tried to smile again, but you knew it came out weird when the words that came out of your mouth sounded more like a screech than anything else. “Smaller than I’d like.”

Theodore tilted his head, studying you with calm eyes, as if he hadn’t watched you, arms dangling near his side, as you broke down in his apartment’s parking lot. “You look good,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”

You stared at him.

Hell no. He had that voice, wearing guilt like an optional accessory, looking at you like he was the one that got away. The nerves. You hated how your chest tightened, the smell of his cologne, and how he thought he could just waltz in, throw some compliments around, hoping to win you back.

Fuck him. “I’m doing very well, Theodore. Loving my job. How’s Anna?”

That landed. He physically winced, scratching his neck. “We, uh─ We broke up, actually.”

How surprising.

“So─”

You weren’t about to let him finish. You weren’t about to let him think he even had the sliver of a chance. He wasn’t about to wreck the life you built for yourself by simply being here, no. Instead, you did the sanest thing anyone would have done in your place.

You lied.

“I have a boyfriend, actually.” The words came out so fast you almost flinched, not registering them yourself.

Theodore paused, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, wildly too sharp for the context. “He’s great. Amazing, supportive. Emotionally available. You know─ faithful.”

He blinked, and his fake-casual mask slipped for a second. “What’s his name?” He asked, all lightness gone from his expression. 

That’s when it hit you. Unspoken panic rose in your throat because, believe it or not, you didn’t have a boyfriend. You barely even had a social life─ you spent most nights in bed with a sheet mask and Youtube videos. If you hesitated now, even for a second, Theodore would know. And he’d never let go, flashing you his smug little grin of his, strutting around the garage for a season, thinking he had a chance.

Not today, Satan.

The garage door behind you creaked open and footsteps echoed in your direction.

You didn’t look, didn’t think. You just grabbed the first arm that brushed against yours.

“This is him!” You said, an octave too high. “My boyfriend.”

And Oscar Piastri, your emotionally repressed, sarcasm-saturated PR headache of a driver, froze mid-step. As much as you wanted it, there wasn’t any way to back out now. His eyes dropped to your grip, white-knuckled, around his bicep. Then to you. Then to Theodore.

“... Sorry, what?” He said under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Babe,” you hissed between your teeth, eyes still set on Theodore and smiling like your life depended on it. “Go with it.”

Finally, your ex managed to speak up. He was frozen, mouth half-opened in shock. “This is your─ You’re dating─ Oscar Piastri is your boyfriend?”

Oscar opened his mouth, definitely to ask what was going on, but you beat him to it. “Yes! Yep. It’s, um─ it’s very new. A few months.”

You finally turned to face him fully.

His brown eyes, sharp and unreadable as ever, flicked across your face─ first your eyes, then your mouth, then down to where your fingers were still digging into his arm. There was confusion there, definitely, but also a kind of calculation unique to him.

“This is Theodore,” you added, swallowing thickly. “He’s one of your new engineers.” You hesitated. “... and my ex.”

That’s when something clicked.

You felt it. The subtle shift in Oscar’s expression─ the way his shoulders straightened or the brief flicker of understanding behind his eyes. He glanced at Theodore just once before looking back at you. You pleaded silently. With your eyes, with your fingers brushing lightly over the sleeve of his fireproof top, even with the part of your lips that whispered please without making a sound.

But the longer you stood there, the more the panic crept up your spine. Oscar didn’t owe you anything. The man barely liked you. He could’ve thrown you under the bus without blinking, called you out right there and made your life ten times harder.

Which is why you almost jumped when his hand, much larger, reached up and gently settled above yours.

“Ah, Theodore,” Oscar said, like the name physically bored him. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about my reaction,” he added, fingers tightening just slightly over yours. “I just didn’t expect… this.”

He turned to glance at you. An innocent smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“Y/N’s told me a lot about you.”

Theodore snapped out of the shock that froze him into place, and his smile flickered. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Oscar said casually. “All the highlights.”

You blinked up at him, heart in your throat, unsure whether to laugh or sob. Was Oscar Piastri helping you?

“The highlights?” Theodore asked, dumbfounded.

Oscar hummed, thumb absentmindedly brushing over your hand─ just once, like punctuation. You weren’t dreaming, he was playing along. And the look on Theodore’s face was worth every single of it.

“Funny, she never mentioned you, or the fact she was dating an… F1 driver, as a whole.” As if you even talked to him anymore!

Oscar shrugged, way too relaxed. “That’s all right. We’re keeping it on the down low for now, I’m sure you understand. And we don’t do much… talking, anyways.”

Your jaw nearly hit the tarmac. You stepped on Oscar’s foot, a habit by now, and he barely flinched. Apparently, that was enough for Theodore. “Well,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Guess I’ll see you two around the garage.”

“Guess I’ll see you around my car,” Oscar answered, a little too quickly.

Theodore just glanced at him before muttering, “Small world.”

“So small,” you nodded stiffly.

The second he was out of sight, you yanked Oscar by the wrist like a woman possessed, dragging him to the nearest utility alleyway─ dim, slightly greasy smelling, and blessedly empty. For how long, though? You didn’t know. “Okay,” you hissed. “Wow, what the hell was that line?! We don’t do much talking?!”

Oscar raised a condescendent eyebrow, arms crossed on his chest. “I don’t know, you tell me, Mrs. This Is My Boyfriend. I just followed along. You’re welcome, by the way.”

You groaned so loud it echoed, looking up to the ceiling, hoping answers will fall off it and solve your life, simultaneously pacing a short line across the floor. “I know what I did, alright? I just─ I panicked! That guy─ he… he cheated on me. With my best friend. In my own bed. And I just─ he looked so smug and self-satisfied standing here like I’d run back to him. I needed to shove something in his face, show him I’m fine. Better. And I didn’t look and you were there and your arm was right there and now I’m going to have an aneurysm─”

Oscar blinked. “Wow. Okay. That’s… a lot of information, considering we barely know each other.”

“Thank you so much for the support, Oscar. I wonder whose fault that is, exactly!”

“I’m just saying. That was a whole soap opera act in thirty seconds,” he snapped back, rolling his eyes.

You exhaled harshly. “Whatever. I didn’t actually mean to drag you into this, okay? I’ll fix it. I’ll… tell him it was a misunderstanding or… I’ll figure it out. I’ll PR my way out of this, because whether you like it or not, it’s actually my job─”

“It’s fine,” he said, cutting you off, eyes closing briefly like he needed to reboot.

You paused. “Huh?”

“I said it’s fine.” His eyes opened again, locking onto yours. “Now that he thinks you’re dating someone, his delusional ego’s going to spiral and he’ll leave you alone. Especially if it’s someone… above in station, let’s say. Not to stroke my own ego.” He tilted his head, tone flat. “He looks like the insecure type.”

“He is,” you aggressively agreed, pointing at him like he’d just cracked the Da Vinci code, and you swore you saw his lips pull up. “So we just… leave it alone?”

“Let it die down,” Oscar continued with a casualness you could only hope to replicate. “Maybe have a conversation here and there for consistency, but that's about it. It’s not like he’s going to go around bragging that his ex-girlfriend is dating the guy he’s working for.”

You snorted. “I think he’d rather die.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile. “Exactly.”

You sighed, finally letting your shoulders drop as the tension bled out of you. The adrenaline was still rushing through your veins, waterfall-like, but slowly softening, giving way to a quiet panic that you could make do with until the end of the day. It’s fine, you told yourself, it’ll be fine. “Okay,” you murmured, giving him a small nod. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“Don’t mention it,” Oscar replied, already turning away. “Literally.”

“Deal,” you said. “Never again.”

The plan was to return to your regularly scheduled programming─ distant and professional. With the way Theodore worked (or more accurately, didn’t), you were pretty sure he wouldn’t last long in the McLaren garage anyway. Life would go back to normal soon enough. You were sure of it.

Rule number one of PR management: never assume anything. Certainty was a myth. Because as long as there was even a sliver of doubt, it could all go wrong. Maybe you’d gotten complacent in your ways, Oscar never gave you anything to work with after all, but you really thought that this time, it would be fine. You slept like a rock that night, the kind of sleep where your mind recharged so hard it forgot you had responsibilities in the morning.

That’s probably the reason it took you so long to notice. First, it was the way people lingered as you passed. How engineers muttered behind their coffee cups and went dead silent when you got too close. You weren’t used to this level of attention─ as a whole, you were a pretty discreet presence in the paddock, so when the smiles came and the knowing smirks got thrown your way, you started becoming suspicious.

“Morningggg,” Lando sing-songed as you entered the McLaren hospitality tent.

“Good… morning?” You muttered, narrowing your eyes as you plopped down next to him. “What’s got you in such a good mood today?” You asked as you bite into the chocolate croissant you’d been craving since yesterday.

Lando studied you. Waiting.

“Do I have to guess, or…?”

The curly-haired man sighed dramatically, as if your question alone had aged him. “No, but I thought we were friends. Guess I was wrong, since I had to hear it from my race engineer. During briefing.”

You blinked. “Okay, what the hell are you on?” you admitted. “Have you been doing crack? Is that it?”

“Whatever, keep your secrets, Y/N,” Lando conceded, a smug little grin on his lips. “You’ll talk to me when you’re ready. Or I’ll just get the truth from Osc’. He seems… chatty, lately.” 

You couldn’t imagine Oscar Piastri being chatty to save your life. “What? What does Oscar have to do with anything?” But Lando was already up and walking off.

Alone with your chocolate croissant and your detonated sense of peace, you scanned the room, eyes darting in panic.

Across the tent, Oscar stood by the coffee station, talking to a staff member with his hands-in-pockets casual disinterest. His eyes met yours, and he paused mid-sentence, one eyebrow raised in that really? kind of way that made you want to slap him. There was a silent question in it. 

One you didn’t have an answer to.

The answer actually came knocking that night─ quite literally. Loud, incessant, unforgiving knocks at your hotel room door.

You were in the middle of taking off your makeup, cotton pad in one hand and dabbing at your under-eye concealer like it personally offended you. “Seriously?” You audibly commented, exhausted. It was nearly 10 PM. You’d done your job, answered more emails than anyone should in one day. The very least the universe could offer was twenty-four uninterrupted minutes of peace.

But the knocking didn’t stop, so you opened the door with a groan and a complaint on your tongue, only for the sound to die the moment you registered who was standing on the other side.

Oscar Piastri. In a hoodie, track pants, socks that did not match, and looking far too calm for someone who’d just banged on your door as if the apocalypse was tracking him down. You stared in confusion, words refusing to come out of your mouth no matter how hard you tried.

“Sooo… we might have a problem,” Oscar finally spoke in the silence stretching between you.

He walked in your room with no hesitation, without you even inviting him in─ the audacity! Sure, yeah, come on in, ruin my night, you thought. He glanced around, sizing your room and seemingly expecting paparazzis behind the mini-bar, before turning to face you with a flat look.

“What’s this problem that has you acting so dramatic for─”

“You’re trending on F1 Twitter. Well, we are,” he said simply, tone measured. “Someone took a photo. You holding my arm next to your ex. In the garage. And the caption is─”

He pulled out his phone. A screencap of big, red, capital letters: IS OSCAR PIASTRI SOFT-LAUNCHING HIS PR MANAGER?

It took a while for reality to set in. 

You stared at the screen blankly, eyes flicking from Oscar to the headline, erratic. Soft-launching. Soft-launching. You tasted blood in your mouth. Oh, no─ it was actually just your soul leaving your body. “This is not happening,” you mumbled, blinking rapidly. “It’s fake. This is fake. I’m hallucinating.”

Oscar hummed. “Want me to read you the quote tweets?”

You pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare.”

He shrugged and put his phone down. You sat down on your bed, hands flying to your temple. “Okay, okay. No big deal. I’ll just tell the team we were talking about… a car issue. A steering problem. Brake pedal feedback. That sounds fake, right? Like, real-enough fake.”

Oscar gave you a look. “You could try that,” he said slowly, “but your ex has apparently been sniffing around the garage asking people if we’re actually dating.”

“No way.”

“I overheard Lando’s race engineer telling him. He asked five different people.” A beat. “He’s not subtle.”

You could feel your eyes twitch. “Jesus Christ.”

Oscar crossed his arms, leaning back against the mini-bar, staring at you. “So I don’t think your little oh it was just a brake issue! excuse is going to cut it.”

“I’m going to end it all,” you said, dropping your face in your hands. “I’m going to crawl into my media kit and live there forever.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “I’ll bring you snacks.”

“How are you not freaking out? Like, at all? It’s your face on every headline, and my job on the line!” You didn’t want to think about the repercussions this would have on any future jobs you might want, or your actual one. Future employers were going to Google you and find dating rumors about a fake relationship with a driver you were managing.

“Oh, I freaked out,” Oscar cut in smoothly, walking toward you. “Trust me, I had a whole mini-existential crisis in the elevator.”

“That’s good for you, Oscar. Why aren’t you still freaking out?”

“Because I figured this might be a job for my PR manager,” he said, toned laced with sarcasm. “Who also happens to be the cause of the PR disaster in the first place.”

You opened your mouth just to close it, and to open it again. “That’s fair.”

“And you said I was too boring.” Oscar gave you a dry smile, and weirdly, that was the moment it clicked.

You were his PR manager. This─whatever mess the universe had decided to dump in your lap─wasn’t just a disaster. It was an opportunity. A viral, narrative-controlling opportunity. The kind of chaos you could work with. You’d complained that Oscar gave you nothing: too quiet and acidic. Well, he certainly wasn’t that anymore, or almost.

You straightened up, the panic slowly morphing into focus. Your heart was still pounding, but now to the rhythm of the plan puzzling itself in your head. No one had trained you for what to do when you were the story but if anyone could improvise, it was. Your idea was wild, unhinged, even. But you knew better than anyone that the line between unhinged and brilliant was just the execution. And if you played this right, it could be exactly what the both of you needed.

You turned to Oscar slowly, the corner of your lips twitching into something almost insane. “Oscar,” you said carefully. “What if we didn’t let this go to waste?”

“Come again?”

“I mean, this,” you gestured vaguely toward his phone, screen down on the counter. “Oscar Piastri’s mystery romance unveiled, blah blah blah. It’s a mess, but it doesn’t have to be.”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “... You’re about to say something crazy.”

You got up from your spot on the bed to face him fully. “Fake dating.”

“There it is.”

“No, seriously, hear me out,” When he started taking a few steps back, you rushed toward him, hands animated. “People are already talking. We can’t undo the articles or stop the whispers, but we can own the story. It’s simple PR strategy: if the narrative’s out of our hands, we grab it back, shift the focus and make it work for us.”

“And what, exactly, would we be gaining from this?” Oscar looked deeply, deeply unconvinced.

You got closer to him and his eyes widened discreetly, quickly shifting from your eyes to your lips, and to the one finger you were holding up in front of his face. “One, you get press engagement. You’ve been called the human spreadsheet by more than one person─”

“Never heard of that.”

“Okay, maybe it’s only me, but my point still stands. This? It gives you dimension. Warmth. Personality. More people of all age groups rooting for you.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m dating you?”

“Don’t flatter yourself too much. Two,” you continued without missing a beat, “I get a break from Theodore. He’s more likely to leave me alone if he thinks you’re in the picture long-term, or as close as we can get to it.”

“Isn’t that the reason you picked me in the first place?”

“I was desperate. You were here and tall.”

Oscar shrugged at your words, quietly agreeing with you, which egged you on for the last point of your argument. “Three, if this all goes up in flames, we just say we broke up. That wouldn’t be the ideal outcome until Theodore’s out of the picture, but if push comes to shove, we do this quietly. Classic ‘we ask for privacy during this time’, then ghost the media. End of story, and we go back to our ways.”

The silence stretching between the walls of your hotel room seemed to last a lifetime too long as the Australian studied you carefully, arms crossed on his chest. “You’ve really thought about this.”

“Actually, I just did. I’m that good.”

He exhaled loudly at your comment, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and you tried your best not to let a little quip past your lips. “And how long would this have to last?” Oscar asked, voice muffled by his palm.

“Until Theodore goes away, which shouldn’t be more than a few weeks knowing his talents. Enough to let the story peak and settle and it would include a couple public appearances, some social media crumbs─ low effort, maximum payoff for you.”

Hope swirled in your chest with the intensity of a storm when he dropped his hands, his dark eyes locked onto yours.

“And your ex leaving you alone would be the only thing you’d gain out of all this?”

You didn’t hesitate a single second when you answered. “That, and peace. Maybe a little petty revenge over him and honestly? A challenge.” Because this is what you’ve been dying to do ever since you stepped foot in the paddock a year ago.

And maybe Oscar saw the hellfire of determination in your eyes as he scanned you, either that or you sold your reckless idea with the confidence of a politician, because after long, skeptical minutes. He held out his hand, and the overwhelming weight pressing against your shoulders seemed to evaporate in the flight of a hundred butterflies.

“Fine, count me in,” he said, voice a little hoarse, “but if it all goes to shit, you’re taking the blame.”

You hastily took his hand, his rough palm fitting into yours, and you blamed the electricity rushing in your spine and the powdery pink of his cheeks on the ridiculous situation and the relief coursing through your body. “Deal, but it won’t go to shit if you keep up with me.”

The ghost of a smirk pulled at his lips, which made you smile. Your heartbeat was thundering in your chest and the heaviness of what you’d just agreed upon settled over you like a second skin.

Fake dating Oscar Piastri. How hard could it be?

First thing you did the next morning was to warn a handful of team members: there was no world in which running a fake dating scheme in secret wouldn’t come back to bite you and frankly, your job and reputation were already hanging by a thread due to yesterday’s PR earthquake. You and Oscar pulled Lando, Zak, and a few key staff members─social media, comms, and PR support─into the smallest available hospitality room you could find, locking the door behind you.

You explained the situation as fast as you could, hands raised in surrender under their gazes. How the rumors were technically true but not real, what conclusions you came to in such little time, and the thought process behind your idea, carefully excluding Theodore’s implication.

“Wouldn’t lying to the public make it worse?” Someone from comms piped up, deadpan.

You winced. “Damage control isn’t always about truth. It’s about optics, controlling the narrative before it controls us. We’ve assessed the risk, this buys us time to refocus headlines onto the cars, not the garage drama all while boosting Oscar’s popularity.”

Zak blinked at you as if you’d grown a second head. “You assessed the risk?”

“With me,” Oscar added from his chair, facing you. “I see the strategic upside. I’ll blow over in a few weeks, it’s fine. No harm done.” You sent him a silent thank you, holding his eyes just long enough for him to notice.

“Soo, when’s the wedding?” Lando piped up, leaning forward. “Or do we just have the break-up arc planned?”

You ignored him, preferring to explain the conditions of you and Oscar’s little agreement: no posts unless you greenlit them, no press comments and if anyone asked, yes, you were together. Happy. In love, but still casual. Social media staff were already scribbling notes or rapidly typing on their keyboards, and Zak looked like he might die of a heart attack.

So were you. Still, when you glanced at Oscar during one of McLaren’s CEO's silent breakdowns, you couldn’t help but share a silent laugh.

The following days were catastrophic, to say the least. Navigating the Bahrain paddock for the last of testing and media obligations for the first Grand Prix of the season the week after had turned into a minefield of knowing looks and suspicious stares. You and Oscar were learning how to walk the tightrope of fake affection with the grace of two toddlers. A few shared smiles, a shoulder brush, but every interaction felt rehearsed, taken off a badly written script. By some given miracle, it did work on some people but not all, and especially not Theodore. You could feel his eyes on you everytime you walked through the garage, narrowed as if waiting for a slip-up, but you’d rather die than prove him right.

By the end of the first few days, Oscar’s social media manager handed you a photo of the both of you to approve for Instagram─ one where Oscar had his arm slung around your shoulder awkwardly while you stood next to the car, all too aware of the massive lens pointed right at you. It was…

“It looks like we lost a bet,” you muttered, horrified.

Oscar leaned in over your shoulder to look at the picture. “Oh. Yeah, that’s bad.”

You threw your hands in the air, movements more powerful than words to transcribe the frustration elevating your blood pressure. Before a flurry of complaints and insults could slip past your lips, Oscar spoke.

“Okay, maybe it’s not very convincing, but it’s also because we haven’t figured out how to sell it correctly.”

“What a revolutionary thought.” He shrugged your comment off. 

“Well, I figured since we skipped the whole dating part and went straight to the whole madly-in-love thing, maybe it’s time we… backtrack?”

You felt the lightbulb switch on in your mind, eyes widening in realization. “Backtrack… like a backstory?”

Oscar nodded solemnly. ��A timeline, yeah. How it started, how it’s going, first dates and everything. The whole fake fairytale.”

You couldn’t argue with that. You hated to admit he was currently beating you at your job, but Oscar was right. People were already speculating about the two of you a week in your fake relationship; everyone, including you, needed some foundations to be settled and fast. “Okay, alright. We can figure this out tonight, preferably in my hotel room since it apparently became the headquarters of this,” you made circle hand gesture between the two of you, “operation. Also because nobody will bust us in there.”

Oscar showed up at an ungodly hour of the evening─ the clock showcased numbers that hurt your sleep cycle, but nothing made the press talk more than going to your girlfriend’s room in the middle of the night, right? He knocked once before letting himself in, dressed in the same sweats and hoodie as a week ago, and holding a suspiciously large energy drink. “I come bearing poison,” Oscar announced, lifting the can.

