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Chapter Text

Light presses in first—thin, merciless streaks that slip between the gaps of heavy curtains and settle across his eyelids like burning ribbons. Beneath it, a low hum — the distant pulse of Monaco outside, dulled by thick glass windows, vibrating faintly against the bones of the building. His head aches in a slow, tidal way, each throb cresting behind his eyes before pulling back, leaving a fizzing aftertaste of too much champagne and not enough water.

He inhales. The air tastes like stale bubbles and perfume. A shirt—his, from last night—sticks uncomfortably to his skin, wrinkled and half-unbuttoned, collar hanging loose and limp. Somewhere close by, sheets rustle. The weight beside him shifts. That’s when he notices the arm.

Flung casually across the expanse of white sheets, the hand curled near his hip. Long fingers, a faint constellation of freckles scattered across the back of the knuckles. And then the slow rise and fall of a stranger’s chest beneath the duvet—barely visible, but unmistakable.

Oscar goes very still. The world tilts.

He drags his gaze upward. Curled against the pillow is a boy—no, a man, maybe his age—face half-buried, curls a mess of dark tangles haloed by morning light. His lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. He’s wearing one of Oscar’s championship T-shirts, stretched loose across his shoulders as if it’s always belonged to him. There’s something infuriatingly peaceful about it.

Oscar Jack Piastri is a lot of things: fast, pragmatic, usually composed. But right now, his brain is cotton-stuffed and half on fire, and it takes a long, sluggish moment for the obvious to click into place.

The ring catches his eye first. It sits snug on his finger, plain gold, glinting faintly in the fractured light. He stares at it as if it might blink back.

Then the nightstand comes into focus. Two champagne flutes tipped on their sides, a crumpled sheet of official-looking paper, and a pen lying diagonally across it. He reaches for the paper with a numb kind of curiosity, fingers trembling against the edges.

The words hit him like cold water.

This certifies that

Oscar Jack Piastri and Lando Norris

Joined their hands and their hearts together and were united before God in marriage

on the 9th day of december 2025

at Chapelle de la Paix St. Honoré

by Valentin Bernard

in the presence of these witnesses

Logan Sargeant and Max Fewtrell

His stomach drops so hard it rattles his ribs. The phone goes off next, buzzing from somewhere tangled in the sheets, the vibration sharp and insistent like a trapped wasp. He fishes it out, blinking through the blur.

37 missed calls. 58 unread messages.

Mark. Mum. Dad. McLaren PR. Charles.

The top headline notification stares back at him in bold font:

WORLD CHAMPION OSCAR PIASTRI MARRIES MONACO STRANGER IN 3AM CEREMONY

Subheadline: Piastri celebrates WDC win with spontaneous wedding—sources confirm legal documentation filed.

The room tilts again, more violently this time. He stumbles out of bed, feet slapping cold against marble, one hand gripping the edge of the nightstand as though he might fall straight through the floor. His reflection in the mirror looks wrecked—eyes bloodshot, hair a bird’s nest, collar askew. The gold ring on his finger gleams mockingly.

He scrolls until Mark’s name blinks up at him. His thumb hesitates for the briefest moment, then he presses. It connects before the second ring.

“Oscar?” The sound of Mark’s voice cuts clean through the haze — steady, low, threaded with concern. It pulls something tight in his chest. “Yeah,” Oscar croaks, wincing at how rough he sounds. A beat of silence, and then softer, “How are you, mate?”

It’s almost his undoing. He swallows, throat sandpaper-dry. “Hungover,” he admits. “Confused. Possibly… married.” There’s the faintest rustle on the other end, like Mark dragging a hand down his face. “Right. I saw the headlines,” he says eventually.

“Listen—I’m with PR now. We’re pulling everything together for a meeting at ten. You’re not the first driver to do something bloody stupid after winning a championship, but you’ve definitely raised the bar.” Oscar sinks down onto the edge of the bed, fingers pressing into his temples. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t,” Mark cuts in, not unkindly. “I’m not angry, Oscar. Just… not exactly thrilled to wake up to this, you know? It’s a mess, but it’s fixable.” The steadiness in his voice is grounding, even as shame prickles hot under Oscar’s skin.

“I just—” he starts, then falters. “There’s a guy. In my bed. And a ring. And paperwork.”

“I gathered as much,” Mark replies dryly. “Alright. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to stay put. Don’t talk to the press, don’t step outside, don’t make any statements. We’ll get someone to get you and the mistery man within the hour, and we’ll handle it from there. Understood?”

“Yeah,” Oscar whispers.

“And Oscar?” Mark’s voice softens again, that fatherly note creeping back in. “We’ll sort this out. One step at a time. Just… try not to give me another heart attack before lunch, yeah?” Despite everything, a tiny, shaky laugh escapes him. “No promises.”

Mark sighs, the kind that says you’re a pain in my ass, kid, but you’re mine to look after. Then the line clicks dead.

Oscar lets the phone slide from his hand, the thud of it against the duvet sounding louder than it should in the quiet. He drops onto the edge of the mattress with a heavy exhale, elbows braced on his knees, fingers dragging through his hair until it sticks up in unruly tufts. The weight of everything presses down—not just the pounding behind his eyes but the crawling awareness that the world outside has already shifted, permanently and publicly.

He unlocks his phone again, thumbing into his inbox with the mechanical detachment of someone watching himself from a distance.

From: McLaren Communications

Subject: URGENT — Legal & PR Briefing

Oscar,

We’re assembling legal and PR for an emergency meeting this morning. Please bring any relevant documents with you (marriage certificate, personal ID, etc.).

A driver will collect you and your… spouse shortly before the meeting.

Do not leave the hotel. Do not make any statements. Do not engage with press or social media.

We’ll handle the rest.

The words are cool and clinical, crisis language dressed in polite fonts. He can almost hear the comms team typing it—half panic, half calculation.

Oscar drops the phone onto the bed and scrubs a hand over his face. He lets his gaze drift back to the other side of the mattress, to the stranger—Lando Norris, the certificate had declared—still tangled loosely in the sheets.

In the soft spill of morning light, he looks impossibly young. The curls are the first thing Oscar really notices—dark and messy, framing a face still relaxed in sleep. A faint tan stretches across his cheekbones, freckles scattered like careless brushstrokes. His lashes are ridiculous—long, curling, shadows flickering against skin with every slow breath. The borrowed championship T-shirt swallows him, slipping down one shoulder; beneath the duvet, a bare calf is hooked lazily around the sheet, foot twitching as though chasing some dream.

It’s absurd, Oscar thinks distantly. A stranger in his bed, wearing his shirt, ring on his finger, and half the internet already aware.

The city hums beyond the windows, camera shutters ticking faintly from below like the distant click of a metronome. He takes another breath—steadying, bracing. This is happening whether he’s ready or not.

Carefully, he leans forward and reaches out, fingers hovering for a moment above Lando’s shoulder before making contact. His touch is tentative, almost apologetic. “Hey,” he says quietly, voice still frayed at the edges. “Wake up.”

Lando stirs, a low noise caught in his throat. He blinks against the light, disoriented, curls sticking to his forehead. Oscar watches the confusion bloom slow and unguarded across his face—the furrow between his brows, the parted lips, the scrunch of his nose.

Oscar sits back slightly, pulse ticking under his skin. In a few seconds, he’s going to have to explain everything: the papers, the ring, the headlines, the meeting. The disaster they’ve somehow managed to orchestrate overnight. For now, he just watches the exact moment Lando Norris wakes to the world they’ve upended.

Lando wakes like someone surfacing too quickly. First a slow groan, muffled against the pillow. Then the lazy stretch of limbs beneath the duvet, a soft rustle of fabric. His lashes flutter against the light, squinting at the ceiling as if trying to piece together the shape of the room. He turns toward Oscar, and for a heartbeat there’s that slack, dreamy look people wear when they haven’t quite caught up with reality.

Then it hits him. His eyes widen—greenish-blue catching in the light—and confusion cracks through like a stone through glass. He bolts upright too fast, nearly tangling himself in the sheets, one hand dragging through his curls, the other clutching at the duvet like armor.

“Where—what—who are you?” His voice is hoarse, accent laced with sleep and panic. Oscar raises both hands in a small, placating gesture. “Okay. Yeah. I get that this is weird. I’m Oscar.”

Lando blinks. Once. Twice. Recognition flares belatedly. “Oscar Jack Piastri,” he says, almost accusingly. “You— you won the—” He gestures vaguely, eyes flicking to the discarded champagne flutes and then to the ring on Oscar’s finger. His voice climbs. “Oh my god.” Oscar exhales through his nose, a little helpless. “Yeah. That bit’s not… in question.”

Lando scrambles out of the sheets, feet hitting the floor. He’s still wearing the oversized championship T-shirt, the hem skimming the tops of his thighs. “This can’t be real,” he mutters, pacing toward the window like he might find an escape hatch in the glass. “I didn’t— we didn’t—” He spins back toward Oscar. “Did we sleep together?”

