Work Text:
Oscar Piastri is the definition of academic precision. His timetable is color-coded to match his notes, his notes are coordinated with the textbook, and his textbook is tagged with a level of obsessive efficiency that would terrify most normal people. He thrives on rules, expectations, structure.
He treats academia like a battlefield, and he’s always ready to win. Group projects? He does 90% of the work. Peer reviews? He gives uncomfortably honest feedback. And when he walks into the lecture hall at 7:50 a.m., chai latte in hand, he fully expects to engage in intellectual warfare and come out victorious.
He does not expect Lando Norris.
Lando is chaos in the shape of a boy. He’s all curls and mischievous grins and doodles in the margins of his empty notebook. He arrives late, eats candy in class, calls the professor “mate,” and once genuinely asked if imaginary numbers meant they weren’t real and therefore didn’t matter. His academic strategy is somewhere between winging it and divine intervention.
He’s charming, irritating, infuriatingly likable, and he immediately targets Oscar with the kind of reckless enthusiasm usually reserved for puppies and people who don’t know the stove is hot.
When he tries to cheat off Oscar on the very first quiz by leaning over and whispering “Is the answer A or whatever sounds smarter?”, Oscar doesn’t even hesitate. He reports him.
A normal professor would’ve at least given Lando a warning.
Maybe docked him participation points. But Professor Winston, a man who seems to be using tenure as a social science experiment, just grins and says, “Perfect! Piastri, you’re tutoring him now.”
Oscar stares, horrified. “Absolutely not.”
Lando, delighted, leans back and stretches like he’s just been given a vacation. “Oi, guess we are stuck together.”
Oscar threatens to drop the class.
He doesn’t. Not because he wants to help Lando—but because Oscar never backs down from a challenge. And if Lando is anything, he’s a challenge.
……
Lando shows up fifteen minutes late with a chocolate croissant and no calculator. Oscar is already seated at a library table, laptop open, papers neatly stacked, highlighters arranged like weapons.
“You’re late,” Oscar says without looking up.
Lando takes a bite. “I was hungry.”
Oscar closes his laptop slowly, dangerously. “You’re wasting my time.”
Lando grins. “You really like being mad at me, huh?”
Oscar doesn’t answer. He’s too busy recalculating every life decision that led him to this moment.
Oscar is furious. Lando is smug.
….
Lando shows up to their first tutoring session with a smile, a smoothie, and absolutely no notebook.
Oscar threatens to walk out.
Lando bats his eyelashes.
Oscar stays. (“Because someone has to stop you from flunking out and embarrassing the department.”)
Every session becomes a mix of chaotic math, ridiculous flirting, and subtle emotional landmines.
Oscar: “This is basic differentiation.”
Lando: “You must be the square root of -1, because you can’t be real..”
Oscar: “…That doesn’t even make sense.”
…..
Oscar is convinced Lando isn’t taking any of this seriously. To prove a point—and maybe, just maybe, to shut him up—he agrees to a bet.
If Lando scores higher than him or same as him on the next quiz, Oscar will take him to dinner. Just one date. Free food will motivate him. That’s it.
“Not because I want to,” Oscar says, looking absolutely unbothered, “but because it’ll motivate you.”
“I’m gonna make you fall in love with me over carbonara,” Lando declares.
Oscar rolls his eyes. He’s not worried.
……
The Problem Is: He Loses.
Oscar scores a 95. Lando gets a 95.
Oscar’s eye twitches. “You guessed.”
Lando shrugs. “Guess I’m a genius.”
Oscar is mortified. But a bet’s a bet, so they go to dinner. At a tiny, candlelit place Lando “just happened” to have a reservation for.
Oscar expects it to be awful. It isn’t. It’s… easy. Comfortable.
Lando is surprisingly thoughtful. Makes him laugh. Doesn’t ask a single question about math. And walks him home, leaving Oscar standing outside his dorm with a too-warm feeling in his chest and a very real problem.
Because he liked it. Too much.
…..
Oscar Keeps Losing.
Quiz after quiz, Lando keeps winning. Sometimes by one point. Sometimes two.
Oscar always looks annoyed.
Lando always grins and collects his reward: lunch, coffee, movie night, a walk through campus at midnight.
It doesn’t take a genius to see what’s happening.
…..
Oscar POV:
Okay. So maybe I let him win. Once.
It was one quiz. Just a tiny, almost imperceptible mistake. A swapped limit sign. Barely worth a mark.
He wouldn’t have noticed anyway. The man thinks tangent is just a vibe.
And yet he scored one point higher.
So I took him to that stupid cafe with the stupid fairy lights that he kept bringing up. He ordered something pink. With whipped cream. And drank it like he wasn’t self-conscious at all. Just smiled at me over the straw like he wasn’t slowly upending my entire structured, logically ordered worldview.
I told myself it was a one-time thing.
…..
But then he showed up for tutoring again.
Same dumb hoodie. Same infuriating grin. Sat down across from me and said, “Bet you can’t beat me next time either.”
I should’ve proved him wrong.
I should’ve humbled him.
Instead, I accidentally—on purpose—forgot to simplify a matrix.
And suddenly we’re at the campus movie night sharing popcorn and I hate romcoms, but Lando laughed so hard at the fake wedding scene that he nearly choked, and I… I think I stared too long.
……
I’m in trouble.
Because now I’m watching him more than the homework. Because his laugh makes me forget my train of thought. Because every time I lose a quiz, I gain another memory that I kind of, sort of—definitely—want to keep.