You squinted at him from your spot on the bed-your hotel room lacking a desk-surrounded by a battlefield of notebooks and your wheezing laptop that was one short breath away from the grave. “Perfect, that’ll keep us up. We have work to do. Welcome to the Ted-talk-slash-lie-building meetup.”

Oscar kicked off his shoes, walking toward you. He eyed the chaos with a low whistle. “Oh wow, you weren’t kidding.”

You handed him a purple glitter pen without even glancing in his direction. “Sit your ass down and write with honor, Piastri.”

“Glitter? Really?”

“Don’t patronize me. I love glitter gel pens. Better memorize that if you want to be a good fake boyfriend.”

Oscar snorted but didn’t protest as he took the pen, sitting down next to an open notebook on the edge of your bed. He cracked the energy drink open with a hiss, and you took it from his hands before he had the time to bring it to his lips. “Jesus, you’re bossy.” You shot him a look. “Alright, alright. Where do we begin?”

You exhaled, eyes settling on your computer screen. A bright, pink page was showcasing Date Idea: Where To Take Your Beloved For A First Date? “With the basics. When we started dating, how we met, how many fake months we’ve been in fake love, which side of the bed you sleep in for continuity purposes.”

“Right side.”

“Wrong answer. It’s mine.”

You gradually settled in a surprisingly comfortable rhythm. Between the quiet clicking of the keyboard, the buzzing of Chinese nightlife outside your window, and the rhythmic scratch of the glittery ink on paper, you and Oscar brainstormed.

Ideas came slowly at first, awkward and stilted the way two kids forced together in a group project would work─ which it was, in a way. It didn’t take you long to realize you didn’t know Oscar at all, and he didn’t know you either, and the recognition of that fact put a certain strain on your interactions, as much as there already was. Yet, the tension softened as the minutes from midnight trickled away. You found yourself building a history out of thin air, questions after questions and jokes after jokes─ inside jokes that didn’t exist and justified why you laughed so hard at ‘soft tyres’, a first date that involved a tragically undercooked lasagna which Oscar and you had to fight over because neither of you wanted to look like a bad cook. You chose May 21st as the anniversary date because it sounded cute. Oscar protested, “How can a date even be cute? It doesn’t make sense.” He still settled on it.

Snorts, teasing looks as you drew a clumsy timeline in the middle of your designated ‘Relationship Basics’ notebook. “What about our first kiss?”

“Mmh, that’s a good one. People are going to ask.”

“Duh,” you fought the smile on your lips with little effort. “C’mon. You were wearing that hideous orange puffer, it was raining, and I was mad because you didn’t share your umbrella.”

“Oh right, and you were soaked and… okay, you said I owed you a kiss for compensation. Sounds like something you’d do,” Oscar replied, leaning forward in mock seriousness.

You made a sound, halfway between a gasp and a laugh. “You do remember!”

He laughed. A real one, warm and easy, going right through your chest. You quickly joined him, and his eyes lingered on you a second too long after the joke faded. “I made it up with hot chocolate later, though,” he added with a lazy smile that didn’t belong in any scenarios.

You scribbled that in your notebook. “Ew. We are sickeningly cute.”

And somewhere between a fabricated ski trip and the great debate of who said ‘I love you’ first, something shifted, just a little. Oscar had moved from the edge of the bed to sit beside you, arms behind his head against the headrest, legs stretched on the covers. His knees bumped yours every now and then, but you didn’t flinch away. The notebooks laid abandoned now, pens scattered across the duvet. Your laptop screen dimmed after an hour of neglect and your limbs were heavy with the sweet stickiness of fatigue that only came when you laughed too much and too hard.

You glanced over at Oscar and his hair was a little messy, eyes a little sleepy, softened by the light of the space. He was already watching you. “You know,” he spoke up. “For a so-called meeting, it suspiciously looks like a sleepover.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at that, tiredness winning over your resolve. “It’s almost four,” he continued,  voice lower in the hush of your hotel room. “We’ve officially survived our first week of fake dating. Well, we did four hours ago, but…”

“And we haven’t accidentally gotten married in Vegas like they do in movies. I’d call that a win.”

“Oh yeah, that’s definitely not because of our amazing chemistry.”

A huff escaped you again, and your head fell back against the pillows. Shanghai still hummed outside the window, quieter this time, and the city lights threaded through the thin curtains you pulled. The room was just as still, if warmer─ you could feel the tired blush on your cheeks and the heat of Oscar’s thigh against yours. “You know, you’re not as annoying as I thought,” you said, a lazy sigh curling into your words.

It came out like an offhand casual observation, but you didn’t meet his eyes. Truth be told, you were ashamed. The whole year you’d convinced yourself Oscar Piastri was a nuisance and a stain on your work life had been shattered in the shine of glitter pens and the drafting of a romance novel-worthy story. Because he was actually kind of funny, and even though he delivered his jokes like he was bored half the time which you used to interpret as condescance, they still made you laugh. He listened when you spoke. He had a dry, understated charm you were starting to recognize as very authentic.

And he hadn’t complained once tonight. Not when you made him pick an anniversary date for the third time, or reenact a fake first meeting with your best friend. He was just… there.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he replied, but his voice melted at his usual edges. “You’re alright too. Surprisingly.”

When you turned your head, you found he was already looking at you for the second time, and a moment passed. You gave him a smile, barely there, and he looked away. “Guess we do make a decent team,” Oscar mumbled.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you mimicked him. He snorted.

You walked him to your door after an exchange of soft chuckles and breathy goodnights. Fake dating Oscar would be harder than you thought, but it definitely wouldn’t be as bad as you made it out to be.

You weren’t sure what it was between the sleep deprivation, the amateur acting, or the emotional whiplash of building an entire relationship with a guy you were only acquainted with, but something about it shifted the rhythm you’d gotten used to. Whatever happened during that night, being Oscar Piastri’s fake girlfriend became easier after it.

It started with texts. You couldn’t remember which one of you sent the first non-work related one, but it became a daily occurrence of linking the other pictures the press took of the both of you.Oscar would often comment something along the lines of Do I look like a man held hostage or a man in love? Be honest. You’d roll your eyes everytime, answering: All I can say is that I’m not flattered. At first, it was mostly logistical─ scheduling photo ops, making sure neither of you veered your scheme off the track. But somewhere between sarcastic captions and oddly flattering candids, the conversations grew longer. It became a way to kill time, a habit.

Oscar was easy to talk to, which was a thought that would’ve originally terrified you. Except the conversations carried off screen, and you found yourself enjoying them an awful lot.

Along the lines of your ruse, you started saving seats beside each other during lunch breaks or waiting up for the other to go back to the hotel together─ not for the cameras or Theodore’s heinous stare, but for a reason as simple as the enjoyment of the other’s company. Oscar was more than a colleague by that point, he became something else that you couldn’t quite call a friend the way you called Lando one. You stopped overthinking every step you took beside him, every glance and sentence. You had your script, sure. But more than that, you had a quiet kind of understanding. He knew when to press his hand to the small of your back when it was needed, and you knew when to lean in just enough to sell the look of something intimate. 

It wasn’t perfect, but it was practiced. Comfortable, even. Maybe, just maybe, a little fun. Which is why you couldn’t tell when the little things started to feel not as little anymore.

Rare were the times you arrived late to a team briefing, but a late-night spiral reviewing articles about your little charade had stolen more sleep than you’d expected, and for the first time since you started out at McLaren, your alarms lost the battle. You slipped in your seat next to Oscar, a movement you barely thought about anymore, breathless, cheeks warm from your run across the paddock and the drizzle misting your hair. Your pants were drenched, there was a pounding behind your eyes and you were thirty minutes away from biting someone’s head off if they even dared mention your tardiness.

Oscar didn’t say anything at first, just glanced your way as he often did, eyes flicking up and down once. You braced for a comment, a joke, preparing to hold yourself back from doing something you’ll regret doing to your fake boyfriend in public.

Instead, he leaned down, reaching for a paper bag next to him, from where he pulled out a steaming paper cup and a chocolate croissant that he slid toward you without a word. Your name was scribbled across the side of the wrapper along with your very specific order, down to the temperature.

You looked at Oscar. At your breakfast. Then at Oscar again. “How─”

“You weren’t answering my texts,” he said, still looking forward. “Figured you’d be late, so I got you this. You get cranky with no sleep or caffeine in your system.”

“I don’t get cranky,” you muttered, wrapping your cold hands around the hot beverage. “You get sassy when you don’t sleep.”

“Sure,” Oscar said casually, meeting your eyes for the first time since you sat down. “There’s extra vanilla, by the way.”

You didn’t answer, just rolled your eyes, but his gaze was still on you when Zak burst through the door. The fact he remembered that you took extra vanilla syrup in your extra hot latte and that your favorite pastry was a chocolate croissant should be nothing, because you’re sure you told him at some point during your many one-on-one briefings. Except it wasn't. Not really.

Then, there was the flight. There was nothing the fans and the media loved more, and Theodore despised just as much, than couple apparitions at airports, which led to Oscar’s social media manager to nudge you into the believable. That’s how you found yourself catching the same flight as Oscar, Lando and a few others on their jet. It had become recurrent in the past few weeks and you’d never admit it out loud, but there were non-neglectable perks: fewer crying babies, more space, and the occasional poker game where you absolutely obliterated Lando’s ego. You know I’m just that good at acting, you’d said, throwing a cheeky smile at Oscar that he gave you right back.

This time, though, none of you had the energy to talk, let alone play cards. It had been an exhausting and emotional race weekend─ back-to-back media obligations underneath the fire of reignited on-track rivalries, rain delays, and disputes amid the team you couldn’t legally disclose. The jet was unusually quiet as it took off into the night sky, everyone slipping into their respective silence.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You usually didn’t in airplanes, they stressed you out too much─ you’d just leaned against the window for a little moment, eyes fluttering closed. The buzz of the engine and the soft cabin light blurred the world into static and you drifted away in a split second, as soon as the city was turned to insignificant holes in the black tapestry underneath you.

After a while, you felt a warmth, subtle at first. There was something solid against your shoulder, enough to make you crack one eye open.

Oscar’s head was resting against yours, and you were tucked comfortably against him. At some point, he’d dozed off too, and the both of you had slumped toward each other in your sleep. You could’ve moved, you know you would have a few weeks back, but you didn’t. You let your eyes close again and let yourself drift in and out of sleep along the quiet sync of your breath. His arms wrapped around your waist, your legs rested on his knees, and you weren’t quite sure how long you stayed like that─ten minutes, an hour─but when you finally woke up again, it was to the obnoxious flick of Lando’s phone camera and his barely contained laughter.

It was the accumulation of those little things, the seemingly insignificant moments that, piled together, made them bigger than they should have been. It was when Oscar took the habit of sleeping in your hotel room after qualifications to watch a movie under the pretense of simulating ‘passionate encounters’. It was when, one morning, bleary-eyed, you accidentally threw on his hoodie with his number printed on the back, and his hands lingered on the small of your back a little more possessively that day. It was when you were running low on your orange glitter gel pen and a full set was mysteriously delivered to your door, even if you didn’t need one. In the way his pupils dilated ever so slightly when you caught him staring, when he pointed right at you after his podiums, how your skin fizzed with heat for hours after he kissed your cheek in front of the cameras.

But what really blurred the line was the night in Spain.

It hadn’t been a particularly thrilling race─ tame from lights out to chequered flag. Oscar had finished P3, Lando snagged P2, both holding their qualifying positions with sharp determination. But the crowd had been wild, the champagne flowing and before you knew it, Lando dragged you and Oscar into Carlos’ plans for the night. All that happened after was a blur of neon lights and ear-shattering singing.

The walk back to the hotel was your idea- just a short stroll through warm cobblestone streets, the air sweet with late night chatter and the slow beginning of summer. You and Oscar snuck out the back entrance of the club, the latter clearly not fitting in the Spanish nightlife, your heels dangling from your fingers and his cap pulled low to hide the flush of his cheeks. Both of you were just tipsy enough to feel invincible, shoulders brushing as you exchanged anecdotes and very real inside jokes, something about not-much-talking, laughter echoing against the dead of the night.

It was quiet for a moment after that, the comfortable kind that sometimes settled between you. Oscar decided to break it.

“You know,” he started, softer than usual. “I’ve been meaning to ask─ why didn’t you like me at first?”

You turned your head up slowly, the reality of the question dawning on you. You raised an eyebrow. “What made you think I didn’t like you?”

“Come on.” Oscar gave you a look, and in the dark of his eyes you swore you saw the polite, Shakespearean insults you sneaked in your emails, the harsh tap on your foot on his, flashing in the quarter of a second. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Okay, maybe I didn’t. At first.” 

He kept his eyes on you, waiting. You sighed, tipping your head back to look at the night sky─ no stars were visible, but it didn’t take away from the beauty of it. “You were just─” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “Honestly, you were rude, smug and condescending. I felt like you were trying to make my job harder than it should be by just- not doing anything. People were talking about you as this nice, quiet boy and I secretly wanted to bash your head against a wall.”

A beat. “Wow. That’s brutal,” he simply answered. “I don’t get how I gave that impression. I always thought you were the one being rude to me.”

Your head whipped in his direction and you could physically feel the disbelief splashed across your features. “Me? You started it!”

“How?”

“That one car ride in my third month,” you deadpanned. “You made a very snobbish comment about a dream I had about my ex. You said, and I quote─” you cleared your throat dramatically, dropping your voice to the flattest Oscar impression known to man, “‘Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.’” Oscar was half-laughing by that point. “Oh, don’t you dare! You also said something about how I shouldn’t sleep in the HQ again, but for the record? It was my first triple-head─”

He held a hand up in mock surrender, mouth agape in stupor. “Is this what started this whole… passive-aggressiveness?”

“Uh… yeah? It was unnecessarily arrogant!”

Oscar made a face. “Unnecessary, sure. I get it. But you know what was also unnecessary? The intimidating, pretty new girl at McLaren─who also happened to be my new PR Manager─calling me boring to my face.”

The words hung in the air between the two of you. Your froze, caught off-guard by the ease with which the compliment slipped out. Oscar was continuing with his rant, either completely oblivious or choosing not to care. You cut him off. “... You thought I was pretty?”

That’s when he faltered, his lips parted in a half-word as if he hadn’t realized what he said before you pointed it out. Oscar’s gaze flicked to yours, then away, suddenly far more interested in the cracks of the sidewalk than anything else. “Well, yeah,” he took off his cap and brushed a hand through his hair like it might undo the sentence. “I mean, you still are. It’s not like that changed.”

It would be lying to say you had considered the possibility that you caused the tension between you and Oscar in the first place. While your sad attempt at humor might have been the catalyst, something must’ve already been simmering under the surface for things to go cold so quickly after it. Your heart gave the tiniest, traitorous jump, chest pulling in a reluctant way, at the thought he’d noticed you then. You despised how easy it was to smile, to fall into the warmth of the possibility.

“Oh,” you said softly, and it explained everything and nothing all at once.

“I’m just saying,” Oscar added quickly, flustered, “it didn’t feel great.”

You couldn’t tell if the red of his cheeks was from the heat, the alcohol, or the embarrassment, but what you could tell was how hopelessly cute you found him in this moment. You tried to play it cool, despite the fact your heartbeat had skipped a full chord. “Noted. And for the record, now I know you aren’t boring,” you added, teasing, playfully nudging your shoulder with his. “You’re just… private. Or mysterious. A sardonic brick wall, if you will.”

It successfully had him looking up, a light-hearted scoff slipping past his lips - you could see the relief in his facial traits. “I’ll take mysterious. It’s better than boring.”

When you got into your hotel room, Oscar slipped past your door as he normally would, and you collapsed onto the bed with your legs tangled together like always─ but something was different now. The air around the mattress was slower, stuck in time, warm in the way his breath ghosted over the nape of your neck when he settled beside you, eyes already fluttering shut.

For the first time since this whole agreement began, you had to consciously remind yourself that it wasn’t real. The comfort in your chest wasn’t made to stay. The steady rhythm of his breathing next to yours, the way your body naturally molded into the other─ it was all pretend. 

At least, that’s what it was supposed to be.

Like silk curtains flowing with the breeze, the change was discreet but there nonetheless, in the shared silences that felt less like pauses and more like instances captured with a polaroid. There was hesitation, once again, but unlike the one you chased away before─ in how you touched, how you laughed, how you glanced at each other and closed the gap under the bright flashes. You were both tiptoeing around something fragile and new.

Neither of you said anything, but it was something too heavy not to notice─ at least, you hoped Oscar did as well: the reluctant awareness of how hazy the lines had started to get and the stunned realization that maybe they’d never really been that straight to begin with after Oscar’s tipsy confession in Spain. You were still doing everything to showcase your relationship to the media, Theodore’s presence in the paddock still overwhelmingly present and Oscar’s popularity sky-rocketing. You were still holding hands and tucking yourself to his side in the garage between two meetings, carefully weaving the continuation of the story you made up together. Yet, when no one was watching, it didn’t feel as plastic. Not when Oscar whispered in the crevice of your ear in a crowded room, or when your heart jumped at the sound of his laugh. When it started to hurt, just a little, when he pulled away.

The day he called you at five in the morning from Canada was confirmation enough. The switch from the heat of Spain to the rainy weather of the United Kingdom for work had taken its toll on you, and you had to call in sick for the Montreal race weekend. Tucked in your covers with a cup of coffee and an inability to sleep due to your clogged nose, you watched your phone screen lit up with his name. You answered with a hoarse, “Why are you awake?”

Oscar chuckled, his voice slightly muffled by the hotel air conditioning in the background. “Why are you?”

“Respiratory betrayal,” you said, dragging your blanket further up your chin. “What’s your excuse? The race’s tomorrow.”

You talked about everything and nothing for a little while. Oscar told you how the track felt a little underwhelming, how the social media team messed up with their main Instagram account, and of Lando’s endless complaining about the lack of your presence─ apparently, the paddock was too quiet now. You nodded in your pillow with a smile like he could see you.

Eventually, the conversation drifted away, like it always did now. Oscar asked what you were listening to lately and you told him of a song that sounded like spring and reminded you of long drives at night, especially the instance when he drove you home after Monaco. He said it sounded like something you’d play to get out of your own head. You said it was. He told you about this stupid childhood habit he had of organizing cereal boxes in alphabetical order and you laughed so hard it triggered a coughing fit.

Oscar’s voice dropped. “I wish you were here.”

It wasn’t dramatic or purposeful in the slightest. He said it as if he was realizing it at the same time he pronounced the words. It was your case too when you answered, “Yeah, me too.”

Your chest ached, because there was no camera to capture the softness of the moment and you just found out you preferred it that way.

And then you came back for the Austrian Grand Prix. You didn’t see Oscar much that weekend. You’d barely touched the ground before you were swallowed whole by emails, debriefs, documents you missed during your sick leave and Theodore side-eyeing you every time you so much as coughed next to him. There was no time for soft moments, not even time to stop and just glance at Oscar even if you wanted to.

He crossed the line in P1 that day. You were mid-conversation with Zak, animated with excitement even during your lengthy talk about the following media duties, when arms pulled you in so strongly you lost track of what you were saying. You recognized him by touch alone: Oscar was wrapped around you, body sweaty and warm from his maddened laps. He held the helmet in his hand, still catching his breath when his head dropped on your shoulder. 

“You’re back,” he said, voiced laced with something a lot like relief.

“Of course I’m back,” you whispered back, fingers twitching on the back of his race suit. He sounded like you were gone for years and somehow, it really did feel like it. You could’ve stayed there for hours, you thought, until Zak obnoxiously cleared his throat next to you.

Oscar pulled back, eyes brighter than his usual post-race exhaustion, the glint of something you couldn’t name just yet dancing in his pupils. His hands came to rest on your wrist, barely brushing your hands. “Stay with me?” He asked, and your heart might have stopped just there. Realizing how it sounded, Oscar quickly corrected, “For the interviews. I’ve been dodging the media since you weren’t there.”

“I will,” you smiled. Your feet were already moving anyway.

He kept glancing sideways everytime the journalists asked about strategy and pace, and the little tug in your guts told your mind you were enjoying it, even though shamefully missing the feeling of the circle his thumb drew on the inside of your hand. When the interviewer asked about the less than discreet glances, making a comment on the obvious chemistry you two shared and how well you worked together─as colleagues and as a couple─Oscar didn’t laugh it off like you always practiced. He nodded, bashful and sure.

The sentence kept blinking in the back of your head like a warning sign: this was all fake. But even telling yourself that wasn’t enough anymore because your heart apparently didn’t get the memo. The touches and the sleepovers made your dreams spiral and your cheeks warm. You became his phone wallpaper for authenticity and his picture became yours as well without as much as a second thought, every little attention as natural as the cycle of seasons.

You were falling for your own fake dating ruse. Which meant you were quietly, miserably falling for Oscar Piastri in the process, in the realest and most literal way known to man. That was terrifying.

Never, in your short but hectic PR career, had you ever experienced that.

Not the newfound feelings you were harboring for your fake boyfriend, no. You tried your best to think about that as little as possible─ if you didn’t look at them, maybe they wouldn’t look back. Right now, you were talking about the diplomatic ambush you and the F1 grid and staff just walked into. The hotel hosting the drivers and half the sport’s staff for the Silverstone weekend had decided to organize a charity gala. Last minute. Mandatory, if you had any desire to keep your reputation intact.

It was a smart move─ brilliant, even: Host a fancy event for a cause, pick a night when the entire motorsport world is under your roof, and leak just enough information to the press so no one can afford to skip it. Declining? Not donating? Refusing to schmooze with the hotel owners? You’d be crucified online by breakfast. Genius, really. You respected the play. 