Oscar opens his mouth, then closes it. He rubs a hand over his face, grimacing. “I don’t—honestly? I don’t remember much after the afterparty. It’s all a bit… gone.” He gestures vaguely at his head. “But, uh, judging by the lack of clothing and the fact you’re in my shirt, I’d say… probably.” Lando flushes scarlet, cheeks blotchy under the morning light. He looks down at himself, then back up, mortified. “Brilliant,” he mutters.

Oscar reaches for the crumpled paper on the nightstand and smooths it over his knee. “That’s not the part I’m worried about.” He holds up the marriage certificate like a peace offering.

Lando leans forward, squinting. His eyes skate over the names—Oscar Jack Piastri, Lando Norris—the date, the signatures. He goes very still. “No,” he whispers, shaking his head slowly. “No, no, no. This is a prank. It has to be. Some kind of—like—fake prop—”

“It’s not,” Oscar says gently. “McLaren just emailed. There’s a meeting with legal and PR in a couple of hours. They want the documents. They’re sending someone to pick us up.” Lando stares at him like he’s spoken another language. “Us?”

“Yeah.” Oscar gestures between them. “Apparently this involves both of us.” For a moment, there’s just silence—the hum of the city, the faint tap of shutters outside, the soft rustle of sheets as Lando shifts his weight from foot to foot. He looks both ready to bolt and completely rooted to the spot.

“This is insane,” Lando finally says, voice cracking a little around the edges. “I don’t even remember the wedding.” Oscar huffs a humorless laugh. “Me neither.”

They stand there, two strangers in rumpled clothes, rings glinting in the sunlight, caught somewhere between panic and the absurdity of it all. Oscar watches Lando drag his hands down his face, fingers disappearing into his curls, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like bloody hell.

“Look,” Oscar says after a beat, softer now. “I know this is… a lot. But we should probably get ready. PR will have both our heads if we’re late.” Lando drops his hands slowly, meeting Oscar’s gaze for the first time since waking. There’s still confusion there, and fear, but also a flicker of something resigned. “Right,” he says faintly. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll just… get ready for the emergency wedding fallout meeting. Totally normal.” Oscar almost smiles, despite himself. “Welcome to F1, I guess.”

The silence that follows isn’t comfortable, but it isn’t hostile either—an awkward truce forged out of shared bewilderment. Two strangers, standing at the edge of a story neither of them meant to start.

Chapter Text

The city slides by in streaks of gold and steel, Monaco blurred into soft shapes through the tinted windows. Lando presses his forehead lightly against the glass, letting the cold bite at his skin, a flimsy anchor against the swell in his chest. His hands fidget uselessly in his lap. The SUV hums beneath them, smooth and expensive, like everything else about this morning. He risks a glance at the man sitting opposite.

Oscar Jack Piastri.

World Champion. Controlled. Sharp edges wrapped in quiet.

The first thing Lando notices, properly notices, is how put-together he looks. Even hungover, even on zero sleep, there’s a precision to him. Clean lines — sharp jaw, straight nose, dark brows drawn naturally but with intent. His hair is swooped carelessly to the side in that way that only ever looks effortless on people who are infuriatingly photogenic.

His eyes catch Lando off guard. Warm brown, clear even under the dull morning light, fixed out the window with the kind of calm that makes Lando’s own nerves feel loud and obvious. He’s lean — the kind of lean that comes from relentless discipline, not chance. Attractive, in that unapproachable way; the kind of person you notice across a room but never expect to actually speak to.

He’s exactly Lando’s type. Which makes the whole thing infinitely worse. Unreachable. Untouchable. And somehow… his husband. Legally.

Lando forces his gaze back to the passing streets before Oscar can catch him staring. His heart beats unevenly, half panic, half something else he doesn’t dare name.

----------

The night before comes back in flashes, half-formed reels spliced out of order.

It was supposed to be a gift. His mates had pooled together for an early Christmas present—cheap flights, one long weekend in Monaco, just the four of them. “Because you never do anything spontaneous,” they’d said, shoving the plane ticket into his hands like it was a golden ticket.

They’d wandered the city that evening, buzzing on cheap prosecco and tourist adrenaline. Then someone spotted a crowd spilling out of a low-lit courtyard, champagne flutes flashing like camera bulbs. “It’s Piastri’s party,” someone had whispered. “World Champion. McLaren.” They’d pushed him forward, all elbows and laughter. “Go on. Get a photo with him. You study media, right? You’ll never get a shot like this again.”

Inside, it was a different world. A subtle building that looked plain from the outside but opened into rooms of marble and soft lighting. People danced in curated clusters; champagne flowed like water. The music thudded through the floors. Lando remembered thinking it smelled expensive — like money and sweat and something citrus.

He’d seen Oscar across the room: surrounded, laughing, the sheen of someone who’d just conquered the world. Someone had shoved a glass into Lando’s hand. Someone else had dared him again. Just a photo. Just say hi.

And then—

—flashbulbs, laughter, bodies moving together, a hand on his back guiding him toward a car, the city smeared in streaks of orange.

Then nothing.

------------

The car pulls up outside a building so subtle he almost misses it—clean lines, mirrored glass, no loud branding. The kind of place rich people design to whisper their power.

A young woman is waiting at the curb. Early twenties, efficient smile, tablet clutched against her chest. She greets Oscar first—“Mr. Piastri”—then Lando with a polite, professional nod that makes him sit up a little straighter, as if good posture might disguise the panic still fizzing in his veins.

“This way, please,” she says, turning smartly on her heel. The corridors are a blur of polished floors and muted lighting. Lando trails behind Oscar, trying to keep up, the hush of the place pressing in on him.

They’re led into a conference room that hums faintly with the tension of too many people up too early. Zak Brown sits at the head of the table, Andrea Stella at his right. Along the sides, a small army of PR, legal, and comms people—laptops open, phones on silent, eyes sharp.

Lando’s brain flatlines.

He stands there for a beat too long, blinking at the sea of faces. Someone gestures to the empty chairs. Oscar takes his seat with the ease of someone used to this environment. Lando follows, stiff and uncertain. “Would you like a coffee, water, anything before we begin?” someone from PR asks, voice bright. “Um.” His throat is dry. “Coffee, please.” The woman next to the door disappears. Lando grips the edge of the table like it might keep him upright.

Zak clears his throat. The sound is sharp in the quiet room, pulling everyone’s focus to him.
“Oscar. Lando.” His voice is even, but there’s a weight to it—the specific strain of someone who’s had to reroute an entire media day before his first coffee. “I think we all know why we’re here. We’re going to keep this straightforward.”

Lando sits rigidly beside Oscar, both hands locked around a steaming cup he hasn’t dared sip yet. His palms are damp, the ceramic slippery. The room feels too bright, the air too thin. A dozen faces stare back at him—Zak at the head, Andrea Stella poised like an anchor beside him, a small army of PR and legal scattered down the sides of the table. Everyone looks alert. Awake. Strategic. He, meanwhile, still feels half submerged in the night before.

Andrea folds his hands neatly. “First, congratulations on your championship, Oscar,” he says, tone warm but careful. “Not the way we expected to celebrate this morning, but—here we are.”

A ripple of polite laughter circles the table, brittle around the edges. Lando stares down at the wood grain, cheeks burning. He wishes, absurdly, that the chair would swallow him whole.

The legal team takes over next. A woman in a navy blazer leans forward, tablet in hand. Her voice is clipped, efficient, like she’s reading from a well-rehearsed script. “At approximately 3:12 a.m. local time, you were married at a registered civil chapel in Monaco,” she begins. “The documentation has been filed with local authorities. It is legally binding under Monegasque law.”

Lando’s stomach swoops. Legally binding. Those words stick.

“An annulment is possible,” another lawyer adds smoothly, “but would require public filings and appearances in court. This could increase media scrutiny significantly.” Oscar shifts minutely beside him, but his face remains unreadable. Lando sneaks a sideways glance. The other man sits straight-backed, fingers resting loosely against the table, his expression composed. Almost bored. It’s the kind of quiet control that makes Lando’s own nerves feel louder, messier.

“Alternatively,” the woman continues, “a temporary arrangement could be established. The marriage would remain legal for the time being, but there would be a mutual understanding to dissolve it at a later date, quietly, once public interest has waned.”

A pause. PR picks up seamlessly where legal leaves off, voices warm but rehearsed, like hosts guiding them through a planned itinerary. “The story is already circulating,” a PR man says, sliding a stack of printed headlines toward them. The top one reads: World Champion Ties the Knot in 3AM Ceremony. “We need to act quickly to control the narrative. Our priorities are Oscar’s image, the team’s reputation, and your privacy, Lando.”

Lando startles a little at hearing his name in this sterile, professional cadence.

“A public narrative,” the woman at the head of PR continues smoothly. “Two young people caught up in the excitement. No regrets. Deciding to see where it goes. It plays well with Oscar’s age, his fanbase, and—if handled correctly—can be contained.”