I told myself I was just buying time. Let him think he’s winning until finals. Then crush him and be done with it.
But then he showed up with a spare coffee. My order. No sugar. Extra foam.
“Thought you might need it,” he said, shrugging.
I didn’t even look at the grade that week. Just handed him the paper and asked where he wanted to go.
…..
It’s getting harder to pretend.
That I don’t like how he calls me “professor” when he’s being annoying.
That I don’t get flustered when he actually gets a concept and looks so proud of himself it makes my chest warm.
That I’m not hoping he never stops asking for another quiz. Another date.
Another reason to see me.
…..
I think I’m losing on purpose.
Not because I want to throw the bet.
But because I don’t want the streak—or this thing between us—to end.
And if that means letting him beat me at math, well…
I’ll allow it.
Just one more quiz.
(…Okay, maybe five.)
…..
Oscar is on his bed, pretending to study—really just highlighting the same sentence for the past ten minutes. Max is across the room, flipping a water bottle and not pretending he’s been watching Oscar squirm since their tutoring session ended an hour ago.
Finally, Max breaks the silence.
Max:
“So… how’d it happen?”
Oscar (without looking up):
“How did what happen?”
Max (grinning):
“You. Falling for Lando. I mean, it’s all very soft rom-com with questionable life choices. When did he short-circuit your brain?”
Oscar (horrified):
“I did not fall for Lando.”
Max:
“Mate. Half the campus knows you’re sabotaging your own quizzes to take that gremlin on dates.”
Oscar (sputtering):
“I am not sabotaging! And I—I'm not—you’re being weird. Why are you even asking?”
Max suddenly looks… too casual. Tosses the water bottle one more time. Misses.
Max (shrugging, almost sheepish):
“Maybe I’m in crisis over an Australian too.”
Oscar (blinking):
“…You mean—?”
Max (mumbling into his hoodie):
“Don’t say it out loud.”
Oscar (smirking):
“Daniel.”
Max (groans):
“God, you said it.”
Oscar just stares, the pieces clicking into place like a beautifully cruel math equation.
Oscar (grinning now):
“Oh my god. This is rich. You’re in love with Daniel Ricciardo. That’s why you kept tagging along to drama club rehearsals! You hate musicals!”
Max:
“He was singing, Oscar. What was I supposed to do, not fall in love?”
Oscar:
“You judged me for Lando!”
Max:
“You’re letting Lando Norris beat you at math. That’s a public humiliation.”
Oscar:
“You’re considering writing a poem for Daniel’s birthday. I found the drafts, Max.”
Max (deadpan):
“We never speak of that again.”
They sit in silence for a beat, mutual pining thick in the air.
Oscar:
“…Wanna suffer together?”
Max:
“Always.”
Cue mutual groans and the glow of laptop screens as one rewatches Lando’s Instagram stories and the other tries to delete a sonnet titled “Ode to the Ricciardo Smile.”
……
It comes after their fifteenth “date.”
The evening had been suspiciously sweet. They'd gone for ramen just off campus, Lando made a mess with his chopsticks (on purpose, Oscar was sure), and they'd walked back with bubble tea in hand and too many "accidental" brushes of shoulders to be coincidental.
Now, they were standing in front of Oscar’s dorm, the porch lamp flickering above them like it was trying to set the mood.
Lando rocks on his heels, hands in his pockets. He’s looking at Oscar like he’s something worth memorizing. And that alone should’ve been the warning sign.
Then he says it.
“You really think I’m dumb enough to believe I beat you at linear algebra?”
His voice is low—barely teasing, a little too sincere.
Like he’s been holding that line for weeks, just waiting for the right moment to drop it.
Oscar freezes halfway through pulling out his keys.
His heart does something stupid. Like a triple flip.
“I’m not,” Lando continues, stepping closer. “Not at this. You’ve been letting me win.”
Oscar flushes. He stares very hard at the doorknob.
“You can’t prove that,” he mutters.
Lando’s already close enough to steal the air between them.
“Then let’s make a new bet,” he says, voice soft with mischief.
Oscar finally turns, eyebrows raised. “What now? If I lose, you want me to marry you?”
Lando laughs. Not his usual sharp, chaotic laugh, but something softer, warmer—almost fond.
“Yes, but for now just kiss me.”, he says
Oscar’s heart does that dumb flip thing again.
He wants to say something clever. He really does. But all that comes out is:
“…You’re insufferable.”
Lando grins like he’s won the lottery. “You love it.”
Oscar sighs deeply—dramatically, as if he’s being forced into the greatest inconvenience of his life.
But then, still blushing, still glaring just a little, he grabs Lando by the collar and kisses him anyway.
It’s awkward at first. Slightly off-center. Bubble tea-sweet and warm.
But then Lando tilts his head, and Oscar’s fingers tighten in his hoodie, and something clicks into place.
The dorm light flickers again and the door opens and closes, and neither of them notice.
Later, Oscar will swear it was a tactical decision. A distraction. A way to throw Lando off before the next quiz.
Lando will never believe him.
(And Oscar, inconveniently, will never stop kissing him.)
…….
Oscar wakes up feeling too good still remembering the kiss. He tries to act normal when Max asks about his suspiciously good mood, but Max raises one eyebrow and says:
“You humming? At 7 a.m.? Did you win the lottery or just kiss a gremlin?”
Oscar nearly chokes on his cereal.
….
Later that semester, their professor hands back a test and mutters, “About time you two got together. The sexual tension was killing the seating chart.”
Oscar drops his pen. Lando winks.