But damn, give a girl some warning. You didn’t have anything to wear.

Apparently it was the case of everyone else as well, which made you feel less self-conscious. When you walked out your hotel room the morning of FP3 and qualifying, the hallway wasn’t buzzing with race talk but with chaotic murmurs about last-minute outfits, shoes emergency and the drama of Max Verstappen only packing team merch─ which, much to his dismay, was absolutely excluded from the dress code.

You were promptly swept away by a group of female staff members from different teams, mostly working in comms or PR, determined to save you from showing up in jeans and a prayer after a heated conversation around the breakfast table. It turned into a surprisingly wholesome mission: shared complaints, budding friendships, and a chorus of tender laughter when you found the dress. “Your boyfriend’s going to be a happy man!” one of the older women teased, earning cackles from the others and a fiery blush from you.

You were, admittedly, very lucky─ as much as someone in a fake relationship could be.

Especially when Oscar knocked on your hotel door later that evening, fresh from his post-quali shower, hair a little messy, still buttoning up the blazer of his suit and eyes flickering with something unreadable when you opened the door, ready.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t expecting a reaction. When you were tearing down your skin with your scented body scrub and carefully smoking out your eyeliner in the mirror, you told yourself it was for you only─ but faced with Oscar’s eyes roaming over you, you knew you were clearly lying to yourself.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He silently took you in, and you feared that maybe you didn’t achieve the effect you hoped for. Maybe a hair was out of place, or the dress looked awkward on you. But Oscar’s lips parted in a discreet intake of breath and the way his mind blanked out was painfully visible on his features. Quietly, “You look…” He trailed off, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck as if he could try to scrub off the red climbing out of his collar. “You look really nice.”

Really nice. That wasn’t quite what you expected, but his reaction was telling enough for you and knowing Oscar, you knew you weren’t getting anything more unless he was under a copious amount of alcohol or sleep-deprivation. You rolled your eyes at him, biting back a satisfied smile. “You don’t look half bad either.”

And he did. Devastatingly so. His suit was tailored within an inch of its life, cinched right at the waist and the lapels hugging his chest, his frame striking in the color. It was all very James Bond of him, minus the reckless charm─ though tonight, he seemed to be toeing the line. Your gaze dropped to his tie, and your fingers twitched at your side when you realized the shade was an exact match to your dress. You hadn’t said anything about your outfit ahead of time so you didn’t believe it was on purpose, but when your eyes met his again, there was a flash of something knowing and boyish─ almost proud that you noticed.

“Come on,” Oscar finally broke the silence. “You’re setting the bar too high. Everyone’s going to think I’m the lucky one tonight.”

“That’s because you are.”

The hallway was quiet as you two walked down together. You could feel it again─ that invisible thread pulling tighter, a weightless tension lodging in your chest and the incessant smile pulling at your lips. This was fake. Totally fake, you repeated to yourself again as you stepped with Oscar in the elevator, arm slithering around his bicep, ready to make your entrance.

The hotel hall was drenched in gaudy decorations, shimmering chandeliers and overly sparkly dresses, the kind of excessive elegance that only made sense in photoshoots and unnecessarily overpriced galas. Everywhere you looked, sequins caught the light and laughter echoed over the clink of crystal glasses. You weren’t in your element at all, Oscar wasn’t either and clearly, none of the drivers or the team principals who showed up wanted to be there. But in the name of keeping up appearances, you spent the evening with Oscar and a glass of champagne, stepping on his foot from time to time for old time’s sake. You knew how to mingle, after all it was everything you studied for four years.

You drifted through conversations in tandem. His hand stayed on the small of your back, occasionally brushing lower in ways that felt more unconscious than performative, or maybe it was just wishful thinking. When you’d lean into him to talk, he always dipped his head to hear you better on instinct. When Lando started tagging along, he was quick to complain about third-wheeling.

The whole evening was spent like that: finding amusement where you could in the middle of obligations, which was often spent sending sharp comments Oscar’s way, which amused him greatly, or Lando’s with Oscar’s help, which definitely amused him less. But gossiping could only get you so far, and soon enough the height of the heels you chose and the weighty ambience was enough to uncomfortably tighten your ribcage. You were quick to excuse yourself to the empty entry of the hotel, where you collapsed on a chair with a sigh.

You took a slow sip of your almost empty glass, letting the fizz of the bubbles distract you from the uncomfortable twist in your chest. Oscar would have followed you if you didn’t ask for some alone time, and God knows you needed some away from him. You were trying to find a distraction, anything to make you stop thinking about the brush of his fingertips or how you could have sworn his gaze lingered a second too long on your lips when you laughed at one of his jokes.

You didn’t expect, and especially didn’t want, Theodore to be that distraction.

His voice cut through the fog. “Tired?”

The glass nearly slipped from your fingers. Your body tensed, and you jumped to your feet out of reflex, ready to leave at any given moment. “Oh wow, didn’t mean to scare you like that,” he raised his hand in mock surrender. You rolled your eyes.

Theodore had the same haircut, same smug face, same cologne that lingered like melted plastic. The longer you looked at him, the longer of an eyesore he became─ nothing about him stood out: not his suit, the false casual way he was holding his blazer in his hands, and certainly not his demeanor. You couldn’t help but draw a silent comparison to Oscar.

That’s when you realized: you hadn’t seen much of Theodore the past week around the paddock. You hadn’t paid a lot of attention to his presence in general, too caught up in Oscar and the torment of your own conflicting feelings to even grace him with acknowledgement. You voiced the first part of your thought, casually sipping your drink.

His expression tightened as he forced a smile. “Ah. Yeah, well, they… they let me go. Budget cuts, you see.”

It took all your will and decency not to explode in laughter. Budget cuts. Ah, yes. Incompetence must have had a change of definition in the Oxford Dictionary recently. “So… why are you here?”

“My dad knows the hotel owner. I got an invite last minute.”

“Oh,” you said with a mocking tilt of the head. “So nepotism and unemployment. Got it.” The fake niceness you sported on during your first interaction at the start of the season had vanished out of thin air─ you weren’t going to put up with this pathetic excuse of a man any longer than you had to, precisely now that you had no reason to anymore.

Theodore laughed. Your hand prickled with the need to punch him in the nose. “You know, it’s not even that important that I lost my job at McLaren.” Said no one ever, you thought. How far did his privileges go? “I─ well, I only took it up because I learned you were working there. I thought… maybe if I was around again, we could fix things.”

You must have hit your head, this had to be a fever dream. The words reaching your ears made no sense to you whatsoever. 

“Fix─?” You scoffed, eyes widening. “That job was supposed to be your redemption arc? Is that it? Oh my god, Theo. You slept with my best friend and you thought I’d fall back in your arms because you barged into my career?”

“I made a mistake─”

“You made a choice,” you spat.

“I didn’t think it would matter this much to you!”

“Did I not cry enough the first time or do you want me to reenact it? Were you really hoping I’ll welcome you with open arms, open legs and a memory loss?”

“Well─”

“Don’t answer that. Actually, stop talking.”

Theodore threw his arms in the air, taking a step forward as he hurled his jacket on the chair you sat on a few minutes ago. “I just thought maybe seeing me again would remind you of what we’ve had!”

Rage and indignation alike rose in your throat like vomit, and your hands shook imperceptibly as you answered. “It did. It reminded me that what we had was never good enough to keep me from building something better. So thanks for the little nostalgia trip, but I’ll pass.”

Something in Theodore’s gaze darkened, dangerous and petulant, and before you could step back, he leaned in. “Oh, I get it now,” he snarled at you, voice dropping into something bitter. “It’s because of Piastri, isn’t it?”

“Back off, Theodore.” Your back had straightened instinctively. Discomfort crept under your skin like cold water─ you didn’t like the way he hissed his name and how close he was getting.

He didn’t back away. Instead, he took another step. “Didn’t realize you’d fall for the first man who gave you attention after me. Guess I underestimated how lonely you─”

“Everything alright there?”

His voice, warm and familiar, sliced through the tension and your shoulders slumped in relief. Oscar.

He was standing just behind Theodore, who turned around comically slow. Oscar’s expression was unreadable. You never saw him angry, but you did know how to recognize the calm before a storm.

“Yeah,” Theodore answered, too fast. “Just… catching up.”

Oscar’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I think you’ve done enough catching up for tonight.”

He walked toward you, and you subtly stepped to his side, his heat grounding in the absurdity of the situation. He didn’t look at you─ his eyes were locked on Theodore’s, cold and measured. “If you’ve said your piece,” he started, “I think you should head back to whatever table your father pulled strings to get you to.”

Theodore scoffed, his features twisting into something ugly, but he didn’t push his luck. He wouldn’t be winning this fight. After a beat of tense silence, he turned and stormed off the entry hall, muttering something beneath his breath you didn’t bother catching.

The moment he was out of sight, you could feel the rigidity in your body melt away. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you’d been wound until now, standing frozen in place. You reached out instinctively, gripping Oscar’s sleeve in order to keep you on your feet. “Shit,” you whispered. “I didn’t expect him.”

Oscar’s hand closed gently over yours and how thumb drew slow circles across your knuckles. You could feel his eyes on you attentively. “You okay?”

You sniffled, breathing fast as a breathy, nervous laugh slipped past your lips. “God.” You wiped your cheek, pausing when you saw the glint of moisture on your fingers, “I didn’t even realize I was crying.”

Oscar didn’t say anything right away─ he reached up with his other hand and brushed your tear track, cradling your cheek with the gentlest touch, like you’d break if he pressed too hard. “He’s a real dick,” he murmured, brows drawing together. “Trust me, he’s never coming near you again.”

That made you laugh─ quiet, and undeniably tired, but real. You looked up at him, something vulnerable sitting openly between you now. “Thanks for stepping in,” you breathed out. “You know, you’re awfully good at being a fake boyfriend. You nailed the attitude down.” You tried to make light of the situation, but the words stung when you got them out. You regretted uttering them as soon as you felt the frail openness in the air retract. Something in Oscar’s eyes dimmed a little, but they didn’t move from yours. 

“Always, that’s my job,” his tone dripped with a strange kind of acerbity. “Now, let’s get you to your room. I think we’re done for the night.”

You couldn’t agree more.

The way to your room was spent in silence, apart from the click of your heels on the carpet and the faint sound of breathing. The quiet was now oppressing, seeping with an anxiety that took you back to when he shook your hand in a similar hotel room a few months ago. When you released his arm as you reached your door, you half-expected him to mutter a polite goodnight and disappear at the end of the hallway.

Instead, Oscar leaned against the doorframe, hands shoved in his pockets. “Can I ask you something?”

You gave a small nod.

“What made you say yes to him?” He asked. Faced with your confused expression, he clarified, gaze flicking down. “Theodore. Why did you date him?”

There wasn’t a trace of judgment in his voice, just a searching sort of curiosity. The answer sat heavy on your tongue, unfamiliar and painful, but still, the question pulled something sharp through your chest─ you didn’t know why you were suddenly so self-conscious about it. 

“I’d like to say I don’t know but…,” you leaned back against the wall next to him, folding your arms to hold yourself together and eyes fixed on a point somewhere past his figure. “I think… I was tired. I used to put everything into school, so much that I skipped out on everything else. I didn’t even know who I was beside the pressure and achievements, and Theodore… just happened to be there during that confusing time of my life. My roommate’s, and ex-best friend’s, friend. I thought he was charming, in his own sort of way. He was persistent, used to leave flowers by my dorm room every morning.” You chuckled sadly. “They weren’t even my favorite - turns out they were hers.”

You heard Oscar exhale. “It still made me feel noticed, like I mattered to something outside of studies. Like someone actually saw me, you know? So I fell in love. And turns out he didn’t see me at all─ he sure as hell doesn’t now either, if he thought showering Zak with dollar bills and side-eyeing me across the paddock would be enough to win me back. That’s without mentioning the cheating.”

The silence of the hallway was deafening, your words echoing against the walls. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just dense. Until Oscar broke it.

“I don’t get it,” he murmured, “how anyone could cheat on you. It doesn’t make sense.”

It made you look at him. You’ve gotten used to turning around and finding his eyes already on you; it shouldn’t have been much of a surprise, but your chest still tightened when you met the darkness of his irises. You waited for him to reply, lacking any explanation yourself of why it couldn’t meet the simple principles of logic in his head, why he couldn’t find the flaws in you that lead Theodore to another woman.

Oscar’s answer came under a different form. “For what it’s worth,” he said, gaze steady. “I like to think I see you.”

You blinked. “Do you?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it, and the moment it did, the answer came rushing in. He did. You knew it in the way his head tilted slightly to the side, like he was still trying to see more of you, even now.

Oscar knew your coffee order by heart, the temperature and how much milk to ask for when you were too tired to speak it aloud. He knew which bakery carried your favorite pastry and what time he had to sneak away from media duties to grab it for you─ especially when the paddock version tasted like cardboard. He noticed when your hands got cold before you did, kept spare hand warmers in his bag in colder countries because “you’re always freezing.” He sent you stupid memes during long flights because he knew take offs made it hard for you to sit still. He carried spare glitter gel pens in his bag, and never teased you about it─ just handed you another one when you absentmindedly noticed yours was running out.

He remembered that you always got motion sick if you sat in the backseat of a car for too long. That you needed silence when thinking. That you hummed when you were concentrating and tapped your pen when you weren’t.

And suddenly, you weren’t just asking if he saw you the way you’d always wanted to. You were asking if he’d always been seeing you, even when you weren’t looking.

“I do,” he answered, barely above a whisper.

You nodded. There couldn’t be anything more true than that.

Just like that, the air tilted. Toward him, engulfing you both in a fragile, sacred space. Everything narrowed down to Oscar and the small buzz between your two bodies─ dense and electric, full of every feeling that had been lurking beneath the surface. His eyes flickered to your lips for the briefest of seconds. Back to your eyes. 

He moved subtly, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him, the idea of losing the moment scarier than not having it at all. Your body was still, breath hitching and heart racing, as his hand reached up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone, memorizing the shape.

And when he finally leaned in, he hesitated just inches from your lips, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath and the tremble in yours. “Is this okay?” He whispered.

You closed the space.

The kiss was gentle at first─ careful and tentative. The gentle, kind sweep of two people trying to find their footing, but the electric shock of the feeling brought everything back to you: the months of tension, the stolen glances, the fumbled excuses to stay close. Your mouths crashed over each other, deepening in the split of a second, slow and aching in the pants you let out and the touch of roaming, curious hands. You breathed into his mouth, seeking his air to make it yours.

Oscar’s other hand slid to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer and your back flush against the wall as your fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm, fast and desperate, mirroring yours. His tongue demandingly slipped past your lips, and he kissed you like he had wanted to for a long time, and there was no denying he had. Raw and needy, you felt stripped bare by the small whine he let out when you bit down on his bottom lip.

You thought, the world could fall apart tomorrow and this would have been everything you needed to go peacefully.

When you finally pulled apart, both breathless, he didn’t move far. You wouldn’t have let him anyways, the heat of his body too comfortable, the weight of his mouth branded on your own. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed and lips swollen.

“You have no idea how long I wanted to do that,” he whispered, voice hoarse and rough with honesty.

You fingers tightened in his jacket, and you brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “Trust me, I think I do.” He laughed against your lips and you kissed him again. Because after all of it─all the pretending, the teasing, the overthinking─you didn’t have to lie to yourself anymore, to convince yourself. You couldn’t make up the way he was kissing you back.

Yet, you still went to bed alone.

You hadn't planned on it─ well, not exactly. After the emotional whirlwind of the evening, the kiss, the honesty, the confession, you’d invited Oscar into your room without really thinking. It had been an instinct, comfort-driven by the nights already spent together, even if everything was entirely different─ including your intentions and his. But Lando had to barge in, clumsily looking for his room next to yours, doing a double-take at the sight of you tucked into Oscar’s side, your makeup smudged from tears and kisses like a hormonal teenager, Oscar looking all too rumpled and embarrassed next to you.

“Jesus,” Lando muttered. “I’m just─ you know what, we’ll unpack that later. Good night. Please don’t make too much noise.”

Oscar laughed, arms wrapping tighter around your waist when your friend disappeared, whispering, “I’ll come back tomorrow. After I take you out on a date. A real one, this time.”

You’d smiled. “You better.” He kissed you again, quick and soft and annoyingly perfect, more than your dreams made it out to be, and you went to bed glowing, with his name lighting your phone screen with sweet nothings and promises of conversations tomorrow.

But tomorrow never came, because the knocks that woke you up were giving you a sickening déjà-vu. They were urgent, a trumpet announcing the complete turning of your world just like they had done a few months back, in February, and loud enough to slice through the sleepiness in your bones along with the drowsy haze of your mind.

You got up with difficulty and barely had the time to wrap a blanket around yourself before answering the door. You half-expected to find the Grim Reaper himself waiting on the other side with how early it was for anyone else to be knocking. Instead, you were faced with Oscar. Your heart gave a small, automatic jolt when you saw him. After how last night ended, he should have been the best thing possible to wake up to.

The expression on his face stopped you cold.

Oscar, who rarely wore his emotions so plainly, looked visibly shaken. The sharp lines of his face were pulled tight with worry, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. And that─more than the hour, more than the knocks─was what stopped you from throwing yourself into his arms.

You opened the door wider to let him in, which he did with hurried steps. “What’s happening?”

“Can you close the door first?” You did without much of a question.

Oscar sat on the edge of your bed, phone cradled in hand. He looked up at you, and distressed wasn’t enough to describe it─ he looked wrecked. “Have you checked your phone this morning?” He asked.

Dread pooled in your stomach. “No, I─ I just woke up,” you answered. “Oscar, I─”

“Someone leaked it. Our agreement, the fake dating. It’s all out.”

The world tipped.

The air in your lungs vanished and, for a moment, all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears. His words repeated like static, a taunting echo getting louder and louder the more you realized what it meant. “What?” You whispered, eyes locked on his. The truth could have looked different there, but didn’t.

You sat down next to him, every limb leaden, cinching the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “How─? Who even─? We were so careful and─”

“Nobody knows, they’re searching for it right now,” Oscar replied, but it came out strained. “Everyone's trying to trace it now, but it landed on DeuxMoi and basically everywhere after that. They’ve got… receipts. Pictures, testimonies, photos- and a very incriminating audio recording.”

His throat bobbed with a swallow. “Of you. Saying something like… how good of a fake boyfriend I am. From last night, before we went up.”

Your stomach flipped. “But─ we were alone.”

Different scenarios flashed in your mind, engulfing you both in a spiral of questions and worry. Someone could have been filming you, and the lights were too low to spot the silhouette. Maybe Theodore’s jacket, draped over the chair you’d sat on, had a recording device on it in an attempt to prove himself something, or to get revenge on you. But how would he have guessed? There were so many possibilities, and Oscar’s silence didn’t help you feel any better about any of them─ not knowing burned hotter than the betrayal itself.

He took your hand in his, your intertwined fingers resting between the two of you. The contact made you flinch.

Your breath came out in a shaky exhale. “I mean… it was going to end anyways, right?” Oscar’s frown deepened, so you pushed forward. “The whole relationship. Theodore left. That was the plan, wasn’t it? It wasn’t supposed to last past him. It’s a very shitty way to end, sure, but… you can work with it.” You were tearing up by the time the last word left your lips.

Oscar winced. His grip on your hand tightened. “Don’t say it like that.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” You let out a wet, pathetic laugh. “It’s over.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” he said, and it sounded a lot like a plea. “We can figure something out─ Zak, the rest of the PR team-someone will know what to do, there-”

You scoffed─ not at him, never, but at the cruel absurdity of it all. Your incapability of keeping something good for yourself. “You don’t get it, Oscar.” Your voice wavered. “Apparently, we’re everywhere. There’s an audio recording. People feel like they’ve been made fools of. They won’t forgive that so easily─ they’ll turn on you. They won’t believe in something that’s already been exposed as fake, even if─”

You couldn’t finish your sentence. Because that was the worst part, wasn't it? You weren’t faking it anymore. Neither of you were, and hadn’t been for a really long time. You could have stumbled around, trying to figure out what it meant, searching his mouth and holding on to the feeling long enough to put a name on it, but the headlines didn’t give you that chance. They took it from you, carved it out of your hands before you even got to claim it as yours.

A beat.

“It was real for me,” Oscar said. “It is.”

You looked at him, the details of his eyes that made promises you were sure he could have kept under different circumstances. You tried to smile, but your face cracked under the weight of it, tear tracks shining under the early morning light. “They don’t know that,” you whispered. “They won’t care.”

Oscar’s gaze fell on the floor, and you shook your head gently. “You still have a career to protect. Just say it was my idea, you were helping me out and I got you into all of this─ which is the truth, technically. You just got too caught up. They’ll forgive you eventually, they’re here for the racing.”

“And what about you?”

The silence spoke for itself, heavy with the undeflectable nature of the situation. Carefully, as to not startle him, you took back the hand he was holding and folded both of them on your lap. There would be no other outcome to this story. “I’ll figure it out. It’s my job.”

He didn’t believe you, you could see it in the lopsided curve of his mouth, the prominent vein near his temple you traced with your eyes before falling asleep. You realized you never had the opportunity to pass a night in his arms.

“You go get ready for your race, Oscar. Don’t worry about me.” Your chest ached as your mouth shaped the words, barely hearing them yourself. The only thing that mattered was the low lights in the Australians’ eyes, how his mouth opened and closed around something. He never said whatever was pending at the edge of his tongue, but he closed his eyes when you put your lips on the skin of his cheek.