Someone else chimes in, rapid-fire: “Joint appearances. Coordinated messaging. Limited interviews. A controlled social media strategy.”

The words crash over Lando like waves. He tries to follow the current but keeps slipping beneath it, everything blurring into the low hum of strategic language. He’s not fully awake. His head is still thick with the night before, with jet lag and bad coffee and the faint smell of Oscar’s cologne clinging to his borrowed hoodie.

Zak leans forward, forearms braced on the table. “Look,” he says plainly, cutting through the noise. “This isn’t ideal. But it’s manageable. We’ve handled worse. The cleanest route is to own the narrative. We present it as spontaneous. Romantic. You stay married for the season. Then, if you want to quietly part ways, we handle it.”

Oscar speaks for the first time, his voice even and low. “If that keeps it contained, I’m in,” he says. “A few months. We play along, keep it clean.” It’s said so simply. No hesitation. Like agreeing to a press conference.

All eyes swing to Lando. The attention hits him like a spotlight. His grip on the coffee tightens. His palms are slick; his heart is hammering so hard he’s sure someone must hear it. He tries to mirror Oscar’s posture—back straight, chin up—but it feels like an ill-fitting costume.

He thinks of London. His cramped student flat. His media law professor’s stern face. The unfinished essay sitting on his laptop. He’s supposed to be on a flight home tomorrow. He’s supposed to be worrying about deadlines, not marital status.

“I—” His voice cracks. He swallows, tries again. “Yeah. Okay. Whatever… works.”

The PR woman beams like a puzzle piece just clicked into place. “Great. We’ll draft the initial statement. No posts until we say so. We’ll coordinate appearances and send comms briefs by this afternoon. Our goal is to make this feel natural but polished.”

Lando nods mutely, heat crawling up his neck. Natural but polished. He’s never been less either of those things in his life.

The coffee finally makes it to his lips. It’s scalding, bitter, his hands shaking against the porcelain. Across the table, someone is already typing notes. Someone else is scheduling interviews. The machine has started, and he’s been dropped into the middle of it without warning.

Out of the corner of his eye, Oscar looks at him. Not mocking. Just steady, like a fixed point in a storm. For reasons he can’t name, that single look stops him from shattering completely.

Breathe, he tells himself. Just breathe

The meeting wraps not with a bang but with the smooth, practiced rhythm of people who already know what comes next. Chairs scrape softly against polished floors. Papers are stacked. Someone’s already coordinating press embargoes through a headset by the time Zak dismisses them.

Lando can feel it building in his chest — a tightness, a heat, the walls of the room tilting slightly inward. His hands won’t stop shaking.

“I’m—sorry,” he blurts, half-standing, the words scraping raw at the edges. “I just—need a minute.”

A few heads turn, polite, curious. PR nods with professional understanding. Oscar watches him without a word. Lando doesn’t wait for permission; he slips out the door and into the hallway like someone gasping for air.

The corridor is quiet in that heavy, insulated way expensive buildings always are. He presses his back against the cool wall, fingers digging into the fabric over his ribs. His breath comes too fast—short, uneven pulls that won’t stack properly in his lungs.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to spend a weekend drinking cheap prosecco with his mates, get a photo with a world champion, fly home. Finish his coursework. Hand in his paper. Not this. Not married. Not managed by PR teams. Not sitting in rooms where people discuss his life like a media strategy.

His vision blurs at the edges. The hallway narrows. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to count. In. Out. In. Out. His body won’t listen.

“Hey.”

The voice is soft, low, steady. Oscar steps into the hallway like he’s been there all along, door closing gently behind him. No entourage. No manager. Just him.

He doesn’t crowd. He leans against the opposite wall, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, gaze level but unintrusive. “Breathe,” he says quietly. “Nice and slow. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

Lando tries. The first few attempts hitch. Then gradually, the air starts to slide in a little deeper, like something uncoiling inside his chest. The pounding in his ears dulls to a manageable thrum.

Oscar doesn’t say much else. He doesn’t fill the silence. He just waits—anchored, patient, like he’s done this before. His eyes are steady. When Lando finally drags in a fuller breath, shoulders trembling on the exhale, Oscar steps forward just enough to rest a hand on his arm. Not gripping. Just warm, grounding.

“We’ll sort it out,” he says softly, almost like a promise. “One thing at a time.” Lando swallows hard. His throat aches. “I don’t even—” His voice cracks. He shakes his head. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to right now.” The squeeze at his arm is brief, firm. A pulse of reassurance. “Come back in when you’re ready. They’ll keep spinning the wheels with or without us.” Then, as quietly as he came, Oscar steps back, slips through the conference room door, and is gone—back into the hum of legal jargon and PR strategy.

Lando stays where he is, spine against the wall, the faint echo of Oscar’s touch lingering like the last steady thing in a day that’s already spun off its axis.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t feel like much changes, not for him.

Oscar wakes in the same bed, runs on the same winter program Artturi’s mapped out: lighter cardio, simulator sessions, a few sponsor calls. His diet’s looser this time of year — toast with butter instead of eggs, a square of chocolate if he wants it. He’s used to the rhythm of downtime, the muted pulse between seasons.

But for Lando, everything changes. Oscar watches it happen almost at a distance, as if observing through glass. The kid — twenty, maybe twenty-one, curls always half in his eyes — drops out of in-person uni classes with a clipped email, promising to finish assignments remotely. He packs up his flat in London in two frantic days, friends helping him shove his life into boxes. Then a car takes him to the airport, and from there to Monaco, to Oscar’s apartment overlooking the harbour.

Oscar stands by as bags are carried in. A desk lamp, a stack of media textbooks, trainers scuffed at the heel. Lando lingers near the door like a guest afraid to overstay.

“Spare room’s down the hall,” Oscar says, gesturing. He doesn’t know what else to offer. Lando nods, curls bouncing, his face caught between exhaustion and awe. The apartment is all clean lines, pale wood, neat surfaces — a space designed for someone who spends most of his time elsewhere. No clutter, no photographs, no stray mugs in the sink. Compared to Lando’s cramped student digs, it must look like another world entirely.

PR sends them a schedule the very next morning. A slim folder, bullet points printed in precise font.

Joint posts — weekly.

Brunch at Café du Port — Tuesdays.

Christmas gala — Friday. Then at the Piastri’s.

Charity photo op — TBA.

Oscar reads it once, then sets it aside. Manageable. Lando reads it like it’s a death sentence. His knee bounces beneath the table, thumb worrying at the edge of the paper. “You’ll get used to it,” Oscar tells him, not unkindly.mLando just gives a tight little laugh, eyes flicking away. “Right. Totally normal to schedule brunch for PR value.”

The brunch is harmless enough The café is one of those picture-perfect Monaco spots designed for soft morning light and quiet wealth. Small iron tables line the pavement, white linen napkins folded like origami swans, cappuccinos arriving with delicate swirls dusted in cocoa. It’s mid-morning; the harbour hums softly in the distance, yachts bobbing like lazy creatures in their slips.

It’s also full of cameras. Not close, but lingering — telephoto lenses just far enough away to feign disinterest. Oscar is used to it. He knows where they are, where to angle his face, how to lean back casually like none of it matters. Lando is… not used to it.

He sits across from Oscar, shoulders drawn up, eyes flicking nervously from camera to passerby. His fingers tap the side of his cup, betraying the jitter beneath his attempted smile. It’s not bad acting — he’s trying — but every tiny movement gives him away. Oscar watches him over the rim of his coffee, not judging, just seeing. That’s when Charles appears.

“Eh!” Charles’ voice cuts through the quiet like sunshine, all easy warmth and deliberate surprise. “Look who I’ve just happened to run into!” Lando startles slightly, half-turning in his seat. Charles is already leaning in, kissing Oscar on both cheeks, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Congratulations, mate,” Charles says with that lopsided grin that seems perpetually on the verge of mischief. Then his gaze slides to Lando, sharp and bright. “And you must be the famous husband, oui?”

Lando freezes like a deer in headlights. His mouth opens. Closes. A small, bewildered noise escapes. Oscar doesn’t sigh — but only just. Under the table, his hand finds Lando’s thigh, a firm, steady press. Not possessive. Just grounding. He feels the slight jolt of surprise through the fabric, then the way Lando’s shoulders loosen by a fraction.

“Yeah,” Oscar says dryly. “He’s still getting used to the title.” Charles laughs, eyes crinkling. “I imagine! You should see the tabloids, mon dieu. They’re having a field day.”

Lando flushes scarlet. “I… yeah. It’s, um—”

“Overwhelming?” Charles supplies cheerfully. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. Maybe.”

They joke for a few minutes, light teasing back and forth — Charles has always been good at finding the easy rhythm of conversation. Lando doesn’t quite find his footing, but he doesn’t trip either. When Charles finally excuses himself with a cheeky salute, Lando exhales like he’s just walked off stage.

Oscar withdraws his hand, pretending not to notice the way Lando glances at him afterwards — like the touch is still echoing.

On the way home, Monaco gleams cold and bright through the car windows. PR had briefed them earlier: Christmas in Australia. Photos with the family. Natural warmth, homecoming narrative.

Oscar delivers the news as casually as possible. “They want us in Melbourne for Christmas. We’ll fly out in about two weeks.”

Lando’s reaction is subtle but instant: a flash in his eyes, the slight tightening of his mouth, fingers drumming nervously on his knee. He looks like he wants to protest — to say something about family, or home, or how none of this is what he expected — but the words never leave his throat. He just nods once, tightly, and turns his gaze back to the window.

Oscar doesn’t push. But later, when he passes the hallway on the way to bed, he notices light still spilling from the crack beneath Lando’s door. It’s well past midnight. The next night, too. And the next. He doesn’t say anything. But he notices.

The PR marriage agreement arrives a week later, slipped under the apartment door in a neat, heavy envelope that smells faintly of printer ink and inevitability.

It’s late — the kind of quiet hour where the city outside has stilled into low, humming streetlights and distant waves against the harbour. They sit side by side at the kitchen counter, papers spread between them like a polite weapon. The overhead lights cast sharp shadows across the marble, highlighting the legal language in stark black lines.

Oscar reads through the paragraphs again, though he already knows what they say. Expectations. Coordinated appearances. Confidentiality clauses. A line about “no romantic obligations,” clinical in its phrasing. Another about “duration to be agreed upon and revisited after the 2024 season,” as if marriage can be pencilled in and reevaluated like a sponsorship deal.

Lando doesn’t say anything. He just sits with his elbows braced against the counter, curls falling forward as he scans the page with unfocused eyes.

Oscar’s gaze lingers a little too long. He notices things now that he didn’t, at first — the smudged dark circles under Lando’s eyes that never quite fade, the way his curls have lost their easy bounce, duller from too many restless nights. The way his eyelids hang heavy, like someone carrying more than they expected.

He doesn’t know what to do with any of it. Not his world. Not his job. But it sits in the back of his mind all the same.

They sign in silence. Oscar goes first — his signature is quick, clean, the practiced efficiency of someone who’s signed dozens of contracts before breakfast.

When Lando picks up the pen, his grip is a little tighter than it should be. The nib drags slightly as he scrawls his name, the ink catching on the paper like it’s resisting him.

When they’re done, the stack is collected neatly, clipped together. Two signatures binding two lives together for reasons neither of them asked for.

Their eyes meet, briefly — a flicker, nothing more. But it’s enough. No words. Just the low hum of the fridge, the soft creak of the floor as Oscar shifts his weight. They are married. Not by love. Not by choice. But by paper, cameras, and circumstance.

Oscar clears his throat, pushing the pen a little farther away, as if to mark the end of it. “Dinner?” he asks casually, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Lando nods without looking up. He’s still staring at the papers like they might rearrange themselves into something that makes sense.

Oscar turns away first, but the image of him — small under the kitchen light, curls dulled, eyes tired — follows him down the hall like a shadow he can’t shake.

Chapter Text

Lando isn’t sure when the cameras stopped being background noise and started feeling like a low-grade fever under his skin.

Their first joint media appearance is supposed to be “easy.” Just a short segment — a pre-Christmas fluff piece in Monaco: a few posed shots, a couple of light questions, nothing heavy. Soft launch the narrative, PR had called it.

They arrive on the rooftop terrace just before noon. It’s crisp but bright, sunlight bouncing off the harbour below like liquid silver. A handful of journalists are already in place, coats pulled tight against the sea breeze, microphones balanced on their knees. Behind them, cameras idle like watchful animals.

Lando tugs at his collar for the third time in as many minutes. The shirt PR gave him looks fine but feels like a costume, stiff at the seams. His mic pack digs into his hip, and his hands keep wanting to do something — anything — other than rest awkwardly in his lap.

Oscar looks maddeningly composed beside him. Legs crossed, shoulders loose, that easy half-smile he wears in interviews perfectly in place. He’s done this a hundred times before; his body remembers what to do even if his brain doesn’t care.

Lando is very aware of every single camera pointed at them. The interviewer—a woman with sharp eyeliner and a warmer smile—leans forward. “First of all, congratulations to you both,” she says, voice pitched for broadcast. “What a whirlwind it’s been, huh? World Champion and now newlyweds. How are you feeling?”

Oscar answers without missing a beat. “Thank you,” he says smoothly. “It’s been a crazy few weeks, yeah. Obviously the championship was a dream, and… well, this wasn’t exactly part of the plan, but it’s been—fun.”

A light ripple of laughter. The perfect soundbite.

Lando nods quickly, a beat behind. “Yeah. Fun,” he echoes, voice cracking slightly on the word. He tries for a smile; it lands somewhere closer to startled.

The interviewer’s grin sharpens just a touch. “So tell us—how did it happen? We’ve all seen the headlines, but we want to hear it from you. The real story.” Lando’s pulse stutters. This is the big one — the question PR spent hours drilling them on. Keep it simple, romantic-but-not-too-romantic, make it sound spontaneous.

Oscar slides into it seamlessly, like he’s pressing play on a script. “We actually met at the British Grand Prix earlier this year,” he begins, hands gesturing lightly, voice smooth as glass. “Lando was there with his uni, doing a media project, and he asked if I’d help out. We did a quick interview, and… we just sort of kept in touch after that.”

It’s all fake. Every word of it. But the way Oscar delivers the line — steady eye contact with the interviewer, a faint smile that looks just shy of private — makes it sound like the most natural thing in the world.

Lando nods quickly, maybe too quickly. “Yeah, um. I… kind of pestered him with questions,” he says, attempting a self-deprecating laugh. It lands shakily, but the reporters eat it up.

Oscar continues smoothly, “We started texting, then hanging out when our schedules lined up, and after the championship… well, we ended up at the same afterparty. One thing led to another.”

He cuts Lando a quick glance — a cue. Lando swallows. “And suddenly we were standing in front of someone with a clipboard and rings,” he blurts before he can stop himself. The reporters laugh, cameras clicking like a soft round of applause.

Oscar’s gaze flicks toward him, quick and precise — not annoyed, just a reminder to keep to the rhythm. Lando’s cheeks are hot.

“It, uh, wasn’t exactly planned,” he adds, voice wobbling slightly, “but I don’t regret it.” It’s the PR line, word for word. Stilted in his mouth, but apparently good enough.

Oscar steps in to finish, steadying the narrative like a professional racer correcting a slide. “Yeah. It wasn’t some secret romance we were hiding away — just two people who got caught up in the moment. Honestly, it’s been… good. We’re figuring it out.”

And then he threads his fingers through Lando’s under the table, lifting their joined hands casually onto his knee. The cameras love it. Shutters fire like distant fireworks.

Lando’s breath catches, just for a second. The warmth of Oscar’s palm against his steadies something inside him he didn’t know needed steadying. He knows it’s for the cameras — a prop, part of the act — but it works. For the first time during the interview, his smile doesn’t feel entirely forced.

The woman nods, clearly pleased. “And you’re both living together in Monaco now?”

“Yeah,” Oscar replies. “It’s made sense logistically. We’re both busy, and it keeps things simple.”

Lando’s throat is dry. “Simple,” he repeats, though nothing about this is simple. He catches sight of one of the cameras zooming in and forces his shoulders down.

A different journalist chimes in. “How are you finding life here, Lando? Quite the change from being a student, I imagine.”

Every muscle in his body locks. He wasn’t prepared forpersonal. “Uh—I mean—yeah,” he stammers. “It’s… a lot. But nice. Different. Warmer than London.” It earns a polite laugh. He exhales shakily, wishing the ground would open up.

Oscar doesn’t let go. His hand stays wrapped around Lando’s, their fingers still threaded together in Oscars lap. His thumb moves in slow, absent arcs across Lando’s skin — not for the cameras now, but steady and grounding. Lando’s hands are larger, swallowing Oscar’s easily, but somehow it’s Oscar’s touch that steadies him. The quiet pressure is enough to pull his thoughts back into his body, to make the noise fade just a little.

The rest of the questions are softer. Holiday plans (they both stick to the PR script: “Christmas in Australia, spending time with family, relaxing”). Their favourite things about each other (Oscar says “his energy” with a practiced smile; Lando mutters “he’s calm” and flushes when the reporters coo).

By the time the cameras are packed away, Lando’s jaw aches from forcing a smile, his palms are damp, and his head is pounding. Oscar, by contrast, looks like he’s just finished a light jog.

Afterwards, when they’re finally alone in the car, he exhales shakily, shoulders slumping. “That was awful,” he mutters, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. Oscar hums noncommittally. “You did fine.”

“I nearly forgot my own name.”

“Still fine,” Oscar replies, the corner of his mouth twitching. “First one’s always the worst. After a few, you stop noticing the cameras.”