Oscar just left quietly, in the imperceptible click of a hotel door. You couldn’t watch him go─ if you did, you might not have had the strength to let him.

You were let go by McLaren before the race even began.

The decision had been clear from the get-go. Still, it didn’t make sitting in that sterile room any easier knowing the lanyard around your neck would be up to grab for someone else in seconds. It wasn’t cruel or personal─ it was just business.

You spent over three hours with members of staff, going over the facts and projected damage. You nodded along and asked questions you could predict the answers to, but the conclusion was written into the walls: the scandal was too loud, and you weren’t quiet enough to survive it─ at least, not with a badge that read McLaren on your chest.

You gave it back, sliding it over the table to the chief of staff. They booked you a flight home as discreetly as they could manage and it wasn’t until you stepped in your apartment, suitcase dropped by the door and keys shaking in your hand, that the overwhelming silence caught up with you.

And with it, everything else.

Your face was headlining the front pages of multiple websites and you’d just lost the best job you’ll ever have─ if not the only one, because a simple search would now lead every possible employer to the failed scheme you tried to put up.

You collapsed onto your bed, entirely dressed and only one shoe off, still wrapped in the airport chill. They made you hand-over your team-issued phone, along with the contacts of everyone that mattered back at Silverstone. You didn’t even have a chance to explain yourself or to say goodbye.

Oscar would finish the race and find out you vanished, and you had no way of telling him 

You let the weight of it all crash down on you.

If you had to estimate, you’d say you let yourself rot in your own misery for about a week, give or take. You weren't counting the days, but you knew you hadn’t opened your curtains since you got home. Your eyes were red, rubbed raw every time another wave of emotion struck you, and you hadn’t so much as looked in a mirror. Instead, you moved through your apartment like a ghost, sidestepping your own reflection as if it might reach out and confirm what you already knew─ you’d lost something you didn’t realize mattered this much until it was gone.

The past year had been everything. You successfully worked your way into a world that worked too fast for second chances where you found a rhythm, built friendships and connections. As tiresome as the lifestyle could sometimes be, you fell in love with what you were doing and what you came to be. In the past months, your life had mirrored the tracks─ swift and brutal, with enough turns to break a few wheels. Now, you were left with nothing but the emptiness in your stomach and for someone who always strived for more, the bitter aftertaste in your mouth was enough to keep you from wanting.

Your wake-up call came in the form of your rent.

Turns out heartbreak didn’t pause rent or the cost of groceries rising due to inflation. McLaren paid well, but not well enough so that you could afford to disappear off the grid and wallow in self pity with your last check. So you did what you always did, reminiscent of your past college superhuman efforts: you opened your laptop and got to work.

You applied to everything you set your eyes on─ LinkedIn, obscure websites, Facebook Ads, no one was safe. You didn’t dare touch anything remotely F1 related, or even F2, F3 or F4, the wound was still fresh and your name was probably too much of a touchy subject for you to be accepted anywhere near. You stuck to motorsports-adjacent companies, agencies, development programs, even local circuits. Just… something, anything that would let you keep your toes in the world you loved.

Eventually, it came.

A small karting company in the Netherlands, of all places. Barely enough to fill a spreadsheet on a good day, but they had promising talents and were expanding, so in need of someone to help build their communications structure from the ground up. Preferably someone who knew how to handle press and build narratives, connect people to stories. They were desperate, which means they probably didn’t even look you up when they interviewed you. You took the opportunity with your first real smile in a minute.

It wasn’t as glamorous. The office had flickering lights, and you hadn’t come with the most adapted wardrobe. But it was something─ so you got to work.

You were surprised by how much you ended up loving it.

The people were awkward but nice, you went out with a few of your colleagues by the end of your first week, and the kids racing under your name were awfully sweet and their parents just as kind. The work wasn’t overbearing, but you put every ounce of your attention in building its perfect image with your team. Your new apartment was small and comfortable, and the city you settled in a neverending discovery of wonders. You felt fine─ which was a step away from the state you had been in not so long ago.

But even though you tried to build yourself another life, you still couldn’t shake the memory of Oscar. He was still there─ not in person, but in every memory you were not capable of erasing just yet. You caught yourself ordering his coffee order alongside yours as a force of habit, and accidentally took the notebooks with the overly precise details of your fallacious history with you to work. There was so much of him in you now, you had trouble picking apart the pieces. You scanned articles for his face but skipped race reports in case his name hurt more to see.

You tried to bury the ache in your schedule and the excitement of the company’s mediatic expansion, you wrote press releases, attended networking events with a tight smile and let small wins feel bigger than they were. Yet you knew your heart was sitting in his hands, thousands miles away- and you refused to wonder if, without knowing, you were still holding his. It was a hope you couldn’t entertain, all in the name of letting go. It was an act of healing of some sorts. Putting Oscar behind you was growth, not grief, and letting go of something that had no chance of being anymore was the most adult thing you’d ever do.

Except you have a history of your past catching up with you─ deep down, you should’ve known this time wouldn’t be any different.

It happened when you bumped into someone on your way out the café, hands full with the Communications team’s comically large coffee order. It was the end of August, and your mind was anywhere but on the street─ mostly focused on not spilling anything. Of course, that’s what made the crash even more cinematic.

Cold drinks flew in the air, splattering across the pavement and down your pants in dramatic, sticky rivulets. You were halfway into a curse when someone said your name in an all-too-familiar voice.

“Y/N?” You looked up from your drenched legs, and there he was.

Lando Norris in the flesh, unruly mullet and all. “Oh my god,” you muttered, halfway between disbelief and horror. “Hi?”

He stared at you like he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t hallucinating. You’d feel offended if you couldn’t understand where he was coming from- you did disappear suddenly, those two months ago. “You’re─ holy shit, what are you doing here?”

You awkwardly wiped your hands on the napkin that came with the order, glancing at the wasted money on the ground. “Clearly failing my duties. I work for a karting company just outside the city. Communications consultant.”

“No way, seriously? In the Netherlands?” Lando asked, eyebrows shooting up. “That’s… kind of awesome.”

You gave him an awkward smile. “Yeah. It’s not McLaren, sure, but I like it there.”

The mention of the team brought an icy breeze to the conversation and had Lando shuffling on his feet before you changed the subject. “And what are you doing here?” You asked, too enthusiastic for it to be spontaneous.

“Zandvoort race this weekend,” he answered with a slight grin.

“Oh, true.” With the drastic changes in your life and the newfound popularity the company had gained, you’d forgotten all about the fast-paced calendar you had become so accustomed with. The fact there was even a race taking place in the Netherlands, despite Max Verstappen being Dutch, had completely slipped your mind.

It should feel like a win, but your heart twisted to punish you.

Faced with another silence, Lando spoke up again. “You know, it’s not the same without you there, Oscar’s new PR manager is an old man.” That made you chuckle, although bittersweet. “We miss you. A lot.”

You didn’t miss the implication in his words. The air suddenly felt a bit thinner in your lungs than it did a few minutes ago. “He shouldn’t,” was all you could manage to reply in the tightening of your throat.

“Why not?”

You shrugged, forcing your voice to stay level. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It ended. He has to focus on his career.”

Lando opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it, only giving you an hesitant smile in return. “Well��� I’ll tell him I saw you. If you want.”

“No,” You shook your head with a soft laugh. “No. Just… good luck, alright? For the Grand Prix.”

It got Lando to smile wider, at least, something warm in the spreading of his lips. “Thanks. And Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad I bumped into you. Let me make up for the spilled coffee.”

He did. Brought the entire order again and handed it over with a sheepish shrug, reminiscent of the friend you had two months ago, before disappearing down the cobblestone street. You stood there a bit too long, dazed by the improbability of it all. The universe decided to shake you a little, but somehow it had to be just when you made peace with the fact it had moved on without you.

You went back to the karting center where reality demanded your full attention. The rest of the day passed in a blur of last-minute adjustments─ tomorrow, you were hosting a little event in order to showcase the rising talents driving in your colors, which needed your immediate attention, no matter how divided by the episode this morning. You didn’t even notice everyone else leaving until the sun dipped below the horizon, painting gold across the windows and casting long shadows on the now-empty space.

You exhaled slowly, closing your computer and feeling the soreness in your back from being hunched over too long. The cons of being a workaholic, you guessed, but you’d done your part. You gathered your things, slid your jackets over your shoulders, and stepped out into the cooling evening.

You could have missed him if you hadn’t hesitated a second too long in the doorway, but you could also recognize Oscar anywhere, eyes closed or blindfolded.

He was leaning against a car, parked a few meters away from the entrance, hoodie loose around his shoulders and hair tousled by the breeze. His gaze was distant, unfocused as he was watching the distance. The second the door thudded shut behind you, the sound cutting through the quiet evening, his eyes snapped up, finding yours.

He looked lost, beautifully so. It froze you in your tracks. It didn’t seem to have the same effect on Oscar, as he pushed off the car and took careful steps forward.

“Hi,” was all he said, soft and steady.

You hadn't realized how much you missed the silken casualness of his voice before it reached your ears. It hit you harder than you’d expected. “How─?”

“Lando,” Oscar cut in gently. “He said you worked at a karting company near the city. I… looked it up. Thought maybe, with a little chance, you’d still be here.” He scratched the back of his neck and he looked away for a second, just one, before his eyes snapped back to yours.

Neither of you moved, unsure how to cross the canyon that had cracked open between you.

“I wasn’t expecting…” You trailed off.

“Yeah,” Oscar breathed out a humorless laugh, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Me neither. It was, uh, pretty impulsive. But I couldn’t just…” He trailed off too, shaking his head.

You nodded, even though you didn’t understand. This whole conversation made no sense. “How’s it going? Life, I mean. At McLaren?” you asked, desperate to ignore your heart clawing at your ribs.

Oscar’s lips thinned. “Fine. Busy.”

“That’s good.”

He took a step closer, so very little you could have missed, and so slow it gave you the opportunity to step back. You didn’t take it. “And you? How’s─ all this?”

“It’s… something. I like it. I do.” You laughed, and it came out wrong.

“I’m glad.”

Silence fell, weighty on your shoulders. You didn’t know what to do, and you couldn’t guess how to act when Oscar looked so closed off, out of reach─ something he hadn’t been to you in a long while. You chose to let it stretch, unsure of what else.

Finally, it came down to Oscar. “You left.”

The words stung with the strength of a slap, and heartbreaking enough to put you back in front of your apartment door, two months back. You gripped the hem of your jacket, bringing it closer to your body in hope to substitute for the warmth his tone lacked. You inhaled sharply, fighting the sting behind your eyes.

“I didn’t have a choice. They made it very clear there was no place for me anymore, and it would be the better option for one of us to come out unscathed.” Your voice faltered despite your best efforts. “I didn’t want to leave that way, Oscar. Not without saying goodbye.”

You couldn’t help the comment that bordered on your lips. “But I figured you weren’t too concerned. You didn’t look too hard to reach me either.” Not an e-mail, no nothing. You were deprived of his contact information due to your work phone being taken away, but he wasn’t. 

Oscar’s hands curled into fists at his side. “I couldn’t. If I did, they assured me it could make everything worse if someone leaked it again, for the both of us.” A scoff escaped him. “Told me I had to wait until they found the person who took the audio recording in the first place before I could try anything.”

“And did they?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I don’t really care.”

Again, he took a step forward. Oscar was close, not overly, but close enough for you to see the wild and desperate edge etched in his delicate traits, regardless of how much he tried to hide it. “I wanted to reach out. Every day. I just─” He ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I thought that’s what you wanted. I kept thinking that maybe you hated me for how it ended, or─ maybe you regretted it.”

Your laugh broke out sharp and ugly, more hurt than anything else. “Hated you? Regretted it?” You shook your head in disbelief. “Oscar, how could you even think-?”

He didn’t interrupt you. You had to do it yourself, because Oscar just watched as if waiting for a confirmation between the lines. “You really think I’d regret you?”

He still didn’t move. “I mean…,” he finally rasped out, barely carrying over the wind, “it cost you your career in F1. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“I cost me my career, Oscar. Not you. The fake relationship was my idea. I told you from the beginning I’d take the fall if it came to it. You were just helping me.”

You watched his jaw contract with the need to argue back, but you wouldn’t let him. Oscar was wrong on all accounts in his reasoning, blinded by whatever had been clouding his mind during your disappearance, and you were making sure it stopped there.

“I couldn’t hate you even if I tried. Well, not now at least- you were pretty insufferable at first.” His shoulders shook in the semblance of a laugh. “And if there’s anything I regret, it’s not realizing that it stopped being fake a lot sooner.”

There it was, the hefty topic you had been dancing around─ the kiss, gentle in its unearthing, and the whispered promises of explanations in the morning. Something that had been stolen from you and was now coming back to the surface for a last gasp of air. You could either take it or let it drown.

Oscar’s eyes searched yours, and for a second you believed he’d apologize and leave.

But that’s not what he did.

“It was never fake for me,” he said. “When- When you walked in and introduced yourself as my PR manager, and you were all smiles and nerves and─” he huffed, breathless, shaking his head, “and I was gone. I didn’t know how to act around you or what to do with myself.”

He got so close, you had to tilt your head to look up at him. “I kept thinking it would pass,” he continued. “That it was just a stupid fixation. But you kept being you, and you got close to Lando, and you stuck around. It just kept getting worse. Or better, I guess, depending on how you looked at it.”

“Then there was your ex,” He said, breaking into a soft laugh. “You took my arm and called me your boyfriend and all I could think was, yeah. I’d like to hear that again.” His fingers grazed the inside of your wrists, a ponctuation in his confession. “I didn’t fake a single thing. Not once. It’s been real from the beginning.”

Almost delirious, you broke into a cackle that had your hand flying to your mouth─ a half-sob, half-choke ripped from your chest. “So you were a douchebag… because you liked me?”

Oscar’s mouth quipped, sheepish. “Yeah.”

“And you acted like an idiot because you didn’t know how to show it?”

“... Yeah.” Now he sounded embarrassed.

Another watery laugh bubbled out of you, and you wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “Oh my god, you’re such a man,” you said, voice wobbling between amusement and heartbreak, and Oscar’s smile cracked wider at the sound of it. You sniffled, rolling your eyes to try and hide the hopeful pain in your chest as you asked, intertwining your hand with his. 

“So… what do we do now?”

The pad of his fingers trailed up your arm, sending shivers down your spine. He cupped your elbows gently, steadying you like you were at risk of breaking at any minute. “Well,” Oscar murmured, the ghost of a demand parting his mouth. “Now that we got everything out of the way, I’m here for a reason. Only if you’ll have me.”

You didn’t need any more convincing, the days spent in his company during the tired mornings  and warm nights gave you ample amounts of reasons not to deny him.

As if you had the strength to even think about it.

You surged up, and your mouth caught up with his in the same way a puzzle piece would fit into another. It felt like homecoming, how the weight of his lips balanced against yours. Oscar hands went up your sides, painfully slow, wrapped around your waist and pulled your body flushed against him. You curled your fingers in the air at the nape of his nec, tugging slightly, and he sighed into your mouth─ broken and hopelessly in love.

The world shrank to just this: the press of his chest to yours, the warmth of his skin and how intensely Oscar Piastri kissed you back.

When you broke off contact for air, Oscar chased after your mouth. You tried to contain a giggle, unsuccessfully. “I can’t believe it took a whole fake relationship, messy break up and all, for you to do and say all that,” you teased.

He rolled his eyes and before you could react, the hands resting on your hips pinched your sides. You yelped, stepping on his foot. Old habits die hard, apparently, no matter what may have transpired in between.

“Well, I think you wouldn’t have liked me as much without that fake relationship.”

“I wonder whose fault it is, Oscar.”

“I’m just saying, I─”

You kissed him again. And again, and again, until the sun was well gone and stars were the only witnesses.

That night, you made sure to take Oscar back to your apartment. There was no awkwardness in the small talk made in the car, no hesitation in your movements. It was a slow series of quiet laughs against skin, not rushed or frantic in the slightest, whispered confessions tangled between languid kisses. You were curled up against him, a blanket thrown haphazardly on your legs and you talked. The way you wanted and needed to.

He murmured you might need to lay low for a while into your hair, eyes already closing with tiredness, in order to let everything die down and you agreed, brushing his knuckles with the featherlight touch of your lips. You could always come out with the truth later on, and you were content with your life in the Netherlands─ even more so if Oscar could share it with you in some hidden place in his heart. Your palm rested over his heart, feeling his heartbeat slowing down by sleep and lulling you into Morpheus’ arms just the same.

He kissed you one more time. The taste of home and future lingered in your mouth. Oscar will be there in the morning, when the sunlight will shine through the window. And then you could discuss it, about you, more in detail around a cup of coffee, when he’ll drive you to work before disappearing in his orange car, feelings less raw and more authentic.

Real didn’t have an expiration date. You had all the time in the world to figure it out.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[ananaaaaaa]

i hurt myself with Big Jack by Pet Foolery (can find on instagram) again and no one seems to have posted the whole comic so. here. someone reminded me of it and i tracked it down. gonna go cry in a corner now.

[ananaaaaaa]

I genuinely believe if Usopp said “you’re telling me a shrimp fried this rice?” at dinner, Sanji would be the one laughing the loudest. You think he’s ever heard that joke before? Absolutely not. He’s been hearing bawdy sailor jokes from the guys at the Baratie but he’s never heard a simple word play joke. He makes shrimp fried rice again a week later and laughs just as hard when Luffy says it.

[ananaaaaaa]

love at first flight ⛐ 𝐘𝐓𝟐𝟐

what would yuki tsunoda be doing in economy, anyway?

ꔮ starring: yuki tsunoda x graduate student!reader. ꔮ word count: 5.4k. ꔮ includes: romance, humor, fluff. profanity, mentions of food, death (as a joke), flying-induced anxiety. reader is studying something statistics-adjacent. isack makes an appearance. loosely inspired by the statistical probability of love at first sight. ꔮ commentary box: tsunoda debut on tsunodaradio RAAAH 🦅🇯🇵 this is shamelessly inspired by the 2024 video of yuki flying economy. ilysb, my environmentally friendly king (lol). 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ kaiju no hanauta, vaundy. good company, sos. make a move, lawrence. shut up, greyson chance. drive safe, rich brian. call me up, daydreamers.

“You know, statistically, there’s a 0.10 fatality rate in commercial aviation.”

On the other end of the phone, your best friend sighs. It’s not particularly reassuring. 

“This isn’t a joke,” you hiss, panic rising in the back of your throat like bile. You weave through the LAX with your boarding pass clenched in your free hand. “What if this is one of those flights?” 

“It won’t be.” Your best friend’s tone is firm and no-nonsense. You would be appeased, but then, she goes on to give the most terrible platitude known to man: “What’s the worst thing that can happen?” 

The answer to that question turns out to be a seat transfer. 

You’re standing to the side of the plane aisle, red-faced and mortified over a mishap that was beyond your control to begin with. Your seat— the one you spent an absurd amount of time picking out— was broken. 

In your head, you’re already cussing out United Airlines and whichever higher power has it out for you. Outwardly, though, you stay perfectly calm as the flight attendant tries to find you a comparable seat.

“These are the only remaining options,” the attendant notes, perfectly apologetic as she leads you further down the row. 

An aisle and middle seat in a row of three. Your fingers flex around the straps of your hand-carry duffel bag. You’re already mentally drafting the strongly-worded review you’ll be writing for United. 

“I’ll take the aisle,” you say stiffly. “Thank you.” 

The attendant gives you a pitiful smile and promises you extra snacks later. It pales in comparison to the window seat you had originally booked, but you’ll take the small concession. 

You settle into your new seat with a heavy exhale. The nonstop flight is 12 hours long— barring any hitches— and so the only thing you can pray for is that whoever sits adjacent to you doesn’t have a crying baby or anything of that sort. 

The Universe gives you that, at least. 

“22T?”

You look up. The stranger isn’t talking to you, you realize; he’s more of mumbling to himself. You can appreciate that he’s dressed for comfort. A black sweatshirt with the Red Bull logo and a pair of washed out denim jeans. He has a headset hanging around his neck, too, indicating a readiness to spend the entire flight dead to the world around him. 

You must stare for too long, because you end up meeting the stranger’s gaze. He looks like he’s around your age, which is the exact type of story that would have your best friend squealing in your ear. 

It’s not that type of story. At least that’s what you want to believe. 

You give the stranger a tight-lipped smile. He nods in acknowledgement as he takes his seat. You turn back to your personal television, silently grateful that there’s an empty seat between the two of you. 

And it could end there, could just be your run-of-the-mill long-haul that’s largely uneventful, but you’re so obvious. 

You thought you weren’t. You thought you were blending in, acting completely normal. You’re not quite sure what gives it away, though it can be anything from the mindless nail-biting to your knee bouncing up and down.

It takes everything in you not to jump in your seat when the stranger addresses you. “First time?” he asks, the amusement evident underneath his heavily accented English. 

A sheepish grin tugs at your lips. You force your knee to still, your eyes flicking around the plane that’s slowly filling up. 

“Yeah,” you admit. “You?” 

It’s a stupid question, you realize later. Everything about the stranger showed that he was prepared for this— his easy countenance, the neck pillow he had in his hand. At the moment, though, he takes your query in stride. 

“Nah,” he says. “I’ve traveled quite a bit.” 

You nod absentmindedly; your attention is divided. The aisle is mostly clear by now with the exception of flight attendants marching up and down to check if everyone has their seatbelts on. 

“Will it be your first time in Japan?” 

You’re jolted to realize that the stranger is still conversing with you. He’s focused on his personal television, but he’s making small talk that would throw you off otherwise. 