Lando stares at him like he’s speaking another language. “How do you do this all the time?”

Oscar shrugs, looking out the window. “You get used to it. And if you don’t, you fake it really well.” There’s no judgement in his tone. Just quiet fact. And weirdly, it helps.

They start talking more, after that. Not about real things — not about the contract, or Christmas in Australia, or what happens when this ends — but about little, meaningless things. Music. Food. The ridiculous name of the café on the corner. Their worst PR photos. It’s not deep. But it fills the silences that used to hang sharp between them.

Oscar has a way of speaking that’s both dry and oddly grounding. He’s quieter than Lando expected, but when he does speak, it sticks. Lando finds himself laughing more than he thought he would, even if it’s still awkward, even if he’s exhausted.

And he is exhausted.

His deadlines haven’t gone away. His inbox is a graveyard of ignored messages. His phone buzzes every night with missed calls from his mum and friends he hasn’t had time to explain any of this to. He lies awake more often than not, staring at the ceiling of the spare room, wondering how his life got flipped like a coin in the space of one drunken night.

Oscar doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask. But he starts noticing in small ways — sliding a coffee toward Lando on mornings when his eyelids droop, wordlessly taking the lead in interviews so Lando can breathe.

It’s not kindness exactly. It’s… accommodation. A quiet adjustment. And it works. For now.

Chapter Text

The apartment is quiet again. It always is.

Monaco mornings are bright in that way that feels artificial, light bouncing off glass and marble until everything glows too sharp. The kitchen still smells faintly of the coffee Oscar made before heading out to training. By the time Lando drags himself from bed, the flat already feels like someone else’s life — perfectly arranged, perfectly silent, waiting for him to fall in step.

He eats breakfast alone at the counter. Opens his laptop. Stares at the essay on his screen until the cursor starts to blur. Checks his emails. Scrolls through deadlines. Nothing sticks.

He was supposed to submit that draft last night. He missed it. Not because he forgot, but because there was a last-minute brunch thing and then a shoot that ran over, and by the time they got back he was too exhausted to string sentences together. His inbox has already flagged the missed submission in a polite, firm reminder. Please upload as soon as possible. He starts typing out an apology about time zones, deletes it. Rewrites. Deletes again.

There’s nothing else on his schedule today. No PR appearances, no cameras. So he works. It’s the only thing he can control. He moves between tabs with grim determination, firing off overdue essays, early submissions, long apology emails to professors who have been understanding so far but whose patience he can feel thinning.

By mid-afternoon, his eyes sting from staring at the screen, his wrists ache, and his brain hums with static. His phone keeps buzzing beside him:

Max — You’ve vanished. Call me.

Mum — three voice notes.

His siblings — memes and check-ins, the easy chaos of home.

He scrolls through them, thumb hovering over reply, then locks the phone without sending anything. He tells himself he’ll respond later. He doesn’t.

The apartment is too quiet. The kind of quiet that crawls under your skin.

By late afternoon, it catches up with him. His chest feels heavy, breaths hitching a little. He ignores it, forcing himself through one more set of edits. The blinking cursor feels accusatory. The air starts to thin, somehow, even though the windows are wide and the city outside gleams like a postcard.

His heart beats faster. Too fast. His fingers are slick with sweat. He stands abruptly, chair scraping across the floor, and paces toward the hallway.

Not now. Keep moving.

The tightness doesn’t ease. It spreads — chest, throat, fingertips. His vision pulses black at the edges. His breath comes shorter, sharper. He presses a hand to his sternum like he can keep himself together by force, but it’s already slipping.

He slides down the wall before he realizes he’s doing it, back hitting cool plaster, knees pulled up tight. His breath comes in ragged, gasping bursts. His throat catches on sobs that won’t go down clean, and then another, and another, until he’s choking on them. Tears streak hot down his cheeks. He curls in instinctively, making himself small, as if shrinking could make the pressure stop.

Somewhere through the static—

“Lando?”

Oscar’s voice. Footsteps.

“Lando.” Closer now.

Then he’s there. Strong hands find his upper arms, steadying him as his body trembles against the wall. Lando tries to focus, blinking through blurred vision. Oscar doesn’t hesitate. He crouches, slides an arm around Lando’s middle, and gently pulls him back against his chest, arranging them on the floor like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Lando’s back hits solid warmth; Oscar’s chest is firm behind him, rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. One arm loops around his torso, broad palm pressing against the frantic movement of his ribs, the other anchoring lightly at his shoulder. Oscar lowers his head until his mouth is near Lando’s ear.

“Breathe,” he whispers. The word hums against Lando’s skin, soft but steady. “You’re okay. Right here. In. Out. Just like that.”

He keeps talking—not full sentences, just a low stream of grounding words, rhythm and warmth more than meaning. The sound and the pressure of his arm work together, quieting the jagged edges of panic. The thud of Oscar’s heartbeat against Lando’s back gives him something to match, something real to hold onto.

Slowly, painfully, the frantic staccato of his breaths begins to even out. His vision stops pulsing at the edges. The numbness in his hands fades. The tears still come, silent and hot, but the world stops tilting.

Oscar doesn’t move. He doesn’t fill the silence with questions or platitudes. He just stays there, warm and solid, breathing for both of them until Lando can breathe on his own again.

And then, when his head clears enough to register how he’s being held—his back pressed to Oscar’s chest, Oscar’s arm tight across him, his head resting against the hollow of Oscar’s shoulder—something inside him jerks.

He pushes himself forward, out of the hold, palms flat on the floor as he drags in a shaky breath. “I’m fine,” he says too quickly. It’s a lie; they both hear it.

Oscar lets him go immediately, hands lifting in a quiet gesture of surrender. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”

Lando wipes at his face, breath still uneven. “I just—” He waves vaguely toward the wall, as if that explains anything.

Oscar leans back on his hands, watching him with that same composed exterior that Lando is starting to realize isn’t as impenetrable as it looks. “You don’t have to explain.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” Lando blurts, not out of anger but sheer exhaustion. “None of this should—” He breaks off, rubbing his temples. Oscar’s mouth tightens. “Yeah. Well. None of this was exactly planned.”

It’s not sharp. There’s no real bite in it. Just two boys sitting on a kitchen floor, drained, words worn down by the day.

Lando lets out a shaky laugh, somewhere between frustration and disbelief. “You’re really bad at comforting people.”

Oscar huffs out a breath that almost—almost—sounds like a laugh. “You’re not exactly easy work.”

It’s not a fight, not really. Just frayed nerves brushing against each other. And for the first time, it feels less like they’re on opposite sides of a mess, and more like they’re both standing in the middle of it, equally lost.

They don’t talk about the panic after that. Not directly.

The sharp edges of adrenaline have dulled to a kind of shared exhaustion — not heavy, just quiet. The sun has slipped low behind the buildings, painting the kitchen in long orange streaks. Neither of them suggests going out.

Lando moves first. He pushes himself up off the floor, rubbing at his eyes, and heads toward the kitchen counter like it’s muscle memory. “I’ll make dinner,” he says, voice still a little raw but steadier now.

Oscar watches from his spot on the floor for a beat, then follows, stretching out his legs as he stands. He doesn’t argue.

Dinner ends up being simple: pasta with what’s left in the fridge, thrown together with the distracted efficiency of someone who’s done it a hundred times before in a student flat. Garlic hisses in a pan; sauce bubbles. The smell fills the apartment, warm and grounding in a way neither of them say out loud.

While Lando stirs, Oscar disappears into the cupboards and returns with two mugs of cocoa — not the instant kind, but made on the stove, milk still steaming, faintly sweet. He slides one across the counter toward Lando with a little half-shrug.

“Didn’t know you could make this,” Lando says, eyebrows raised.

Oscar’s mouth quirks. “Mum’s recipe.”

They eat perched across from each other at the kitchen island, feet nudging the same stretch of tile. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortable. The earlier tension has thinned into something easier, looser. They talk in little bursts — about Oscar’s training session, Lando’s coursework, the weather, a headline one of them saw earlier. None of it heavy. Just two boys sharing space.

At some point, Lando sets his mug down and hesitates. “Hey,” he starts, fiddling with the edge of the sleeve of his hoodie. “Would you… want to meet my best friend sometime? I mean, not meet meet — like, over a call. Max. He keeps asking about you.” Oscar looks at him, surprised. “Yeah. Sure. If you want.”

Lando nods quickly, a touch of relief in his shoulders. “Yeah. I just thought… maybe we should actually let each other in on our lives a bit more. If we’re stuck like this.” Oscar’s reply is simple, but something in his eyes softens. “Yeah. I reckon that makes sense. If you want I can set something up with Logan as well.” Lando hums in respons.

The conversation meanders after that. They clear the dishes together without assigning roles — one rinsing, one stacking — and it’s strangely easy. Comfortable.