As it is, though, you’ll take any diversion you can get. “It will be,” you respond, “my first time in Japan, I mean.”

Although you can only see the side of the stranger’s face, you catch a hint of a smile. “It’s a very beautiful country. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” he says benevolently. 

A closer look at his features gives you some idea of his ethnicity. You take a gamble. “Where are you from in Japan?” you ask. 

The stranger hums thoughtfully. It strikes you as odd, initially, until you realize he’s probably contemplating how much information he should give out. He caves anyway. “Sagamihara city, in Kanagawa prefecture.” 

“Ah.” 

“You’ve never heard of it, have you?” 

“... Sorry.” 

When the stranger laughs, you have a fleeting thought. He’s attractive, you think, with the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

“Didn’t expect you to know it,” he says. “It’s a pretty small place.” 

You wish you could offer better conversation to this polite stranger. You really do.

But the plane’s engine has rumbled to life, and you feel the vibrations to your fingertips. The flight attendants are going through the standard safety procedures— no smoking, staying seated while the fasten seatbelt sign is on— and you listen like your life depends on it. 

Even the demonstration demands all your attention. You watch like a hawk as an attendant shows off how to use the air masks and flotation devices. The attendant is bored because this is a routine she’s done hundreds of times before, and all the other passengers are disinterested as well. They ignore the attendant, shutting off their phones and examining the in-flight magazines. 

You never look away. In your peripheral, you think the stranger might be shooting you bemused glances. You could be imagining it, though, so you don’t point it out. 

When you grab the laminated safety instructions from the seat pocket in front of you— intent to review it, like there’s some kind of in-flight test to prepare for— the stranger actually has the audacity to laugh. 

“Sorry,” he huffs when you glance at him. “I’ve never seen anyone actually read one of those things before.” 

“Better safe than sorry,” you say dryly, but a corner of your lip has twitched into a smile. 

The stranger leans over the empty seat between you, his seat belt straining against his middle. You resist the urge to nag him about sitting back. 

“So,” he starts, “what’s your deal?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I could have probably worded that better.” 

“Probably.” 

He shoots you a grin and amends, “Why are you heading to Tokyo?” 

The plane is starting to push back from the gate. You feel your stomach lurch, and your hands instinctively wrap around the armrests. 

There are numbers swimming in your head. 53% of aircraft accidents are attributed to pilot errors. There were 1,417 aviation crashes in 2024. 80% of all aviation accidents— 

“Hey.” 

The stranger’s voice is gentler, now. 

“I asked you a question.” He’s teasing, but there’s something almost kind underneath the mischief. You could cry with how grateful you feel for him in that moment. The realization that he’s trying to distract you. 

“An academic conference,” you manage. “I’m presenting something.” 

He lets out a low, impressed whistle. The plane picks up speed, barreling down the runway with a rush of noise. You’re tipped back into your seat as momentum beats out gravity, but the stranger stays surprisingly steady. 

His gaze on you stays, too. It encourages you to keep talking, to babble about your dissertation as the plane tilts backward. 

The plane’s wheels give a final bounce. Your breath catches in your throat when you realize you’re aloft, the change in pressure making your ears pop. 

The stranger, seeing the discomfort that crosses your expression, fishes for something in his pocket. “Should’ve offered this earlier,” he says, extending his hand to you. 

A packet of chewing gum. You take one wordlessly, and the two of you simultaneously pop a stick into your mouths. The pressure in your ear clears surprisingly fast. 

“Thanks—,” you start, faltering when you realize you don’t have a name to address the stranger by. 

There’s a flicker of something on his expression. Something you can’t quite place. It’s a mix of surprise and suspicion, softened by what looks a lot like relief. 

“Yuki,” he offers. “You can call me Yuki.” 

to: bestie 🤞 connected to in-flight wifi! wahooo! no untoward incidents at takeoff (got transferred tho, will explain everything later) but it’s too soon to say shit. 11hrs to go. stop jinxing me pls. from: bestie 🤞 LFGGG!!! Sorry you didn’t get your window seat bae ;( I hope you’re at least next to someone HAWT  to: bestie 🤞 ahahaha… about that… from: bestie 🤞 DON’T PLAY WITH ME RN.  to: bestie 🤞 he’s okay looking. he looks about as old as me. he was nice during takeoff and he has juicy fruit gum. that’s it tho.  to: bestie 🤞 do NOT say anything about this being like an emily henry book. from: bestie 🤞 THIS IS EXACLTY LIKE AN EMILY HENRY BOOK to: bestie 🤞 what did i say??? from: bestie 🤞 🤷 Your message came in late!! from: bestie 🤞 SOOOOO??? WHO IS HE to: bestie 🤞 his name is yuki.  from: bestie 🤞 Yuki????????????????????? from: bestie 🤞 What does he look like??????????????? to: bestie 🤞 japanese. from: bestie 🤞 No SHIT Sherlock to: bestie 🤞 why.  from: bestie 🤞 Can you ask him what he does for a living  to: bestie 🤞 why??? from: bestie 🤞 Do it for MEEE pls!!! This is life or death actually  from: bestie 🤞 And b let’s be real. I know you and I know you wanna know too 👀 Don’tcha

You do. Of course you do. 

But conversation with Yuki died a natural death when the seatbelt sign clicked off, forcing you to think of the perfect way to accomplish your best friend’s absurd request. 

The snack trolley offers you an opportunity.  

When the attendants go around peddling the vouchsafed flight snacks— a sad-looking bag of trail mix— Yuki catches the look on your face. He barks out a laugh as he tears into his own pack. 

“This is one of the better ones,” he tells you, popping a handful of the granola and dried fruit into his mouth. He chews through them with impressive speed, waiting until his mouth is no longer full before he adds, “I was once on a flight where the only snack was cheese spread and crackers.” 

“No way.” 

“Yes way.” 

Before Yuki can pop his headphones back on, your mind whirrs with potential segues. The words are past your lips before you can think of them. 

“You said you travel quite a bit,” you blurt out. 

Yuki’s eyebrows arch upward. “I said that over an hour ago.” 

“Yeah, well,” you stammer, “you still said it, didn’t you?” 

He snorts, the sound edged with amusement. For what it’s worth, he looks willing to indulge you. You push on, “What job do you have, then?” 

There it is again. The expression you weren’t quite able to nail earlier. He seems doubtful of your intentions, but when you don’t waver, he bites. 

“I drive,” he says, like it’s the most obvious, simple thing in the world. 

You blink once. Twice. “You— drive?” you repeat. 

“Yes.” Yuki almost smiles. It looks more like a smirk. “I’m a driver.” 

“Like a chauffeur?” 

Now that wipes the grin right off Yuki’s face. He stares at you like your words had been the equivalent of a record scratch, and then he laughs. 

It’s interesting, just how much you can learn about a person in an hour. You file away this little fact, too. Yuki, who throws his head back when he’s really laughing, his body shaking with mirth. The sound isn’t loud, isn’t the type that might have the person in the next aisle complaining, but it still fills you with an odd sense of triumph. 

“I guess you could say that,” he manages once his laughing fit has died down.

“In that case—” You gesture to his sweatshirt. “That makes sense.” 

He glances down at the Red Bull logo. His lips twist into another barely-there simper as he prods you, “What does that even mean?” 

“I don’t know. I always supposed drivers were one of Red Bull’s target audiences.” 

“Really.” 

“Really. 42% of energy drink consumers enjoy Red Bull. I’m not surprised you’re part of that.” 

Yuki gives a slight shake of his head. You wince, as if realizing you’re doing it again— spewing out numbers unprompted, trying to get percentages to clarify something that doesn’t really demand an explanation. 

Except he doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t poke fun at the habit. In fact, he sounds a touch awed as he muses, “You really like your stats, huh?” 

You raise your shoulders in a shrug. “Numbers are good.” The words sound weak even to you, so you double down. “They’re reliable and they give you a good picture of something.” 

“Numbers don’t lie,” he says. 

The statement is surprisingly profound. “Numbers don’t lie,” you echo, a pleased smile of your own beginning to break on your face. 

Yuki watches it, watches you, before seeming to make a decision. “This is— this is a bit hard.” 

You don’t have to wait too long to see what he means. In the next moment, he’s unbuckling his seatbelt and half-standing in a jerky motion. He carefully maneuvers towards you, landing heavily on the empty seat that had separated the two of you for the past hour and a half. 

Yuki doesn’t strap himself in yet. He just tilts his head to one side, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek. “I have questions about your dissertation.” His voice is surprisingly quieter even though he’s bridged the distance. You have to lean in a bit to hear him. “If you’ll entertain me, that is.” 

Something in your chest lurches; it feels a lot like how the plane had bounced during takeoff. “It’s a lot of numbers,” you say lamely. 

He looks unfazed. “What? You don’t think a chauffeur can handle data and statistics?” he teases as he absent mindedly toys with the buckle and retractor resting on his thigh. 

This wasn’t the plan. You had hoped to spend your first ever plane ride watching a movie, maybe reading a book. Snapping photos of cumulonimbus clouds and complaining to your best friend the entire time about one thing or the other. 

Instead, you find yourself telling Yuki, “Ask away, then.” 

He clicks his seatbelt into place.

to: bestie 🤞 [Sent an image.]  to: bestie 🤞 meal time.  from: bestie 🤞 Yum yum yummm  from: bestie 🤞 Speaking of yum 🤤…  to: bestie 🤞 have some tact pls. he’s a chauffeur.  from: bestie 🤞 Oh.  to: bestie 🤞 oh?  from: bestie 🤞 Are you SURE that’s what he said to: bestie 🤞 yes??? from: bestie 🤞 Okay okay I’ll stoppp  from: bestie 🤞 What would yuki tsunoda be doing in economy anyway LMAO  to: bestie 🤞 who?  from: bestie 🤞 Do you remember the tate mcrae tiktoks I sent u  to: bestie 🤞 ohhh. that lando guy. from: bestie 🤞 My loml 🧡🧡🧡 but yes, there’s a yuki on the grid to: bestie 🤞 you’re delusional.  from: bestie 🤞 I hope you choke on ur dry ass airplane food actually❤️Love ya!

“Have you been driving for long?” 

Yuki pauses halfway into devouring his mid-flight sandwich. For the past two hours or so, the stream of conversation between the two of you has flowed rather easily. But it’s also mostly been about you— Yuki asking all the right questions to have you going on 15-minute rants. 

Some of it tangented the moment that food started getting served. You find it hard to believe that you’re already hour four in the air. 

Eight more hours to go.

You might as well try to get to know Yuki, too. 

“About— four years, give or take?” he responds after a beat, as if he’d needed to do some mental math. “I started in 2021.” 

“How did you get into it?” 

“I always knew I wanted to.” 

“Be a chauffeur?” 

You realize immediately just how snooty you sound. “I’m sorry,” you say in the next breath, horrified at your indiscretion. “That was— uncalled for.” 

Gracefully, Yuki doesn’t look offended. He’s got a lopsided grin on his face, like the blunder has amused him. He finishes off his sandwich before putting you out of your misery. 

“Driving,” he clarifies. “I’ve always known I would do something with driving.” 

You perk up a bit in your seat. “Why is that?”

He hesitates, his lips quirking to one side as he— once again— seems to contemplate just how honest he should be. You make a mental note to take his words with a grain of salt. 

“Have you ever heard of kart racing?” he says. 

There’s a glint in his eyes that tells you this, at least, won’t be a lie. 

It’s his turn to talk. You don’t think he notices, but every so often he’ll use a Japanese word or phrase that you don’t understand. You make no effort to ask for clarification. It’s enough for you to see the sheer enthusiasm radiating off him as he tells you about karting as a child, and how he’d even done things under big names like Honda. 

“I can’t believe you started karting at age four,” you say, half-teasing and half-awed.

He gives a vague hand gesture that attempts to communicate nonchalance, but he looks far too smug to pull it off. “Driving has always been a part of me,” he concludes. “I don’t think I’ll ever be without it.” 

It’s a commitment you recognize. You’re just about to ask something else about him being a racing kart kid when your conversation is interrupted. 

“Yuki.” 

Even if it’s just Yuki being called, you can’t help but glance as well. There’s a guy hovering on Yuki's side of the aisle, eyeing the two of you with mild interest. 

“We figured out the seating problem,” the newcomer tells Yuki. His English is accented, too. You think it might be French. “You can move up to the front now, if you like.” 

“It’s not the ‘front’, Hadjar,” Yuki shoots as he leans back into his seat. He addresses Hadjar with an easy air; you gleam that they’re probably friends. “It’s ‘first class’.” 

“Front, first class, whatever.” Hadjar gives a dismissive wave of his hand. “You’ve got your seat.” 

“Only took you four hours,” Yuki grumbles, and you laugh under your breath. 

The soft sound seems to remind Yuki of your presence. His gaze flicks over to you, and he tenses a bit. A full second ticks by. And then another. And then— 

Hadjar clears his throat. “Any time now, Yukino.” 

You had seen how different it was in first class. More space, better seats. The food would probably be nicer, too. You busy yourself with your personal television, trying to keep at bay the slight swell of disappointment in your chest at losing your seatmate. 

Except Yuki doesn’t move. 

“I think I’m good, man,” Yuki says to Hadjar. 

Yuki, too, is pointedly avoiding looking at you. He’s trying to be casual about passing up his first-class upgrade, about the way Hadjar is snickering. 

You can’t ignore the way your pulse stutters. The way it damn near stops when Yuki says, his voice so deliberately even, “I’ve got pretty good company right here.” 

to: bestie 🤞 okay, fine from: bestie 🤞 ??? to: bestie 🤞 he’s hot.  from: bestie 🤞 EXACTLYYYYYYY from: bestie 🤞 I USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THESE 🙏🙏🙏 to: bestie 🤞 be normal. i’m just appreciating him ok. from: bestie 🤞 Wtvr you say LOVERGIRL  from: bestie 🤞 WHAT ARE YOU DOING NOW?! to: bestie 🤞 ? nothing. watching a movie from: bestie 🤞 okayyyy movie date  from: bestie 🤞 mile high club 🔜 to: bestie 🤞 this conversation is over. 

It occurs to you that you could probably just search it up. 

If you really, really wanted to scratch the itch of whoever the hell ‘Yuki Tsunoda’ was— you could just Google it. The in-flight WiFi was working swimmingly. It’d take one search, and you’d confirm whether the guy to your left has been lying to you or not. 

In the end, you find that you don’t really care. 

The cabin lights have been dimmed. When you crane your neck to check the few windows, all you see is inky darkness. 

“We’re probably still over the Pacific,” Yuki says. 

He pitches his voice lower, probably out of respect for the snoozing passengers in the rows you’re sandwiched between. You’re left with no choice but to lean into his personal space. 

Your knee presses into Yuki’s. 

You don’t apologize. 

He doesn’t pull away.

The warm overhead glow of the seatbelt sign is your only source of light. Yuki’s dark hair falls into his eyes, but you have a feeling he’s still watching you with that scrutinizing gaze of his. It’s like he’s holding his breath; for what, you’re not sure. 

“How do you feel about the ocean?” you ask, because there’s five more hours before you’re in Tokyo and you never have to see this man ever again. 

You figure you could be anyone you want to be. You could be honest; you could lie your ass off. You could ask all the hard-hitting questions and come away unscathed, knowing this was a one-off in a liminal space that barely even feels real. 

Yuki’s lips quirk to one side. He seems to be thinking the same thing. This is a safe place to land, a one-act play.

“I hate it,” he answers without missing a beat. “Sharks.” 

You have to tamp back a laugh. “Sharks?” 

“They’re evil and scary.” 

“There’s only a five-year average of six unprovoked, shark-related fatalities per year.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. Cows are worse.” 

“Cows?” Yuki’s eyebrows knit together. “Like— mooo?” 

“Like mooo,” you say solemnly. “Cows kill about 22 people per year in the United States alone.” 

“Holy shit.” 

“Right?” 

“You’re—” Yuki falters with a shake of his head, as if he’s banishing the thought that had just come to his mind. 

You can’t have that. Playfully, you knock your knee against Yuki’s. “Don’t back out on me now,” you jab. “I’m…?”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. You see the moment he decides fuck it, the way his eyes flash and he just pushes out the words that’d been at the tip of his tongue. 

“You’re cute,” he says, “when you talk numbers.” 

This time, you can’t fight the laugh that escapes you. It’s a little too loud; the person in the seat in front of you actually twists around to glare at you. You mumble an apology and lean in closer to Yuki, who doesn’t protest the way you’re practically leaning on his arm rest. 

“‘Cute’ isn’t usually the word people would use to describe my nerdiness,” you joke, even though your palms suddenly feel a lot more clammy than it did a couple of minutes ago. 

Yuki shrugs, feigning coolness. “I was actually going to go for ‘hot’,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, “but I didn’t want to scare you off.” 

It occurs to you that this is flirting. Yuki’s hitting on you, throwing the ball in your court, and it’s your turn to say something just as smooth. 

But then the plane jolts, straining your seatbelt against your form. Your fingers immediately find purchase at your armrest as the overhead seatbelt light blinks on. 

“Ah, fuck,” Yuki grunts as he sinks back into his seat. “Turbulence.” 

You would consider it a bit of a saving grace, if it weren’t for the forceful jolts that make you feel like your heart is in your throat. You know it’s not something to worry about— the pilots are trained professionals, after all— but the numbers all still glaring in your mind, like neon signs in their own right. 

A breathing exercise. You should do a breathing exercise, you think. Or think happy thoughts. You squeeze your eyes shut as the turbulence rocks the plane a little more forcefully, jostling everyone on this flight.

Think about your itinerary in Japan, about a little Yuki go-karting, about sharks and cows, about— 

There’s a hand on top of yours. 

The neon signs in your head fizzle out. 

You don’t open your eyes. You don’t have to. 

Yuki doesn’t say anything either. He just carefully, slowly strokes your white-knuckled grip with his thumb. His palm is surprisingly warm, and it grounds you enough to remind you, Right. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.  

You don’t know how long the turbulence lasts. It ends, by the Universe’s grace. You hear it first— the seatbelt light switching off. 

It’s your turn to hold your breath. 

You’re scared to move, scared to open your eyes. You think that if you do either, you’ll have to face the gentleness of Yuki’s touch, the kindness you don’t know what to do with. You’re scared he’ll stop, pull away, if you look at him.

And so you keep your eyes closed, and you keep on doing your breathing exercises despite the steady rise and fall of your chest. 

And Yuki keeps on holding your hand. 

You don’t know when you fall asleep, but you do. It’s a fitful sort of rest borne from the crash and burn of adrenaline. You stir some two hours later with a crick in your neck, your hand still under Yuki’s, and your head lolling against his shoulder. 

The moment you realize how closely you’d gravitated to him during your nap, you’re peeling away from his side. He rouses as you do, his hands rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. 

“Sorry,” you mumble. 

Yuki is heavy-lidded as he offers you a hint of a smile. “What for?” he prods, his voice raspy with sleep. 

You’re not sure, you realize. You’re sorry for falling asleep on him. You’re sorry for letting him hold your hand. 

You’re sorry this flight will have to end.

You shrug.

“Then don’t,” Yuki says with surprising firmness. “Don’t apologize.” 

His fingers twitch like they’re itching to reach out again. But he doesn’t, and so you only nod in response. 

“What should I eat when I get to Tokyo?” you ask for the lack of a better thing to start with, and Yuki lights up like it’s a question he was born to answer. 

from: bestie 🤞 YOU’RE LANDING SOOOONNNNNN <333  from: bestie 🤞 Congratulations on surviving your first flight my darling dearest 🧑‍✈️ to: bestie 🤞 💋 love ya. going on airplane mode. i’ll text once i’m omw to my hotel.  from: bestie 🤞 Please do!! from: bestie 🤞 Don’t forget to give your seatmate a little goodbye kiss :)  to: bestie 🤞 do you want to die.  from: bestie 🤞 💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋

Landing is infinitely worse than takeoff. 

As the plane begins to descend, you fight down the vague brush of panic. Not so much for the landing itself, but for what begins and ends because of it. You wrap your hands back around your armrests, your gaze fixed firmly on the personal television charting the flight’s progress. 

Yuki doesn’t say anything. You realize you don’t know what type of person he is, not really. Would he joke around with you, if you were more than just two people stuck next to each other on an eight hour flight? Would he comfort you; would he tease you? 

You’re struck with a sudden thought. A question you’d been meaning to ask. Now or never, it seems. 

“Why didn’t you move up to first class?” you ask suddenly. 

Yuki lets out a sound— something between a chuckle and a groan. He answers your question with one of his own. “Have you been thinking of that this entire time?” 

“Not the entire time,” you shoot back. 

He clicks his tongue. For a moment, you’re sure he’ll field the question, but he gives in. What does he have to lose, anyway, when you’re landing in less than 15 minutes? 

“You’re good company.” The way he says it— like it’s as certain as the numbers you keep count of. 

It’s that. The same thing he told Hadjar. 

Nothing more, nothing less. 

There are worse ways for this story to end, you decide, as you give a low hum of approval and brace for impact. 

“You were pretty good company, too,” you say. 

You’re sure that the two of you haven’t been entirely honest with each other this flight— the illusion of choice, of reinvention, just a little too alluring to ignore— but you hope Yuki knows that much, that one, is true.

So many first-time fliers have had terror stories about their experience, about the people with them. This was not one such case. 

You don’t want to be sappy about it. You don’t have to, really. Not when Yuki is fighting back a smile, his own hands resting at his arm rests.