Later, they fall into their evening routines. Lando disappears into the guest room, brushing his teeth to the faint sound of water running down the hall. Oscar pads into his own room. For a moment, just before he closes his door, he glances down the corridor toward the guest room — a flicker of something thoughtful crossing his face.

Lando lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. The apartment feels different tonight. Not quite home, but not quite foreign either. The panic feels distant now, tucked away in the quiet rhythm of shared cocoa and easy conversation.

For the first time since he arrived, he doesn’t feel entirely alone.

Chapter Text

The studio lights are hotter than they look. Not unbearable, just enough to make his collar feel too tight, his palms slick against the armrests of the interview chair. Another media stop. Another carefully curated “slice of their life” PR segment. He can do these in his sleep now.

Lando sits beside him, legs tucked under the chair, hands twisted together in his lap. He’s wearing the jumper PR picked out for him — soft grey, sleeves too long, the kind that makes him look younger than he is. There’s a nervous energy rolling off him in quiet waves. Oscar feels it without looking.

The interviewer is warm, practiced. She leans in, voice pitched for TV. “Oscar, congratulations on the championship — and of course, on your marriage. How has life changed since the big day?”

He answers automatically. “It’s been busy,” he says with a controlled smile. “Different. But good. We’re both figuring it out.”

Lando nods along, a fraction behind, as usual. His smile is small but real.

The questions start light — favourite breakfasts, first impressions, quirks. Oscar fields most of them with polished ease, the way he’s always done. Lando adds occasional, hesitant details that make the room laugh softly. It’s fine. Manageable.

Then the interviewer tilts her head. “So who’s the messy one at home?”

Lando laughs before Oscar can answer. “Me, probably. He’s so organised — I left my books on the counter once and he looked at me like I’d set fire to the place.”

The room laughs. Oscar does too. And then — maybe it’s the rhythm of the interview, maybe he’s tired — the words slip out too easily.

“Honestly,” he says, tone a touch too dry, “it’s like living with a golden retriever who’s never seen furniture before.”

The laughter hits instantly. Cameramen snort behind their lenses. The interviewer claps her hands together.

Oscar smiles automatically — but in the half-second that follows, he sees it. Lando’s face. The laugh still on his lips, but his eyes flick down, just briefly. Something folds inwards. It’s quick. Most people would miss it. Oscar doesn’t.

The interview rolls on, his voice steady, but the moment sticks like a pebble in his shoe.

By the time they’re in the car, the clip is already online.

“LIKE LIVING WITH A GOLDEN RETRIEVER 😂”

“Piastri ROASTS his husband mid-interview 😬”

“Did you see Lando’s face?”

“#PiastriApologise trending”

Lando scrolls in silence, thumb tight against the edge of his phone. The glow from the screen catches the tired set of his mouth.

Oscar starts, “Lando—”

“I’m fine,” Lando cuts in, too quickly. He shoves the phone into his pocket and turns to the window. His reflection stares back at him in the glass, distant.

The rest of the ride is quiet. No music. No PR chatter. Just the low hum of the engine and the weight of the silence between them.

Back at the apartment, Lando disappears into the kitchen. When Oscar follows, he finds him standing by the counter in the half-light, stirring sugar into a mug like he’s trying to dissolve the whole day.

Oscar leans against the doorframe. “About earlier—”

“You were funny,” Lando says, not looking up. His voice is flat.

Oscar’s stomach twists. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lando replies. The spoon hits the edge of the mug with a quiet clink. “You still said it.”

He picks up his tea and walks past without waiting for a response, the smell of peppermint trailing behind him. His shoulders are hunched in a way that has nothing to do with posture.

Oscar stays where he is long after he’s gone. The studio lights were hot, but this feels worse: a cold, creeping awareness that he’s the one who cracked something open.

His phone buzzez against the counter. PR, again. He flips it over face-down. His thumb hovers above the home screen for a long moment before he scrolls down and taps a familiar name.

The line rings twice.

“Mate,” Logan’s voice comes through, rough with sleep. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Oscar exhales through his nose. “Yeah. Sorry. Needed to talk.”

“Christ. This better be good. You sound like my dad calling about mortgage rates.”

Oscar lets out a quiet huff that isn’t quite a laugh. “It’s about… the marriage thing.”

“Wow,” Logan says, instantly more awake. “We’re finally talking about it. Go on then. What happened?”

Oscar leans against the counter, one hand gripping the edge. “I said something stupid in an interview. Made a joke. It blew up. He looked—” He cuts himself off. “Doesn’t matter. PR’s on it.”

“Doesn’t matter?” Logan repeats, sharp now. “Mate, half my feed is clips of you calling him a golden retriever.”

“It was a joke,” Oscar says flatly. “People laughed.”

“Yeah. Except him.”

Oscar doesn’t answer. His grip on the counter tightens.

Logan sighs. “You know, when you called me at two in the morning, I thought maybe you’d finally realised something.”

Oscar frowns. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Logan says. “That you accidentally married some kid and dragged him into the most intense media circus in motorsport? That he didn’t sign up for this the way you did?”

Oscar bristles. “I didn’t exactly sign up to marry him either.”

“Sure,” Logan says, unimpressed. “Difference is, you already lived here. You had the career. The PR team. The structure. He had… uni. A desk lamp. A life he had to pack up in two days because you got married in a drunken haze.”

Oscar opens his mouth. Closes it again.

Logan’s voice softens a little. “Have you actually asked him how he’s doing? Like… properly. Not the throwaway ‘you good?’ on the way to a shoot.”

Oscar shifts uncomfortably. “…We talk.”

“About what? Pasta?” Logan snorts. “Do you even know him, Oscar?”

He tries to answer, but nothing comes out. The silence stretches on the line.

“You didn’t have to throw your life away for this,” Logan says quietly. “He did.”

The words land with a dull, heavy thud in his chest. He hadn’t thought of it like that. Not really.

Logan keeps going, steady but not cruel. “You’re sitting in your apartment, doing your normal off-season, while he’s out there floundering in a world that isn’t his. You ever think about what that feels like?”

Oscar swallows. “I helped him during a panic attack last week,” he says, almost defensive. “He—he was on the floor, couldn’t breathe. I was there.”

“And then what?” Logan asks.

“I don’t know,” Oscar mutters. “Nothing. It passed.”

Logan sighs. “Jesus, mate. You’re smart, but you can be so dense.”

Oscar sinks down onto the cool kitchen tiles, back against the cupboards. His hand slides down his face, palm dragging across tired skin.

Logan’s voice is quieter now. “Look, I’m not saying you’re a bad guy. But this isn’t just about surviving the PR fallout. At some point you either start seeing him as a person or keep coasting and hope he doesn’t drown.”

Oscar stares at the dark stretch of hallway. The guest room door is still closed, silent. His stomach twists slowly, uneasily, like the floor’s shifted beneath him.

“I’ve got to sleep,” Logan says finally. “Think about it. Don’t call me at 2 a.m. next time unless you’re eloping again.”

Oscar lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “Night.”

The line clicks dead. The kitchen falls back into stillness. He sits there a long time, listening to the distant hum of the city outside. The guilt creeps in slow and steady, like a tide coming in under the door. He wants to get up, knock on Lando’s door, say something—anything—but he doesn’t move. He just sits there, staring at the closed door, realising how much he hasn’t seen.

Eventually, he pushes himself up from the floor, movements slow, deliberate. The hallway is dark as he passes through it, only the faint light spilling from under Lando’s door breaking the shadows. He pauses for a moment—not close enough to knock, just far enough to hesitate. Then he turns away.

In his room, the sheets are cold when he slides in. He lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling, the conversation replaying itself in the quiet. It sits in his chest like a weight he can’t shift—guilt, unease, something unnameable.

For the first time in weeks, sleep doesn’t come easily.

Chapter Text

The apartment settles into its usual nighttime quiet — the kind that makes every sound feel too loud.

He’s curled up on the bed in the guest room, phone pressed to his ear, the duvet pulled up around him even though it’s not cold. The lights are off except for the dim glow of the screen. He doesn’t know why he waited so long to make this call. Maybe because he was afraid that saying it all out loud would make it real.

“Mum?”

“Lando,” her voice comes through, warm and a little fuzzy with sleep, “is everything alright?”

He exhales shakily. “Not really.”

She sits up immediately — he can hear the rustle of sheets. “Tell me.”

So he does. He starts from the beginning. The morning after Monaco. The champagne headache. The marriage certificate. The endless PR meetings. Moving his life into someone else’s apartment with barely a week’s notice. The carefully scheduled brunches, the fake narratives, the way his coursework started slipping through his fingers almost without him noticing.

He talks about the panic attack. The interviews. The moment earlier today when Oscar’s joke landed like a slap in front of everyone.

And he talks about the beginning — how, for a brief moment, he’d felt seen. Not just by the cameras, but by Oscar. Those quiet hallway moments. The coffee left out for him. The way Oscar had grounded him through the panic. How it had started to feel like maybe he wasn’t completely invisible.

But lately, that feeling’s been fading. Replaced by something colder. Sharper. Like being framed by a spotlight but never actually looked at.

His voice wavers. “I’m so far behind on uni, Mum. I haven’t seen anyone from home in weeks. Every day there’s another PR thing, another appearance, and I just… I can’t catch my breath. This isn’t my world. It’s his. I’m trying, I swear I’m trying, because I know he didn’t ask for this either. He got outed in front of millions of people overnight and I get that. But—” His throat tightens. “—I don’t know if I can keep doing it.”

She doesn’t interrupt. She just listens — like she always has — letting him unravel at his own pace. When he finally goes quiet, breath shuddering, she says softly, “Oh, sweetheart. I wish I could hug you right now.”

He swallows hard. “Me too.”

She continues, voice gentle but sure. “You’ve been holding this all in for too long. You’re allowed to say it’s hard. You’re allowed to not have it all figured out.”

He presses the heel of his hand against his eyes. “It’s not just hard. I feel… small. Like I disappeared somewhere along the way.”

“Then maybe it’s time,” she says, “to ask yourself what staying is giving you — and what it’s taking away. And Lan?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to shrink yourself to fit somone else’s story, love.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how.

Somewhere beyond his door, muffled through the walls, he hears the low hum of Oscar’s voice in the kitchen. He can’t make out the words, but the rhythm is there — steady, practical, probably talking to Logan. They’re both awake, both talking, neither to each other.

He shifts on the bed and catches it — a shadow sliding across the thin line of light under his door. Someone standing there. Paused. Not moving.

He goes still. His heart ticks loud in his ears.

But the shadow doesn’t knock. It doesn’t speak. It lingers for a heartbeat too long, then slips away again, leaving only silence in its wake.

His mum senses the pause. “Lando?”

“I’m here,” he whispers.

She gives him advice the way only she can — gently, without pressure. Encouraging him to take care of himself, to be honest with what he needs, to stop carrying everything alone. She sends him a virtual hug, exaggerated and soft, and he can picture her doing it, arms wide like she’s trying to fold him back into safety.

“Call me tomorrow,” she says. “Please.”

“I will,” he murmurs.

They hang up.

For a moment, he just lies there in the dark, phone still warm in his hand. His chest aches, but there’s a strange calm under it — not because anything’s fixed, but because he finally said the words out loud.

The apartment is silent, but it isn’t peaceful. It’s the kind of silence that hums in the walls, settling in the corners like dust. Lando curls beneath the duvet, eyes tracing the shadows on the ceiling, and for the first time since Monaco, it hits him how far he’s drifted from where he started. He closes his eyes and lets the weight of it press down, soft and certain. Something has to give.

Chapter Text

The air in Melbourne smells like hot tarmac and coffee. Even inside the terminal, the heat seeps through the glass, heavy and dry. Lando trails a half-step behind Oscar, hoodie zipped up to his chin despite the temperature, eyes puffy from the flight. He looks utterly sleep-mushed — cheeks pink, curls a mess, backpack hanging off one shoulder like it’s too heavy.

Oscar’s holding up better. He’s used to this — long flights, quick turnarounds, time zones collapsing into each other. He adjusts his cap, scanning the crowd.

“Are we lost?” Lando mumbles, words slurred with exhaustion.

“No,” Oscar says. “She’s probably circling. Or inside.”

It takes a few more minutes of weaving through the crowd before he spots her. Nicole, sunglasses perched on her head, tote bag over her shoulder, cutting through the crowd with that determined mum energy.

“Oscar!”

He doesn’t get a chance to answer before she smacks his arm. Not hard — just enough to make a point.

“You said the twenty-fourth,” she says, exasperated. “I baked. I planned.”

He ducks his head, grinning despite himself. “Scheduling issue.”

She huffs, then pulls him into a tight hug that smells like lemon soap and sunscreen. He breathes it in — familiar, grounding.

When she turns to Lando, her whole face softens. “And you must be Lando. Finally.”

He manages a tired little smile. “Hi.”

She hugs him too. He stiffens for a second, surprised, then melts just enough to hug her back.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says warmly.

“Me too,” Lando mumbles into her shoulder.

Oscar insists on driving. He always does. Lando gets gently ushered into the passenger seat, too tired to argue. Nicole takes the back, giving commentary on the traffic as they pull out of the airport.

Lando’s already half-asleep by the time they hit the freeway. His head lolls against the window, breathing evening out. Absentmindedly, Oscar rests a hand on Lando’s thigh — a steadying touch, almost thoughtless. Lando doesn’t stir.

Nicole notices, but doesn’t comment. She just smiles to herself in the rearview mirror.

The drive is easy. Nicole talks about the family’s plans for New Year’s, the weather, Mae’s latest disaster in the kitchen, how Hattie’s nearly finished her degree. Oscar answers automatically, slipping back into that familiar, easy rhythm with her.

Every so often, he glances sideways at Lando, curled up against the window, lips parted slightly in sleep. The sun hits his hair just right, catching gold at the tips. He looks… peaceful.

Oscar turns his eyes back to the road, something unfamiliar curling warm and slow in his chest.

The Piastri house smells exactly the same as it always has. Warm. Lived-in. A mix of baked goods, detergent, and something floral that clings to the air.

The front door barely clicks open before Mae barrels into the hallway, bare feet slapping against the tiles. She’s eighteen now, but still has the chaotic energy of a teenager at full speed.

“Finally!” she yells, then narrows her eyes at Oscar. “Are you still a pain in the ass?”

Oscar snorts. “Hi to you too.”

Mae grins, satisfied. “Thought so.”

Eddie appears next, leaning against the doorframe. She’s twenty now, lanky but confident, curiosity written all over her face. “Alright, mystery husband,” she says, nodding at Lando. “What do you do? And how old are you?”

Lando blinks, caught off guard for a second before smiling. “Student. Twenty-one. Media and English Lit.”

Eddie whistles, impressed. “Uni. Fancy.”

Hattie arrives last, twenty-two and effortlessly composed. She gives Oscar a quick hug and stands beside him, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold like someone who’s seen it all before.

“Welcome home,” she says wryly.

Oscar huffs a laugh. “You haven’t changed.”

She smirks. “Neither have you. Just brought a plus-one this time.”

Lando seems to handle the whirlwind surprisingly well. Nicole’s fussing over bags, Mae’s talking a mile a minute, Eddie’s already peppering him with questions about London, uni life, and what Australian slang he doesn’t understand. Lando answers with a kind of tired but playful honesty that slots right into the house’s rhythm.

Nicole leads him down the hall a few minutes later, pushing open the door to Oscar’s old room.

“I thought you two could stay here,” she says brightly. “Sheets are fresh, I even found the old fan.” Lando pauses in the doorway. There’s one bed.

Oscar clears his throat. “Sorry. I should’ve—”

Lando shrugs. “It’s fine. We lived in each other’s pockets for a month. I think we’ll survive one bed.” Oscar’s mouth twitches. “Right.”

Dinner is warm and loud. The table’s packed with homemade dishes and mismatched plates. Mae is telling an overblown story about a failed cooking experiment, Eddie keeps trying to make jokes that barely land, and Hattie occasionally steps in with a dry one-liner that kills the room.

Somewhere in the middle of it, Lando blooms. It starts small — a quip back at Eddie, a shared laugh with Mae — and then it just builds. By dessert, he’s leaning forward with animated gestures, telling some ridiculous story from uni that has Nicole wiping tears from her eyes.

His voice is lighter. His laugh comes easier. The edges that have been tense for weeks start to loosen in the warmth of this house.

Oscar sits back, fork idle in his hand, and watches. He doesn’t even really follow the story — something about a professor, a misplaced essay, and a cat — but he finds himself smiling anyway. Wide. Without thinking.

Something inside him clicks, quiet and startling. He’s missed this. Not just this version of Lando, but maybe the chance to see him properly in the first place.

The house settles into night slowly. The air hums with the soft buzz of the old ceiling fan, cicadas still going outside. Lando pads down the hallway in borrowed pyjama bottoms and one of Oscar’s t-shirts, hair sticking up in soft curls. He looks a little sleepy, a little sun-flushed from the day, and so much more at ease than when they’d landed that morning.

Oscar’s already in bed, propped up against the headboard, scrolling idly through his phone. He looks up when Lando enters, and for a moment, it feels… domestic. Easy in a way it hasn’t been for a while.

Lando climbs onto the bed, crossing his legs to face him. “You know,” he says, voice soft, “your family is intense.”

Oscar huffs a laugh. “Yeah. It’s a lot. I forget until I’m back in it.”

“Mae is terrifying,” Lando says with mock seriousness. “But in a good way. Like a chaotic gremlin.”

“That’s… accurate.” He tilts his head. “You handled them pretty well.”

Lando shrugs. “I grew up around loud people too.”