Your elbows squeeze against each other as the plane’s wheels hit the ground, and you take it as the last ‘accidental’ touch you’ll ever get from this virtual stranger. 

This funny, handsome, kind stranger. 

You wish you were the type of person to ask for someone’s Instagram handle, to secure a phone number. Instead, you’re the type to duck your head and avoid Yuki’s gaze as he takes a suspiciously long amount of time packing up his own things. 

He stands up to go as you linger in your own seat, middlingly tugging at the duffel bag underneath the seat in front of you. 

Don’t say goodbye, you nearly say. I’m not good at those. 

“Thank you for flying with Yuki Air,” he says instead, doing a poor imitation of the pilot. “We hope you enjoy your stay in Japan!” 

You laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. He tacks on something you don’t understand, something in Japanese— sabishiku narimasu ne— but you don’t have the time to ask for a translation. 

“I’m going to go meet up with my friends.” He shoulders his backpack, eyeing the slow-moving aisle on his end. “Don’t forget my food advice.” 

He had been particular about the must-get dishes. “Motsunabe and seafood pasta,” you say, and he nods with approval. 

A final smile. That’s all he offers you as he starts to step away. 

Yuki didn’t seem to like goodbyes much, either. 

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your duffel bag. 

“Hey, Yuki!”

He’s already a couple of paces away, but his head whips around to look back at you. There’s something on his expression; it looks a lot like hope. He’s stuck in the line, though, and you know you can’t stall for too long.

“Drive safe,” you blurt out, immediately feeling stupid about those being your parting words. 

You have no idea. You have no idea just how perfect it is, how there’s no phrase that would have left a better impression.

“I will,” he says with that treacherous, treacherous smile. 

And then he’s gone. 

Approximately 27 minutes later, you’re in the back of a cab staring slack-jawed at a billboard for the upcoming Japanese Grand Prix. Front and center, the country’s home driver. 

The boy you’d sat next to for 12 hours. 

You do the only logical thing. You call your best friend to apologize and say she was, in fact, not delusional. 

She’s screaming in your ear as you rummage through your duffel bag in search of your printed out hotel booking. 

“I can’t believe you were next to Yuki fucking Tsunoda,” your best friend screeches, “and nothing came out of it!”

“Ha-ha,” you say dryly. “You know I’ve got, like, zero game, right?”

“Don’t give me that! You could totally pull if you tried!”

Your best friend is caught between extolling your virtues and catching you up on Yuki’s lore as a driver when you find your booking. You pull it out— 

Except it’s not your booking. It’s one of the tissues from the in-flight meal. It’s a bit crumpled and torn at the edges, but your eyes focus on something else instead. 

Handwriting. Scratchy and shaky, like the person who had been scribbling couldn’t do it properly. Maybe because they had a head on their shoulder. 

There’s a string of numbers, and then a note: 

What’s the statistical probability of me getting a text? 

-YT ⛐

[ananaaaaaa]

World's worst, most messy naruto time travel au EVER. Where a bunch of people from slightly different dimensions try to time travel to fix their bad endings.

But they all got dumped into their alternate bodies of the past of another slightly different dimension. And they all keep tripping over eachother.

So like. You have Sakura (from the dimension where there was no Kaguya/black zetsu, and Madara + Obito are the final villains)

Tripping over ANBU Sasuke (from a no Uchiha massacre/less bad Uchiha massacre universe where he never left the village and is filled to the brim with the will of fire)

Running into Naruto (from one of those evil konoha universes where the abuse aimed towards him was 100 times worse) who is absoloutley tweaking out in the corner, unsure and unable to comprehend what is (from his perspective) such a good world

Then theyre getting fucking tackled by Obito (from a roll swap dimension where he was team 7's sensei and Kakashi took his place in Akatsuki)

Meanwhile Kakashi from the 'team ro defects from Konoha' au is suddenly a jonin again and debating the merits of just sabotaging Konoha from the inside out

Then you also have Kurama, the only one of them to have gotten their own own new body instead of being dumped into the body of their alt version there (coming from a canon-similar world where Naruto sacrifices himself to give Kurama a body and send him back in time, a-la on the other side, by WideEyedDemon)

While in the distance, Gaara (from a dimension where Suna won the fight against Konoha and team 7 went on the run after the leaf was destroyed) tries to very hard to sabotage the attack he believes will prevail, in order to fulfill his promise to team 7 from that other universe bc they got to be friends

But he's being blocked around every corner by Kankuro and Temari, who came back together from a universe where Gaara was straight up an irredeemable monster who destroyed all of Suna

But also fucking semi-canon accurate housewife Orochimaru from Boruto is like. Around. Just absoloutley fucking it up in his milf era, giving no shits whatsoever. The alien tree people or whatever the hell is going on in boruto ate his world so he has his eyes on the sky.

^ so like. All of that and it just keeps going. U can throw in whoever from wherever, these are just starting points

(The only rule is Jiriya and Tsunade aren't time travelers bc I want them to see milf Orochimaru and scream in terror)

And the whole thing is that very few of them actually share the same bad end, and it's very unclear what the true bad ending of their current world is— bc to be clear, the dimension they ended up does not line up 100% with any one of the newcomers.

(Their current dimension is actually just canon, to be clear. Or at least incredibly canon-ish)

So they're just fucking tripping over eachother right and left, trying to prevent things that may or may not happen (bc some of their bad ends ARE still possible!!)

The inter character relationships would go so insane too. Bc like all of team 7 has been shaken to its core, pretty much.

Naruto wants to burn Konoha to the ground and Sasuke thinks it is hashtag worth fighting for.

Sakura is dealing from the whiplash of ehats basically a sasuke/naruto roleswap, and also thinks Obito is the irredeemable root of all evil.

Meanwhile, Obito is crying bc his kids don't recognize him

Obito, seeing his students so changed and then noting that Kakashi is so chill, gets his hopes up that maybe this is a loyal Konoha Kakashi...

But NOPE he's not, he's fully checked out of Konoha and has attachments to like. Team ro + Sasuke.

Tho he'd also be super fucked up to see Obito too, it must be said

Then Kakashi originally defected from Konoha in his universe bc Orochimaru told him ab the "truth" of his fathers suicide (and then he walked in on Danzo trying to kill Shisui lmao) And actually did join Orochimaru in sound afterwords, so.

Kakashi is rocking up to sound trying to confirm if shits similar in this universe and Orochimaru is going "a free copy cat Kakashi?? Don't mind if I do <3" and offering him a room there (which he might just accept)

Kakashi spying for Orochimaru....

The sand sibs are also having THE worst time ever. Gaara is trying so hard to be good and show he's changed but Temari and Kankuro are even more convinced of his irredeemable evil soul or whatever than they were in canon. They saw him rip Suna apart !!!

Gaara is also SO stressed about the chunin exam attack (fast approaching) bc hes convinced it will prevail and his future friends will be rendered homeless and hunted for sport again

Meanwhile also: Orochimaru totally fucking forgot about that and isn't. Actually interested anymore. So.

I have more thoughts but, like usual, I fucking clicked post too soon (these last bits are edits, oops) so I'll leave it here for now before someone reblogs the incomplete version

[ananaaaaaa]

✶ UNTIL SUNSET

summary: you wake up in charles' bed, your ex... or whatever you are after last night. now that it's very clear neither of you has moved on, it's time to face the consequences of your actions, what they meant and the scariest thing of all ─ the past.

F1 MASTERLIST | CL16 MASTERLIST | PT1: UNTIL SUNRISE

pairing: charles leclerc x ex!f!reader

wc: 6k

cw: mentioned sexual content (part one), suggestive but no smut, miscommunication, relationship issues, break-up, fights, avoidance, angst, second chance, happy ending, english is not my first language.

note: your honor they're so i love you i'm sorry by gracie abrams, wanted to write a full fluffy epilogue paragraph but also i think the way i ended this fits the reader and charles perfectly 🫶

THE FIRST RAYS of sunlight threaded carefully through the blinds, softly brushing against your closed eyelids as if not to wake you too abruptly. The distant chirping of the birds stirred you first, and you rolled over, the silk sheets smoothly sliding against your bare legs, the warmth of Monaco’s summer mornings washing over your body like a wave onto the shore. The smell hit you second, sultry and familiar, hints of amber, cedarwood, and salt ─ it wrapped you in its arms, languidly whispering memories against your skin, coaxing you back into that drowsy haze. You would have spent a lifetime there, in the embrace of ignorance.

But the cold, empty space beside you pulled you out of sleep.

This wasn’t home anymore, no matter how long it had been before, or how it may have felt yesterday night. Your eyes fluttered open.

The space where Charles had been only hours ago was empty, freezing in his absence and you found yourself grazing the space where his arms had wrapped around you. His imprint on your skin, on the sheets, had already begun to fade. For a moment you stared at it, pulse thrumming against your ribcage.

Were you as foolish as to expect anything different?

A lump formed in your throat, and you exhaled trying to stabilize yourself, and your feelings, pushing yourself up on your elbows. The room, now lit up by the rising daylight, was exactly as you remembered it ─ clean, organized, his ─ except for you. Your clothes were still scattered all around the room, his nowhere to be found, and you picked them up with shaky hands and blurry eyes. It always ended like that, with you and Charles, except this time there wasn’t a relationship to hold onto when the night faded.

The food had gone cold. You hadn’t touched your glass of wine in over twenty minutes. You’d texted him twice and there was no answer.

Around you, the restaurant buzzed softly with the clinking of silverware, the warmth of low candlelight, and the sound of presence. Of other people being fully and properly loved. You looked down at the small gift box still sitting unopened by your plate. Wrapped in gold, with the bow made just the way he liked.

You waited another fifteen minutes before you called the waiter and asked him to pack it all up.

By the time you made it home, the straps of your dress dug uncomfortably in your shoulders, you had your heels in hand and your heart was entirely numb. It still broke when you crossed the threshold, wiping the mascara off your cheeks, and Charles was in the kitchen. As if nothing had happened, as if it was another evening ─ he had a towel wrapped around his waist, his phone in hand and probably not opened on your conversation, hair still damp from his shower.

He looked up and smiled casually. “Hey, you’re home early, I thought your job would have kept you an hour longer.”

You stared at him, and barely concealed anger and disappointment slithered their way in your words. “They would have, but they gave me the night off for our anniversary.”

His smile dropped.

Charles took in your outfit, the expensive shoes at the front door, the small package in your hand. He didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, caught somewhere between disbelief and the dawning realization of what he’d forgotten.

“Shit, mon amour, I─”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, your voice as hollow as you. “Don’t give me any excuses. Just… say it. Say you forgot.”

He stepped closer, but closing the space between you wouldn’t let you breathe, so you stepped back to keep the distance. “I waited two hours. I booked the restaurant, Charles. I left work early, wore the dress you liked so much you bought it for me, I even brought your goddamn gift, and you─” A bitter laugh escaped you, and you threw the golden wrapper on the couch. “You didn’t even text.”

Charles was crumbling in front of you. “I lost track of time,” he muttered. “I was on sim, and then the meeting with Fred went longer than I expected and─”

You put the takeout bag you asked for at the restaurant on the counter in a deafening noise, your voice finally cracking. “You weren’t busy. You just didn’t remember.”

The silence came back like a slap.

Charles opened his mouth. Closed it. “I said I’m sorry. I─ I can’t do anything else right now, if you’d let me just make it up to you I─”

“I want you to care.” You were tearing up this time. “I want you to stop treating something like this as something that just… happened. Like it’s not a pattern.”

He stared at you and, wordlessly, brought you to his chest, encasing you in his arms. You knew this dance, and the steps of it, so you fell into it with practiced ease. When his eyes searched yours, wiping the tears on your cheeks with his thumbs, he kissed you.

It was desperate. Quiet. And he was trying to silence the fight with his mouth, too scared of what else he might say or do that could mess it up further. You gave in so easily, just because you needed to feel loved by him, and he needed to show you did.

This was always what happened. You’d cry, or scream, and Charles would say sorry with his hands, his fingers, his tongue, his stomach pressing against the curve of your spine, with kisses against your throat instead of a conversation. And you’d pretend it was enough.

That night, you let him make love to you like a peace offering. But it wasn’t peace ─ it was postponement. Again. The eye of a never-ending storm.

The memory was such that you almost missed it when you opened the door of his bedroom, too caught up in your emotions and the need for escape. But there it was: from down the hall came the quiet clatter of pans, the subtle shuffle of movement from the kitchen.

You entered the space in confusion. The unmistakable scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air, warm and grounding, utensils were lying around the counter along with a silver bowl dripping with batter, the window was cracked open and the sound of the radio echoed against the wall in the quiet of the room.

And Charles was in the middle of it all.

His broad, bare back was facing you, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. The muscles in his shoulders flexed with every movement as he busied himself with whatever he was preparing. Warm threads of sunlight caressed his skin and the nape of his neck, and you swallowed, heart lodging itself somewhere between relief and dubiety. For a moment, you just stood there, unsure what to do with the fact he hadn’t left.

He chose to turn around at that moment, dropping a crêpe onto the plate sitting on the counter along with two mugs. One for him, one for you. Looking up, his green eyes set on you, the sunshine hitting them just right to get your heart stuttering. “Oh, t’es debout ?” Then, he shook his head, as if to remember to speak English even in his half-asleep haze. “I didn’t expect you to be awake so early. I made breakfast.”

You silently sat down on one of the stools as Charles slid a mug toward you, and the movement was enough to set you back into a natural rhythm: Charles cooking, the crêpes a tinge of brown instead of beige, you humming to whatever song was playing, even if you didn’t know the melody. And it was nauseating: he still made the coffee the way you liked ─ milk and half a sugar, mug not too full because otherwise, your stomach would hurt, even though he took a larger, less diluted one. Memories of last night blinked in your mind, a sore reminder.

“How did you sleep?” Charles asked casually, sitting in front of you with a tired smile. He looked at you as if you were a mirage, unreal.

You took a sip of the cup in your hands, the warm liquid sending shivers in your body. This, too, was painfully familiar ─ ignoring the issue, acting as if nothing happened, as if last night was just a memory. You knew how this went. You could pretend, play along, act surprised when it all came crashing down for the hundredth time, disregarding the quiet glances and the unspoken words. Treating this as just another morning.

You could, but you wouldn’t. Not this time. The weight in your chest was too heavy, the mix of feelings swirling in your stomach too confusing. Too much time had passed.

And for once, you were tired of pretending that didn’t matter.

You set your mug down on the table. “We always do this, Charles,” you said in a whisper. “And I don’t want to anymore. We need to talk.”

His eyes left you, instead sitting with shame on the marble of the counter instead. “I know I─ I just wanted to wait for the right moment.”

“And when would the right moment be?” You asked, bitterness slipping in your voice like belladonna. “When I’ll end up in your bed again? And then we’ll postpone this conversation again?”

Charles’ flinch is subtle, but you catch it. You always do. The pattern of him is something you would never allow yourself to forget, even in the acerbity of the past. 

His fingers flex against the counter, knuckles tightening to a throat bobbing as he swallows ─ like he’s trying to force down an answer before it escapes him. “You know it’s not fair. You know I’m just trying to- to fix it. Everything.”

“It’s not enough. It never was.”

Charles’ gaze flashed to you. This time, there was something dangerous about it, the same light shining in his pupils during a race. “Really? You were the first to run away when things got hard. You never let me make it up to you, reassure you, or love you correctly. How is that enough? For me?”

The curtains were drawn tight against the city lights. The time was nearing two in the morning, but the adrenaline in Charles’ veins hadn’t worn off yet. He was talking─ about the race, the heat, how the strategy almost didn’t work. You were curled up against the pillows, eyes on him, assessing him like a storm in a bottle.

He looked radiant, alive. He always did after a good race weekend. He never did after a weekend with you, you thought.

“I wish you could’ve seen it from the garage,” he grinned, collapsing on the bed beside you, still in his Ferrari tee. “The energy was─ insane. I missed you down here.”

Did he really? Doubts infiltrated your every thought. You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I watched from the paddock lounge.”

“Still,” he said, turning to face you, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek, “not the same.”

You hummed, noncommittal. His hand stayed on your face a second too long. You didn’t lean into it. “You okay?” Charles asked.

Hesitancy. Then─ “Do you ever… get tired of this?” Your voice is small when you speak up against the dead of the night.

He frowned. “Of what?”

“Of always leaving.”

His hand dropped from your cheek, the loss of contact so sudden you thought he might have taken it the wrong way. Nothing in his expression or behavior could indicate so, but the nagging voice in the back of your head taunted you with the feeling. “Where is this coming from?”

“It’s just.. I feel like your life is always…,” I feel like it’s going somewhere I don’t belong. You’re always running, and I’m always waiting for you to look back. Waiting for the version of you that remembers where home is. Yet, you didn’t say it. You couldn’t. So you just applied half-smile on your lips like you’d do with a gloss. “I don’t know, just curious I guess. Don’t mind me, I’m just tired.”

Charles paused. Searched your face. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. You should take a shower before you fall asleep.” You sat up, pulling the covers tight around you as armor. He didn’t move. Just kept watching you, because he knew something was wrong but didn't know where to look for it. He wanted to say something. Wanted to stay. But he didn't. And you didn’t comment on it either, too caught up in your own head.

“You should really go,” you said, pushing him further away.

You stayed staring in the empty of the room long after the shower turned on. Long after the water stopped. Long after his arms found their way around your waist when he crawled into bed and whispered I love you against your shoulder.

You didn’t answer. You just pretended to be asleep.

The words flew like bullets in the softest parts of your flesh, and the brutal force of them could have made you double over. You knew he didn’t mean them ─ right now, he saw you as he would another driver on track, an enemy to take over, so he would do whatever it took, even if that meant hitting where it hurts. 

But there, exactly right there, was the source of all issues. 

You were a statistic in his life. Numbers iterated by his race engineer in his ear during a narrow turn. You weren’t his lover, his ex, his maybes and what-ifs. And it was always the problem, what haunted you during most of the nights he was away and most of the nights he was there. And that’s what broke the dam.

A sharp, hollow laugh escaped you. There was no sarcasm or anger behind it, just… emptiness. “You know what’s actually not fair, Charles?” Your fingers tightened ever-so-slightly around the mug, and you could feel the coffee starting to cool down. “Being second place.”

Your eyes rose to meet his. He was angry, lost, all those things he used to hide so carefully. This conversation was a long-time coming ─ it was what you always carefully set aside, put on a shelf to consider for a split second before walking away, leaving it to rot like a museum antiquity. You would take a look at it later, you’d tell yourself as you’d whisk yourself away with false promises of comfort. You never did ─ but right now, there was nothing else standing between the vomit of your words apart from the ridiculous hope of a maybe.

 “You never like coming in P2,” you said, and your voice wavered. “It makes you feel worthless. So tell me, why should I like it? Get accustomed to it? I was always second, Charles. Always the one waiting for you to make time, waiting for you to even remember I exist in between races and media obligations and whatever else fills your life. You said you loved me. You said it, and I remember it clear as day, but I─”

Your breath hitches, your hands shake, your vision blurs. “You’re always searching for more, and more, and more and I have never felt like I was enough for you.”

The silence in the room feels deafening. The radio quieted down, the birds stopped chirping, and the warmth of the early morning had been replaced by the gradual cold of the settling day.

Charles was staring at you, and you couldn’t tell if the light was playing tricks on you or if the green of his eyes was brimmed with tears. He exhales through his nose, pressing his palms against the counter like he needs something to keep him steady. “That’s not true,” he says, but there’s no fight behind it.

You shake your head with a sad, half-smile. “Isn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer. You don’t know if you want him to.

“You don’t even realize you do it. I know racing will always come first, I signed up for that when we started dating, and I never asked you to change that. But I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t break me when you forget I’m there. When I’ve been here since the beginning. How afraid I am.”

There it was. You loved Charles, you couldn’t pinpoint if it halted at some point in time, but you were so irrevocably scared that it held you back ─ scared of not being sufficient, scared of loving someone whose world never stops moving. It was a terrifying concept, and yet you were rooted in it. His lips part, but you’re not done. Not yet.

“I loved you. But sometimes, it’s exhausting. Loving you feels like running after something I’ll never catch. That’s why I left.”

The clock read 1:12 AM.

You sat on the couch, wrapped in the soft throw blanket Charles got you from a layover in Tokyo. It smelled like him. Like home. And it made your chest hurt.

His flight was supposed to land yesterday. He hadn’t answered your text all day. The key turned into the door just as the silence was starting to crush you ─ you didn’t even flinch when the door opened. Your arms were around your knees, eyes burning into the floor. Charles barely had time to drop his bag at the entrance, pulling off his cap and making eye contact with you, before your voice sliced through the air.

“You were supposed to be back home yesterday,” the tension in your voice was barely contained. “Technically, two days. We’re past midnight.”

He blinked. “I know but things ran late- there was a last minute sponsor thing, I’m sure you saw and-”

“You said you’d be home.” The harsh flatness of your voice shut him up instantly, teetering between fury and heartbreak. Suddenly the air was thicker, and the room was too small for the both of you. “Two more days than what you told me. You didn’t even text me, didn’t even call me back.”

He stepped forward, approaching you like a wild animal, only fueling the feelings roaring in your stomach. “I’m sorry, I should’ve told you, but it was just one more─”

“It’s never just one more thing, Charles!” You snapped, voice louder. “It’s always something. A meeting. A delay. An interview. Someone else.”

Charles inhaled, jaw tight. “You’re making this into something it doesn’t have to be.”

That was the wrong thing to say. You got up, cover falling from your shoulder and discarded onto the ground. “I waited on that couch for six hours. I lit a candle, I made dinner, for fuck’s sake!”

“Because I was working!” His voice rose as well. “I was busy! It’s my job─”

“And you think I’m not?! I bend my entire life around your schedule. Around races and flights and simulator sessions. I shrink myself to keep up with you but god forbid I ask for time and consideration!”

“I never asked you to do all of that! I never asked you to wait for me if that’s how you feel. Do you really think I’m doing this for fun? That I want to be away from you all the time?”

“No, I think you want a relationship that fits into your calendar like a PR obligation,” you spat. “And it feels like you’re prioritizing everything over it because it isn’t! Every time you miss a date, every time you forget to call me back, every time I cry alone because you don’t have time for a relationship you claim to care about─ you’re choosing everything else over me!”

Charles’ expression darkened, that’s when you knew you struck a nerve. “Well, maybe if you weren’t so damn scared all the time─”

Silence. The temperature of the room dropped a few degrees. “What?” You whispered.

Charles breathed out hard, like he already regretted it. But you weren’t letting him off the hook now. “Say it.”

“You push me away before I even get the chance to show up for you,” he snapped. “You act like I don’t care when you won’t even let me try. You’d rather assume the worst than risk trusting me─ like you’re just waiting for me to fuck it all up!”

“Because you always do!”

Now you were both yelling at each other, screams bouncing off the walls. “Then why are you still there?!”

“I don’t fucking know!” You shouted back. “Maybe because I love you, and I keep hoping that maybe one day it’ll be enough for you to love me back!”

His chest rose and fell in sharp movements, eyes glassy mirroring yours. But he didn’t move. Neither of you did.

“I do love you,” he whispered.

A bitter laugh escaped you, overflowing with heartbreak and exhaustion. “Yeah, well. Not enough, apparently.”

Silence fell onto the room again and this time, it carried the sound of finality. Like the stillness before a storm breaks a city─ and you refused to be collateral damage.

So you grabbed your coat, yanking it off the back of the kitchen’s stool in a swift move, and already heading for the door. “Don’t,” Charles interrupted, getting in your path. “Don’t do this now, we’re just tired, it’s─ it’s just too much emotion. We’ll talk in the morning and─”

“No.” You sidestepped him. “I have no mornings left in me, Charles. There is no morning. I’m tired of waiting.”

You turned your back to him. His voice cracked as he said your name. Just your name. You paused, just a second. “I don’t want this to be the end,” he said, voice hollow.

You looked at him ─ the man you’d build a whole life around, the man you loved ─ and something inside you cracked. A second wasn’t enough to make someone stay for a lifetime.

“It already is.”

You walked out, slammed the door so hard the walls trembled. Left him in the wreckage of what was once yours.

Charles’ breathing is uneven, like absorbing every word like a punch to the stomach. His hands curled into a fist, squeezing tight, and you couldn’t tell if he was fighting the urge to reach for you or if he was frustrated with the situation. When Charles felt something harshly, it usually washed over everything. “Loved?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know, Charles. But I think you’re focusing on the wrong thing.”

“No, no I─” He ran a hair through his curls, completely disheveled. His voice was low, rough, overflowing with emotions you couldn’t name. “Fuck, Y/N, do you think I don’t hate myself for that? That I don’t see what I do to you? I know, mon amour. I know. It kills me.”

The pet name choked you a little, the context vastly different from last night and still it felt more intimate than skin slapping against skin. His gaze was too intense, his words too sharp. Your eyes stung as you looked away. “Then why do you keep doing it?”

“Because I don’t know how to stop,” Charles admits, and his voice breaks in the middle. “I don’t know how to be with you without screwing it up. I tell myself I’ll do better, that I’ll balance everything and I’ll give you everything you really deserve, but then the next race comes, the next event, and suddenly I─” He stops himself, pressing his lips together. You can see his shoulders, still bare, shaking a little. His next words are broken.

“Suddenly you’re not the first thing on my mind anymore. And I hate that. I hate that you ever feel like you have to compete with this life when you’re the only thing that ever mattered outside of it.”

Your breath catches, your heart twists. Because Charles looks at you like he wants to cradle your world and bring all of its splits and cracks back together. Because you believe him, you always have, and that’s an issue.

As your arms wrapped around yourself, a desperate attempt to hold yourself together, you said: “Then what now, Charles?” Your voice is small and tired. It comes from the deepest part of yourself, and you can barely recognize it. “Because I can’t live like this again. I won’t.”

The silence after your words stretched uncomfortably and so far you almost felt it swallow you. Charles moved, just slightly, shifting his weight off the counter. “Then tell me how to fix it.”

“I already did. I just─ I don’t know if you can.”

“But I want to,” the look he gave you was bare, and for once he didn’t try to hide how scared he was. No facade, no pretending. “I want to try again. I want to fight for this. For you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “You say that now, but when things get hard again? When the season takes over, and you forget what day it is because you’re too focused on fixing something on track? I’ll become the.. thing you come back to only when you remember. I’ll be the thing you squeeze in between free practice and press.”

“That’s not what I want, Y/N. And I need you to understand that’s not- that’s never how I wanted you to feel. You’re more than this, so much more and─”

Your brows pulled together. If you said something, you knew you’d choke on it. His fingers sat next to yours and, similarly to last night, innocently brushed your palm.

“I love you,” Charles said.

The words landed like a quiet implosion. He’d said it before, of course. But now… they came like a confession, a plea.

Love was still there, even after a year apart, even after all of the ugly and broken shards lodging in open wounds, but it just wasn’t enough.

Love by itself cannot hold two people together if everything else is keeping them apart. Love is not time, it doesn’t fill the empty spaces where presence should be, it’s not a pause button stopping life from going forward, love is not enough─ not when the nights stretch long and lonely, when “I’ll do better” starts to sound like a well-rehearsed lie, when the ache of missing someone that is technically still yours is worse than losing them completely. Love alone cannot bridge the gap between being wanted and being prioritized, of having to beg for a space that should have already been yours.

“I love you,” Charles repeated, softer now. “And I know I’ve done a shit job showing it. I messed us up. But I’ve been in love with you through it all. We can fix it. I can do it. I just need you to let me.”

And the most tragic part? Sometimes, love still lingers long after everything else has fallen apart.

You swallowed hard, an ache dangerously crawling up your throat. “I─ I don’t─” The hesitation in your voice broke his face a little more, as if your pain carved something in him.

You stepped off the stool, eyes searching for the bag you dropped next to the door as you were planning your escape earlier. It was still there, next to your heels. You hadn’t planned on staying, and everything for you was too suffocating to think rationally. Charles’ eyes followed the trajectory of yours in silent understanding. He knew you wouldn’t say it back, not yet─ it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

After a pause, you spoke up. “I need time.”

He nodded slowly, acknowledging your decision. And he wasn’t begging, he wasn’t stopping you, and he simply watched you as you took up the hoodie draped over the couch to look more presentable when you went outside, and helped you find the pair of sneakers you left at his place. He helped you leave, and it made you a little breathless.

But then, right as you reached for the door, he finally said something.

“This weekend. Monaco.” His voice was rough, so much he swallowed, and the hand he had on the door handle curled. Still, his eyes were steady. “If you want to try… If you think we’re worth the risk─ come to the Grand Prix.”

The light coming through the windows caught on his hair, on the curve of his cheekbone. He looked too much like a ghost, a memory─ but he was real. Painfully so.

“And if I don’t?”

He exhaled and when he answered, it was quieter than before. “Then I’ll finally have a reason to let you go.”

You didn’t say anything.

The door closed gently behind you.

The crowd was thunder.

The heat shimmered against the pavement, sweat clung to the back of your neck and the Paddock Pass around it, weighing on you awkwardly. It’s been a long while since you had to wear one, and you had to acclimate to the renewed feeling of the accessory. The ecstatic ambiance was now almost foreign, and new staff members were waltzing around who didn’t recognize you. Things changed around the Ferrari Monaco paddock, it didn’t feel as welcoming to you as it had once been.

But you still came. That had to count for something.

You made your way to the back of the garage, your feet sure of their way even with the numerous changes in your environment. It felt louder, shinier, but beneath the gloss of the year spent apart, it was still the same─  the familiar scent of oil, burnt rubber and adrenaline. Some things just couldn’t be forgotten and your entire presence there was proof of it. 

Your hands were shaking, gathered in front of you as your eyes darted from left to right, seeking the flash of crimson and the name stitched across it. You hadn't realized you were holding your breath until you spotted it.

Leclerc.

You saw him before he saw you.

His hair messy due to the balaclava in his hand, half-zipped race suit sitting on his hips, head bent as he adjusted his gloves. Everything about him was focused. Composed. Untouchable.

Except you had touched him─ seen the dark places, known him better than anyone. Standing there now felt like trespassing inside a version of your life you weren’t sure you still had the right to claim. Your heart threatened to burst out of your ribcage, and you couldn’t calm your breathing even if you tried. The need to run away, swallow the heartache, and never look back took a hold of your guts. It would be easier.

But it’s not what you wanted. This time, you were taking the risk.

And slowly, like he could feel your gaze on him, Charles looked up. His green eyes set upon you like a moth to a flame.

The buzz of the staff working around you faded away and you just stared at each other, unsure of what to do until he started walking toward you. Charles was scanning you, taking you in as if he was afraid you’d vanish at any gust of wind. An illusion, the strain of an hourglass ─ you self-consciously tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

He looked beautiful, like he had aged in the five days separating your last conversation. You think you did, too ─ the many conversations you had with Bridget and Jaime around cups of coffee or something stronger, the late nights spent wondering to yourself, the early mornings spent on Bridget's balcony asking the setting sun if it was worth it. Everything. All of the emotions you went through in such a short time might have transformed the person you were ─ or maybe it was the 365 days spent searching for it.

“You came,” Charles said, breathless.

A small, unbelieving smile tugged at his lips, yet so loud you couldn’t help but give him one back. “I was wondering if you still knew how to race.” It came out lighter than you expected.

The laugh he let out was half choked, half relieved, like he was trying to process the fact you were really there. The shine in his eyes was unmistakable ─ glassy, unspoken. Hope, guilt and everything. “And I was wondering if you were going to show up.” His voice dropped a little. “I wouldn’t let myself believe it until I saw you.”

The red lanyard around your neck brushed against your chest like a second heartbeat. “I didn’t know I was coming until I woke up this morning,” you admitted. Then, you glanced back up. “But here we are.”

“Here we are,” he repeated.

It was so simple, but somehow it shattered something in you ─ the gentleness of it, how hopeful it was. Just a simple truth: you were both there, sitting in the openness that only comes with the possibility of a new beginning. The crowd cheering behind you felt like it was cheering for you.

Your hands twitched in front of you and for one aching second, you were there, still in it. The pain, the wanting, the past clawing at your backs but the tiniest thread of the future right there between your fingers. Because it wasn’t too late.

Because this time, you both wouldn’t let it slip through your fingers.

Noticing the restlessness of your fingers, Charles held out his, a silent question, sweeping them against yours. You didn’t hesitate when you let him hold them ever so gently.

“Now what?” You asked. The bitterness when you spoke those exact words five days ago was nowhere to be found.

“Now,” he breathed out. “I’m winning this race. Even if I don’t, I’ll finish it. I’ll come back to get you and we’ll go for coffee─ the place you like so much near the beach, with the stupid chairs that hurt your back but you always go there anyway because the croissants are that good.” You laughed a little at that, and he basked into it. “And we’ll talk. A lot. About what it means, and what we want. I’ll listen, for good this time, to everything. Alright?”

“You think you’ll have the time after the race?” It was a joke, but it came from too far deep to be amused.

Charles’ answer was immediate. “I’ll make it.”

So small, so certain, they curled around your heart and made it sit still. It was so vulnerable─ raw in a way you hadn’t seen from him in a long time. Not from a smokescreen or a podium, just him, the man you fell in love with.

He reached out, brushing the pad of his fingers against your wrist. “I know it won’t be easy, but I’m ready to do anything. If it means sitting in those─ god-awful chairs until the sun sets then so be it. I’ve already lost you once, and I’m not going to do it again.”

The silence that followed felt sacred, the world holding its breath for you even though everything around you was so loud. “So,” Charles started again. “Are you going to be there when I’m done with the race?”

The unspoken question was obvious. Are you going to leave again? Are you scared? Are you letting me in? 

You spoke your answer as surely as he did. “I’ll be there. Because I love you too.” You finally said it back.

He nodded once at your words, just barely, like he couldn’t really believe you uttered them, or even meant it. You did. You do. He brought your fingers to his lips, shakily, a good-luck ritual that felt brand new.

And as he left to walk to his car, he shot you a smile, which you gave back teary-eyed, and the rays of sunlight surrounding you made it feel like spring ─ the soft breeze blowing your hair back, carrying hopes and beginnings. Because in three hours you’ll be in that Monaco café, and Charles will be sitting in front of you, and you’ll order a different drink than you usually do, and you’ll talk.

And you’ll start anew.

And this time, it would be enough for both of you.

©DRGNSFLY 2k25 ─ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[ananaaaaaa]

I know people looooove to insinuate that Zoro doesn’t like Usopp because of Water 7, but I am coming to Zoro’s defense on this (not how you think!). Usopp and Luffy were both acting and reacting based on very heightened emotions. Usopp was utilizing a very common tactic— hurt before you get hurt. Not his best moment, but I think it’s understandable under the circumstances. Luffy, because he’s stubborn and also a little bratty, then countered with a classic baby brother tactic— when they go low, you go lower. The problem with this is that they aren’t just playing in the backyard. People have left their homes and families to follow Luffy. They’re fugitives. The government wants them dead. In normal circumstances, they’d fight and ignore each other and make up. But they can’t do that in this situation because it’s not a game. Zoro was trying to get the two of them to see that. Luffy may be silly. He may be lighthearted and carefree, but he is the captain on their very real pirate crew. There is no time for petty strife. If you quit, you have to mean it. If you remove someone, you also have to mean it. By the time their fight comes around, both Luffy and Usopp already regret their choices and want to just move on, but Zoro forces BOTH of them to face this discomfort and play through it so that they both understand the weight of their choices.

THAT BEING SAID!!!!!!!!! It’s not like Zoro was like “and FUCK that Longnose”… he was the first one of the Romance Dawn trio to ask Usopp to join them. He knows Usopp’s got a big heart. He knows what Usopp brings to the table, even if Usopp doesn’t. He was LIVID when he saw what Franky had done to Usopp!!! But he’s also been around. He’s a famous bounty hunter. For quite a while he was the most famous person on the crew. He’s probably seen tons of crews and watched their dynamics and understands that hierarchy exists for a reason. If you’re following someone without conviction, you’re risking your life every day for someone who can’t stand on his own morals. They can’t afford to do that. And it seems like in these ‘Zoro Hates Usopp’ arguments, they very often leave out the fact that Zoro told Luffy that if he didn’t stand by his choices, he’d leave the crew, too. He was just telling them to stand on the business they’d put out into the world, which I think is a perfectly fair stance to have. We all know that Zoro takes the words he says and the words others say very seriously. This is an extension of that. But it doesn’t mean he hates Usopp or Luffy. He just recognized that if they’re all allowed to hop on and off the crew, and if they’re not able to articulate their feelings without being mutinous, they were doomed to fail.

(I’m going to pause here to acknowledge that Zoro treated Sogeking in the same way that he’s always treated Usopp. They cut up together and he still takes care of him in his own weird way and he trusts him as a crew member. Think about how he treated Robin when he wasn’t sure about her. He didn’t do that here!! It was like “old times”. He still viewed him as a member of the crew.)

And THEN!! AND THEN!!!!! When Sanji tells everyone that he overheard Usopp’s rehearsals and that he intends to come back to the crew, Zoro still says that Usopp needs to apologize to their captain. Because he’s. You know. The captain. Mutiny is a serious action. You can’t just not acknowledge it. It needs to be faced. And Zoro is all hardass about it like “if the first thing he says isn’t an apology we’re leaving him” and then what does he do? He pretends he can’t hear him not apologizing. Usopp goes on for a while, and he pretends he can’t hear anything. And then as soon as Usopp apologizes, he smiles!!! Because he knows it means Usopp is coming home!!!!!!

And I know. I can already hear it. “Well, why didn’t he just not insist on that stuff???” Because the crew needed to figure out that behaving that way had the potential to cost them in ways that are uncomfortable! Yes, we don’t see Luffy doing the same. But I think it’s important to note that they are a crew and there’s essentially only one actual assigned role and that’s Luffy’s role as captain. Even if his decision is stupid they need to follow it. That’s the choice they’ve made. And they can be kind of loosey goosey in every regard except that one. Because if his final say means nothing, that could have catastrophic consequences for everyone. Plus, as readers, we get to see Luffy’s discomfort and remorse plenty. He weeps and tells Zoro that accepting the duel is hard and he hates it and Zoro basically tells him he has to lie in the bed he’s made for himself or he isn’t fit to be captain. And Luffy clearly felt very uncomfortable with the fact that his knee jerk reaction may have cost him his bestie/brother/playmate. He couldn’t even smile convincingly about the prospect of leaving Usopp behind. He felt a level of regret that I’m not sure we see him feel again. I think Zoro put them through their paces pretty equally. Zoro saw Luffy regret his choice and forced him to stand by it, which is his job as a captain. And he insisted that Usopp apologize for his choice, which is his job as a crew member.

Zoro’s intent wasn’t to take sides. He wasn’t operating under the belief that the captain is the only one that can be right. He was trying to get all of them to understand that exploding, quitting, and coming back without acknowledging the source of strife is not a sustainable method of communication for a crew. If they can’t hash it out and own their mistakes or mean what they say, they can’t fully trust each other. And they need a captain with a clear vision. There’s no room for wavering unless they’re ready to lose their lives.

And Usopp comes back and he’s still clinging to Zoro and climbing on him and using him as a shield, so I think they’re just fine.

[ananaaaaaa]

[ananaaaaaa]

a movie i've seen before ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

you kiss me in your car / and it feels like the start of a movie i’ve seen before.

ꔮ starring: lando norris x indie singer!reader. ꔮ smau + word count: 1.3k. ꔮ includes: romance, angst with a happy ending. profanity, mentions of a car accident. lando yearns :(, references to mcalpine songs. face claim: lizzy mcalpine. ꔮ commentary box: this was inspired by my perpetual amusement over ceilings being in lando's sunshine & tan lines playlist. back to back dedication for @norrisradio and @binisainz, who both love ceilings, lando, and yearning, in no particular order. i adore u both! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Liked by user1, user2, and others spotify As Lando prepares for the new season, he’s created an exclusive Spotify playlist, Sunshine & Tan Lines, that gives fans an inside look at how music helps him get into the right mindset. Link in bio! 🔗

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user1 post malone enjoyer lando seems just about right user2 Life Is A Highway is PEAK. user3 is that... yourusername???????? ⤷ user4 LMAO same. Like ? Lando listens to INDIE MUSIC?!

Liked by lucydacus, hozier, and others yourusername been getting a lot of love for 'ceilings' as of late. thank you thank you thank you. if you're new here, welcome! new music soon 🎤🎸🌧️

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user1 FAWKKK I WAS TRYNA GATEKEEP U KWEEN user2 Here because of lando!! ⤷ user3 Here BEFORE lando. #OG user4 ceilings plaster 😭😭 can you just make it move faster 😭😭 user5 i need everybody to name three other songs if they want #rights

Liked by carlossainz55, danielricciardo, and others mclaren but it's over!!! then you're driving me home!!! 🗣️

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user1 HELLOOOO??? user2 they got lando doing the ceilings trend omfg user3 Somebody teach this boy how to run. wth. user4 the marketing yourusername must be getting rn is crazyyy user5 Can we get an Oscar version? ⤷ user6 PLS ADMIN PLS 🏃🏃🏃 ⤷ user7 need the entire grid to do this trend actually

NOVEMBER 2023.

BUT IT'S OVER / THEN YOU'RE DRIVING ME HOME / AND IT KINDA COMES OUT / AS I GET UP TO GO.

it rains on your first date.

lando makes a joke about it—something about pathetic fallacy, as if the sky itself knew this was going to be the most cliché first date in existence. you roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betray you, tugging upward as you sit beside him in his car. the streetlights flicker, casting gold against the windshield. the world outside is a blur of neon reflections and puddles swallowing headlights whole.

he drums his fingers against the steering wheel, like he’s keeping tempo with a song only he can hear. maybe it’s nerves. maybe it’s habit. either way, you don’t say anything about it. you’re too busy memorizing the way his hands move—too busy committing the weight of this moment to memory.

“did you have a good time?” he asks, voice soft, hesitant, like he’s afraid of the answer.

“no,” you deadpan, just to watch the flicker of panic in his eyes. then you laugh, because his reaction is too good, too easy. “i had a great time.”

he exhales, shaking his head, but there’s that smile again—the one that feels like it was meant for you and you alone. the one you already know you’ll be chasing after, in stolen glances and half-lit rooms.

outside, the rain doesn’t let up. it batters against the roof, slides in rivulets down the glass. neither of you move to leave.

“so, what now?” lando asks, but he says it like he already knows. like he’s just waiting for you to close the space between you.

and you do. slowly, deliberately. like you’re walking a tightrope between hesitation and inevitability. like you’re terrified of falling, but already know the landing will be soft.

his breath is warm, mingling with yours in the in-between. the world shrinks, folds itself neatly into the space of this car, into the inches that disappear when he finally, finally closes the distance.

you kiss him, and it feels like the beginning of something. like the first page of a story you already know by heart. like the opening credits of a film you’ll play on repeat.

outside, the rain keeps falling. inside, everything else stops—

Liked by phoebebridgers, mothercain, and others yourusername proof of life. ep out soon, but for now i offer y'all 'called you again' 📞🛌💭 link in bio to listen innn

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user1 omg new yourusername music. it's going to be a good day. user2 SO excited for the EP !! user3 oomf the song is soooo,, who hurt u ☹️ user4 Pay for my therapy man user5 wait is this lando's gf?

Liked by yukitsunoda0511, alex_albon, and others lando making my bed and sleepin in it by myself

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user1 lando on film supremacy ✌️ user2 The polaroid >>>> user3 am i crazy or is the caption from yourusername's new song? ⤷ user4 Riiiight 😵‍💫 The lyric that's "So I make my bed and sleep in it alone" ⤷ user5 can't get over the revelation that lando is an indie enthusiast ⤷ user6 In my K-pop fandoms this could only mean one thing... user7 what i'd give to be in lando's bed </3 what who said that

Liked by djotime, clairo, and others yourusername you'd rather die than take your eyes off me. last one before the full ep. glad to have benkessler on this one with me 🚗🌲💥 drive safe, everyone

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user1 Wait A Dang Second user2 ARE Y'ALL SEEING WHAT I'M SEEEEEEING 👀👀👀 ⤷ user3 I'm not insane. That has to be lando? Right?? user4 Omg, I love Ben! This was such a beautiful song! user5 the way the track ends. geeeez 😮‍💨 user6 lando what are u doin here user7 came running here after the twitter thread ⤷ user8 rt!!! feeling like sherlock raynow fr fr

FEBRUARY 2024.

I DIDN'T MEAN TO KISS YOU / I MEAN, I DID, BUT I DIDN'T THINK IT'D GO THIS FAR / I DIDN'T MEAN TO KISS YOU / NOW YOU CAN'T FOCUS ON THE ROAD WHEN I'M IN YOUR CAR.

—everything stops.

one second, he’s laughing, something careless and cocky slipping past his lips. the next, there’s a tree where the road used to be, and the world is jerking sideways.

the impact is loud. metal shrieks. the seatbelt locks across his chest like a hand pressing him back into his seat, and the airbag—fuck, it goes off too late, because his head snaps forward before he’s forced back again. it’s not hard enough to hurt. not really. but enough that he knows he’s going to feel it tomorrow.

his pulse hammers in his ears, and for a second, all he can do is breathe. inhale, exhale, blink, exist.

then—

“lando.”

he turns. you’re there, wide-eyed, hands gripping the dashboard like you could hold the car together through sheer force of will. but you’re whole. you’re okay.

his hands shake. adrenaline or fear or something bigger, something nameless. he drags them through his hair, then presses them against the steering wheel like he can steady himself through contact alone.

“fuck,” he exhales. it’s almost a laugh, but the edge is too sharp. “fuck.”

“are you—” your voice catches, and he hates that he put that there, that crack in your composure. “are you okay?”

lando nods too fast. too many times. “yeah. yeah, i—” he laughs, because what else can he do? “well. that’s, uh. that’s one way to end a date.”

you don’t laugh. your hands unclench from the dashboard, flex and tighten into fists against your thighs. when you look at him, it’s not with relief. it’s not even anger. it’s something heavier, something that makes his chest feel like it’s caving in.

“i told you to keep your eyes on the road.”

he swallows. his mouth is dry. he thinks about deflecting. thinks about turning this into a joke, another stupid anecdote, another story to be told with a grin and a shrug.

but he can’t. not with the way you’re looking at him.

“i know.”

silence presses in around you both, thick and unbearable.

lando doesn’t know how to say it. that the car wasn’t the only thing out of control. that he’d felt it, this thing between you, humming electric under his skin, pulling his attention like gravity. that maybe—maybe—some reckless, ugly part of him hadn’t wanted to look away. because he knew the moment he did, this would all slip through his fingers. the moment would end. you’d get out of the car, out of his reach, and he wouldn’t know how to pull you back.

so he hadn’t looked away.

and now, here you both are, headlights flickering against wet leaves, the smell of burnt rubber clinging to the air.

“i’m sorry, love,” he practically whimpers. like he’s a kid who’s afraid. and maybe he is, maybe he is. a kid. afraid. sorry. all that.

you exhale, slow and shaky. then you reach for his hand.

not to pull away. not to let go.

just to hold—

Liked by francolapinto, isackhadjar, and others lando i'll book the marching band to play as u speak

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user1 b&w lando is something i didn't know i needed until i got it user2 Where's that one Twitter conspiracist?? Because that caption is literally a lyric from 'doomsday' 🧐 ⤷ user3 FUCK URE RIGHT ⤷ user4 we're basically watching yourusername x lando communicate through ig captions. insane. user5 LN is either a huuuge yourusername fan... or her bf. LOL ⤷ user6 Lando is going thru it and you're LOL-ing user7 'doomsday' having the line "i would've married you / if you'd have stuck around",, moots they are exes 💔 user8 Who took these pics? Lovee the third one user9 te amo lando oscarpiastri insane mating call ⤷ user10 HELP WHAT DOES HE MEAN ⤷ user11 oscar confirming that this broody ass post is a mating call ⤷ user12 They're in love, your honor!! 🧡

🎙️ YOURUSERNAME INTERVIEW WITH GQ.

Liked by user1, user2, and others ln4updates 📍 Tokyo

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user1 The shades + white shirt combo is lethal. user2 girlie having a lando shirt is SOOO #me user3 hear me out: i know he's here ahead of the gp, but you know who else is in japan ? ⤷ user4 YUPPP!!! 🙂‍↕️ ⤷ user5 yourusername JPN stop at suntory hall ... ⤷ user6 Omg i saw op's post, these pics were taken in Minato. What's in Minato? Suntory Hall. Who's performing there tonight? You fucking guessed it.

APRIL 2025.

IT'S ALWAYS ON THE TIP OF MY TONGUE / BUT I STOP MYSELF FROM SAYIN' IT / TELL MYSELF IT'S NOT THE RIGHT TIME OR SOMETHING DUMB.

—just to hold. just to hold on to something, even when you shouldn’t.

lando has always been good at that. gripping too tight, hoping too much, holding on long past the point of reason. you told him once—gently, painfully—that love shouldn’t be like that. shouldn’t be desperate or clinging or stubborn in the face of an inevitable ending.

but then, inevitably, you’re here. in his car, again.

rain spatters against the windshield. the city glows beyond the glass, blurred and buzzing. neither of you speak. maybe if you don’t, it won’t count as something real. maybe if you don’t, you can pretend this is just another night, another drive, another moment before the fall.

lando’s fingers drum against the steering wheel. he hasn’t started the car. hasn’t moved, except for the twitch of his hand, the flick of his gaze towards you. “tell me this is a bad idea,” he says.

“it’s a bad idea,” you say, but it doesn’t sound convincing. not when he’s looking at you like that. not when the space between you is charged and crackling, like something waiting to ignite.

he exhales a laugh. “liar.”

you don’t argue. don’t say anything at all. because he’s right. because if you were really sure this was a mistake, you wouldn’t be here. wouldn’t be watching the way his hands grip the wheel, the way his jaw clenches like he’s bracing for impact. like he already knows how this ends and he’s still willing to crash into it for the chance to hold on.

“say it,” he says, quieter now. “tell me to let go.”

it would be easy. you could say it and mean it and walk away. but then lando shifts, turns fully toward you, and suddenly it’s too late. suddenly, it’s just like before. your breath catches, your heart stumbles, and his eyes—god, his eyes—

“i can’t,” you whisper.

and just like that, he’s kissing you. your lips press together in the space between regret and hope, between the past and whatever comes next.

just like that, you’re back where you started.

maybe you should know better. maybe he should, too.

but for now—

lando sighs into the kiss like he’s been holding his breath since the day you walked away. his hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing soft, tentative. like he’s making sure you’re real.

like he’s afraid you might disappear again.

when you finally pull away, his forehead rests against yours. he doesn’t open his eyes. neither do you.

“i don’t want to do this if we’re just going to—” you pause, press your lips together, inhale. “if we’re going to crash again.”

“i know.”

“we have to be careful this time.”

lando nods, his hand still cradling your face, his thumb still moving—slow, steady, certain.

“we will be,” he says, he promises, and you believe him.

you want to. you have to.

Liked by lando, oscarpiastri, and others yourusername orange show speedway

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user1 got progressively more insane as i kept swiping user2 WE ARE SO BACK (?????) ⤷ user3 WHATEVER IT IS WE ARE SO HERE!!! 🎉 user4 Congrats or sorry for whatever happened but I Need that Snoopy... user5 f1ndie is actually my fever dream. thank you for your service. user6 So can we safely assume all of the songs in 'five seconds flat' are for Lando? 🥹 lando how reckless of you ❤️ Liked by creator

[ananaaaaaa]

a movie i've seen before ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

you kiss me in your car / and it feels like the start of a movie i’ve seen before.

ꔮ starring: lando norris x indie singer!reader. ꔮ smau + word count: 1.3k. ꔮ includes: romance, angst with a happy ending. profanity, mentions of a car accident. lando yearns :(, references to mcalpine songs. face claim: lizzy mcalpine. ꔮ commentary box: this was inspired by my perpetual amusement over ceilings being in lando's sunshine & tan lines playlist. back to back dedication for @norrisradio and @binisainz, who both love ceilings, lando, and yearning, in no particular order. i adore u both! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Liked by user1, user2, and others spotify As Lando prepares for the new season, he’s created an exclusive Spotify playlist, Sunshine & Tan Lines, that gives fans an inside look at how music helps him get into the right mindset. Link in bio! 🔗

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user1 post malone enjoyer lando seems just about right user2 Life Is A Highway is PEAK. user3 is that... yourusername???????? ⤷ user4 LMAO same. Like ? Lando listens to INDIE MUSIC?!

Liked by lucydacus, hozier, and others yourusername been getting a lot of love for 'ceilings' as of late. thank you thank you thank you. if you're new here, welcome! new music soon 🎤🎸🌧️

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user1 FAWKKK I WAS TRYNA GATEKEEP U KWEEN user2 Here because of lando!! ⤷ user3 Here BEFORE lando. #OG user4 ceilings plaster 😭😭 can you just make it move faster 😭😭 user5 i need everybody to name three other songs if they want #rights

Liked by carlossainz55, danielricciardo, and others mclaren but it's over!!! then you're driving me home!!! 🗣️

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user1 HELLOOOO??? user2 they got lando doing the ceilings trend omfg user3 Somebody teach this boy how to run. wth. user4 the marketing yourusername must be getting rn is crazyyy user5 Can we get an Oscar version? ⤷ user6 PLS ADMIN PLS 🏃🏃🏃 ⤷ user7 need the entire grid to do this trend actually

NOVEMBER 2023.

BUT IT'S OVER / THEN YOU'RE DRIVING ME HOME / AND IT KINDA COMES OUT / AS I GET UP TO GO.

it rains on your first date.

lando makes a joke about it—something about pathetic fallacy, as if the sky itself knew this was going to be the most cliché first date in existence. you roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betray you, tugging upward as you sit beside him in his car. the streetlights flicker, casting gold against the windshield. the world outside is a blur of neon reflections and puddles swallowing headlights whole.

he drums his fingers against the steering wheel, like he’s keeping tempo with a song only he can hear. maybe it’s nerves. maybe it’s habit. either way, you don’t say anything about it. you’re too busy memorizing the way his hands move—too busy committing the weight of this moment to memory.

“did you have a good time?” he asks, voice soft, hesitant, like he’s afraid of the answer.

“no,” you deadpan, just to watch the flicker of panic in his eyes. then you laugh, because his reaction is too good, too easy. “i had a great time.”

he exhales, shaking his head, but there’s that smile again—the one that feels like it was meant for you and you alone. the one you already know you’ll be chasing after, in stolen glances and half-lit rooms.

outside, the rain doesn’t let up. it batters against the roof, slides in rivulets down the glass. neither of you move to leave.

“so, what now?” lando asks, but he says it like he already knows. like he’s just waiting for you to close the space between you.

and you do. slowly, deliberately. like you’re walking a tightrope between hesitation and inevitability. like you’re terrified of falling, but already know the landing will be soft.

his breath is warm, mingling with yours in the in-between. the world shrinks, folds itself neatly into the space of this car, into the inches that disappear when he finally, finally closes the distance.

you kiss him, and it feels like the beginning of something. like the first page of a story you already know by heart. like the opening credits of a film you’ll play on repeat.

outside, the rain keeps falling. inside, everything else stops—

Liked by phoebebridgers, mothercain, and others yourusername proof of life. ep out soon, but for now i offer y'all 'called you again' 📞🛌💭 link in bio to listen innn

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user1 omg new yourusername music. it's going to be a good day. user2 SO excited for the EP !! user3 oomf the song is soooo,, who hurt u ☹️ user4 Pay for my therapy man user5 wait is this lando's gf?

Liked by yukitsunoda0511, alex_albon, and others lando making my bed and sleepin in it by myself

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user1 lando on film supremacy ✌️ user2 The polaroid >>>> user3 am i crazy or is the caption from yourusername's new song? ⤷ user4 Riiiight 😵‍💫 The lyric that's "So I make my bed and sleep in it alone" ⤷ user5 can't get over the revelation that lando is an indie enthusiast ⤷ user6 In my K-pop fandoms this could only mean one thing... user7 what i'd give to be in lando's bed </3 what who said that

Liked by djotime, clairo, and others yourusername you'd rather die than take your eyes off me. last one before the full ep. glad to have benkessler on this one with me 🚗🌲💥 drive safe, everyone

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user1 Wait A Dang Second user2 ARE Y'ALL SEEING WHAT I'M SEEEEEEING 👀👀👀 ⤷ user3 I'm not insane. That has to be lando? Right?? user4 Omg, I love Ben! This was such a beautiful song! user5 the way the track ends. geeeez 😮‍💨 user6 lando what are u doin here user7 came running here after the twitter thread ⤷ user8 rt!!! feeling like sherlock raynow fr fr

FEBRUARY 2024.

I DIDN'T MEAN TO KISS YOU / I MEAN, I DID, BUT I DIDN'T THINK IT'D GO THIS FAR / I DIDN'T MEAN TO KISS YOU / NOW YOU CAN'T FOCUS ON THE ROAD WHEN I'M IN YOUR CAR.

—everything stops.

one second, he’s laughing, something careless and cocky slipping past his lips. the next, there’s a tree where the road used to be, and the world is jerking sideways.

the impact is loud. metal shrieks. the seatbelt locks across his chest like a hand pressing him back into his seat, and the airbag—fuck, it goes off too late, because his head snaps forward before he’s forced back again. it’s not hard enough to hurt. not really. but enough that he knows he’s going to feel it tomorrow.

his pulse hammers in his ears, and for a second, all he can do is breathe. inhale, exhale, blink, exist.

then—

“lando.”

he turns. you’re there, wide-eyed, hands gripping the dashboard like you could hold the car together through sheer force of will. but you’re whole. you’re okay.

his hands shake. adrenaline or fear or something bigger, something nameless. he drags them through his hair, then presses them against the steering wheel like he can steady himself through contact alone.

“fuck,” he exhales. it’s almost a laugh, but the edge is too sharp. “fuck.”

“are you—” your voice catches, and he hates that he put that there, that crack in your composure. “are you okay?”

lando nods too fast. too many times. “yeah. yeah, i—” he laughs, because what else can he do? “well. that’s, uh. that’s one way to end a date.”

you don’t laugh. your hands unclench from the dashboard, flex and tighten into fists against your thighs. when you look at him, it’s not with relief. it’s not even anger. it’s something heavier, something that makes his chest feel like it’s caving in.

“i told you to keep your eyes on the road.”

he swallows. his mouth is dry. he thinks about deflecting. thinks about turning this into a joke, another stupid anecdote, another story to be told with a grin and a shrug.

but he can’t. not with the way you’re looking at him.

“i know.”

silence presses in around you both, thick and unbearable.

lando doesn’t know how to say it. that the car wasn’t the only thing out of control. that he’d felt it, this thing between you, humming electric under his skin, pulling his attention like gravity. that maybe—maybe—some reckless, ugly part of him hadn’t wanted to look away. because he knew the moment he did, this would all slip through his fingers. the moment would end. you’d get out of the car, out of his reach, and he wouldn’t know how to pull you back.

so he hadn’t looked away.

and now, here you both are, headlights flickering against wet leaves, the smell of burnt rubber clinging to the air.

“i’m sorry, love,” he practically whimpers. like he’s a kid who’s afraid. and maybe he is, maybe he is. a kid. afraid. sorry. all that.

you exhale, slow and shaky. then you reach for his hand.

not to pull away. not to let go.

just to hold—

Liked by francolapinto, isackhadjar, and others lando i'll book the marching band to play as u speak

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user1 b&w lando is something i didn't know i needed until i got it user2 Where's that one Twitter conspiracist?? Because that caption is literally a lyric from 'doomsday' 🧐 ⤷ user3 FUCK URE RIGHT ⤷ user4 we're basically watching yourusername x lando communicate through ig captions. insane. user5 LN is either a huuuge yourusername fan... or her bf. LOL ⤷ user6 Lando is going thru it and you're LOL-ing user7 'doomsday' having the line "i would've married you / if you'd have stuck around",, moots they are exes 💔 user8 Who took these pics? Lovee the third one user9 te amo lando oscarpiastri insane mating call ⤷ user10 HELP WHAT DOES HE MEAN ⤷ user11 oscar confirming that this broody ass post is a mating call ⤷ user12 They're in love, your honor!! 🧡

🎙️ YOURUSERNAME INTERVIEW WITH GQ.

Liked by user1, user2, and others ln4updates 📍 Tokyo

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user1 The shades + white shirt combo is lethal. user2 girlie having a lando shirt is SOOO #me user3 hear me out: i know he's here ahead of the gp, but you know who else is in japan ? ⤷ user4 YUPPP!!! 🙂‍↕️ ⤷ user5 yourusername JPN stop at suntory hall ... ⤷ user6 Omg i saw op's post, these pics were taken in Minato. What's in Minato? Suntory Hall. Who's performing there tonight? You fucking guessed it.

APRIL 2025.

IT'S ALWAYS ON THE TIP OF MY TONGUE / BUT I STOP MYSELF FROM SAYIN' IT / TELL MYSELF IT'S NOT THE RIGHT TIME OR SOMETHING DUMB.

—just to hold. just to hold on to something, even when you shouldn’t.

lando has always been good at that. gripping too tight, hoping too much, holding on long past the point of reason. you told him once—gently, painfully—that love shouldn’t be like that. shouldn’t be desperate or clinging or stubborn in the face of an inevitable ending.

but then, inevitably, you’re here. in his car, again.

rain spatters against the windshield. the city glows beyond the glass, blurred and buzzing. neither of you speak. maybe if you don’t, it won’t count as something real. maybe if you don’t, you can pretend this is just another night, another drive, another moment before the fall.

lando’s fingers drum against the steering wheel. he hasn’t started the car. hasn’t moved, except for the twitch of his hand, the flick of his gaze towards you. “tell me this is a bad idea,” he says.

“it’s a bad idea,” you say, but it doesn’t sound convincing. not when he’s looking at you like that. not when the space between you is charged and crackling, like something waiting to ignite.

he exhales a laugh. “liar.”

you don’t argue. don’t say anything at all. because he’s right. because if you were really sure this was a mistake, you wouldn’t be here. wouldn’t be watching the way his hands grip the wheel, the way his jaw clenches like he’s bracing for impact. like he already knows how this ends and he’s still willing to crash into it for the chance to hold on.

“say it,” he says, quieter now. “tell me to let go.”

it would be easy. you could say it and mean it and walk away. but then lando shifts, turns fully toward you, and suddenly it’s too late. suddenly, it’s just like before. your breath catches, your heart stumbles, and his eyes—god, his eyes—

“i can’t,” you whisper.

and just like that, he’s kissing you. your lips press together in the space between regret and hope, between the past and whatever comes next.

just like that, you’re back where you started.

maybe you should know better. maybe he should, too.

but for now—

lando sighs into the kiss like he’s been holding his breath since the day you walked away. his hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing soft, tentative. like he’s making sure you’re real.

like he’s afraid you might disappear again.

when you finally pull away, his forehead rests against yours. he doesn’t open his eyes. neither do you.

“i don’t want to do this if we’re just going to—” you pause, press your lips together, inhale. “if we’re going to crash again.”

“i know.”

“we have to be careful this time.”

lando nods, his hand still cradling your face, his thumb still moving—slow, steady, certain.

“we will be,” he says, he promises, and you believe him.

you want to. you have to.

Liked by lando, oscarpiastri, and others yourusername orange show speedway

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user1 got progressively more insane as i kept swiping user2 WE ARE SO BACK (?????) ⤷ user3 WHATEVER IT IS WE ARE SO HERE!!! 🎉 user4 Congrats or sorry for whatever happened but I Need that Snoopy... user5 f1ndie is actually my fever dream. thank you for your service. user6 So can we safely assume all of the songs in 'five seconds flat' are for Lando? 🥹 lando how reckless of you ❤️ Liked by creator

[ananaaaaaa]

I'm a woman of my word! — [1] [2]

[ananaaaaaa]

hey so i enjoy making emojis. here's half of the ones i've made so far. please use them, if you like! (i've put what i call them in the alt text, and i think it's silly and fun, but feel free to call them whatever works for you.)