They lapse into an easy rhythm, trading bits of childhood. Lando tells him about Bristol winters—grey skies, crowded living rooms, his mum playing old records on New Year’s Eve while they all stayed up past midnight. Oscar tells him about Melbourne summers—beach bonfires, fireworks over the bay, everyone barefoot and sticky with sunscreen, the house always overflowing with siblings and cousins.

“Your Christmas is hot,” Lando says, wrinkling his nose. “That’s so weird.”

“You get snow. That’s weird.”

“Snow is magical,” Lando insists.

“It’s cold and wet.”

“Exactly.” He grins, eyes crinkling. “Hot Christmas shouldn’t be allowed.”

Oscar rolls his eyes but he’s smiling too. They laugh quietly, shoulders brushing, the conversation meandering into stories about growing up with siblings—fights over bathrooms, shared secrets, weird family rituals that make no sense to outsiders.

For a moment, it feels like they’re not playing roles. They’re just them. Two boys in the quiet of a summer night, talking about home.

Eventually, they crawl under the covers.

There’s a bit of awkward shuffling at first—they both automatically turn onto their sides, backs to each other, the way you do when you’re sharing a bed with someone you’re not supposed to think too hard about.

The fan hums. The house creaks softly.

Lando exhales, the sound small and steady, his back fitting naturally against Oscar’s chest. Oscar’s arm settles loosely over Lando’s waist, not pulling him in, just resting there. Lando shifts slightly, hair brushing against Oscar’s chin, and Oscar catches the faint scent of his shampoo — something clean and citrusy that makes his chest tighten unexpectedly.

For a moment, neither of them moves. The room is dark except for the faint spill of light from the hallway. Then, quietly, Lando reaches back and finds Oscar’s hand. His fingers curl around it, tentative but sure, holding it there against his stomach. Oscar doesn’t say anything. He just lets their breathing fall into the same rhythm.

Chapter Text

The house is still and blue with early morning. The fan hums softly in the corner. Oscar’s arm is draped loosely over his waist, their hands still tangled where they fell asleep. For a moment, Lando just listens to the steady rhythm of Oscar’s breathing against his back. It’s grounding in a way he hadn’t expected.

But the restlessness is there too, quiet but insistent. The kind that doesn’t let him slip back into sleep. Carefully, he untangles their hands and slides out of bed, padding toward the back door on bare feet.

He grabs the first thing draped over the chair by the door — one of Oscar’s old hoodies. It’s soft and oversized, the sleeves swallowing his hands, the faded 81 stretched across the back. It smells faintly like salt, fabric softener, and something distinctly Oscar.

He pulls the hood up, tucks his hands into the pouch pocket, and steps outside into the cool pre-dawn air.

Outside, the air is cool, the sand still holding the night’s chill. The ocean is a stretch of soft silver, waves shushing against the shore. He sinks onto the sand, wrapping his arms around his knees, watching the horizon shift from indigo to gold.

He doesn’t hear Oscar approach so much as feel it — the quiet weight of footsteps behind him. A second later, Oscar drops down beside him, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair sticking up from sleep.

“You’re up early,” Oscar murmurs.

Lando shrugs. “Jet lag. Couldn’t sleep.”

They sit in companionable silence for a few moments. Seagulls wheel above them. The first streak of sunlight catches on the water. It’s peaceful. And real.

Lando takes a deep breath. His heart thumps, the words catching on the edge of his throat. It would be easier to let the silence stretch. But he’s done folding himself small. His voice is steady when it comes. “Oscar, I can’t keep doing this like this.”

Oscar turns his head, frowning slightly — not defensive, just listening.

“I mean—” Lando swallows. “This… life. I followed you here. I moved countries. I shoved my degree into the background. I’ve been trying to keep up with everything — the travel, the media, the pretending. And I’ve done it because I care about you. But if we’re going to keep doing this, it can’t just be me… orbiting you.”

The words hang between them, soft but unflinching.

Oscar doesn’t speak right away. He just watches the ocean, jaw working slightly, like he’s rolling the words around.

Lando presses on, quieter now. “I don’t want to resent you. I don’t want to wake up one day and realise I lost myself in your world without ever making space for mine. I need… something different. I need us to actually try. Together.”

The sun slips fully over the horizon, spilling warm light across the sand. Lando’s words hang in the air, gentle but unflinching. Oscar doesn’t look at him right away. He watches the waves roll in and out, jaw working slightly, like he’s turning over each word carefully.

Finally, he exhales, shoulders dropping. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “I didn’t… see it before. Not really. I was so focused on keeping everything clean and professional, like if I drew the right lines it wouldn’t get messy. But then I saw you with my family and—” He shakes his head, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth. “There’s a completely different version of you. Lighter. Funny. Real. And I’d be an idiot not to want to see more of that.”

He turns to meet Lando’s eyes, steady. “I can’t promise I’ll get everything right. But I will try. Properly. Not just pretending this is easy for me. For either of us.”

Lando’s chest loosens, something warm settling in the space between them. He hadn’t realised how much he’d wanted to hear that until now. It’s not everything, but it’s a start.

They sit together a while longer, watching the sunlight stretch across the waves. The early morning air is cool, but it’s warming quickly; gulls cry somewhere down the beach. Lando shifts closer without really thinking about it, letting his head tip onto Oscar’s shoulder. Oscar goes still for a second, then relaxes into it, their shoulders fitting together like they’ve done this a hundred times before.

Oscar glances down at the hoodie — his hoodie, the faded 81 stretched across Lando’s back. A quiet smile tugs at his mouth.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice still a little rough from sleep, “you actually look good in my number.”

Lando huffs a small laugh against his shoulder. “Obviously. I make everything look good.”

Oscar snorts, the sound soft and warm between them.

By the time they wander back up the path, the house is buzzing. Mae is singing loudly in the kitchen. Eddie is burning toast. Hattie is pretending not to care. Nicole is moving between them like a general at war, spatula in hand.

“Morning!” Mae yells. “You missed the first round of pancakes!”

Lando laughs, letting the noise wash over him. It’s chaotic but comforting. Nicole spots him across the room and waves him over, tugging him toward the hallway.

“Come here a second,” she says, lowering her voice. “I just wanted to say… I’m really glad it’s you.”

Lando blinks. “Me?”

She smiles, soft and genuine. “I’ve watched Oscar chase a lot of things in his life. Racing. Goals. Pressure. But with you, he’s… happy. Lighter. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for him. Even if it meant missing the wedding of my oldest child.”

Her eyes crinkle with warmth. “You’re good for him, Lando. Don’t doubt that.”

Lando swallows, caught off guard by the sudden weight of it. No one’s ever said anything like that to him before — not like this, with quiet conviction. It settles somewhere warm in his chest… but underneath it, there’s a soft, unexpected tug. A sudden ache for his mum’s kitchen in Bristol, the sound of the kettle whistling, the way his family hugs him without warning. For a moment, he can almost hear his mum humming in the kitchen back home, smell toast catching in the old toaster.

He pushes a small smile through it. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

Nicole pats his arm. “Now eat before Mae steals all the strawberries.”

He watches her disappear back into the kitchen and lingers for just a heartbeat longer, breathing through the ache. It’s not bad, exactly. Just homesick. A reminder that for all the warmth here, he’s still far from home.

As he steps back into the kitchen, the noise wraps around him — Mae arguing with Eddie about pancakes, Hattie pretending not to care, Nicole orchestrating it all with a spatula in hand.

Across the room, Oscar’s in the middle of it. Laughing at something Mae’s said, reaching over to steal a piece of fruit from Eddie’s plate, eyes bright in a way Lando hasn’t seen before. Not guarded. Not measured. Just… Oscar, at home.

Lando catches his gaze, and for a heartbeat, the world stills. He sees not the public figure, not the careful teammate or the man holding everything together, but someone real. Someone he’s okay sharing quiet, intimate moments with. Someone who, this morning, chose to try — for both of them.

Warmth blooms in Lando’s chest, steady and sure. He smiles back. No grand gestures. Just a small nod, shared between them. A beginning. It’s quiet, but it settles in his chest like something real.

Chapter Text

The arrivals hall in Nice is a blur of fluorescent light and weary travellers. It’s late, the kind of late where the edges of everything feel soft. Lando’s hood is pulled low over his curls, shoulders hunched beneath his backpack. He looks exhausted but calm, not buzzing with the brittle energy he used to get after travel.

Oscar wheels their shared suitcase through the crowd, the motion automatic. This part of the year always feels like a reset — the return to Europe, the long flights, the season slowly stirring back to life. But this time, something’s different.

“Glad you get along with my family,” he says quietly as they step out into the cool night air.

Lando’s mouth curves, small and genuine. “They’re great. Your mum’s terrifying in a nice way.”

Oscar laughs softly. “Yeah. She liked you.”

Lando bumps his shoulder against Oscar’s as they walk toward the car park. “Australia’s beautiful,” he says, stifling a yawn. “But hot Christmas and New Year’s still feel weird. No jumpers, no rain, no miserable grey skies. It’s criminal.”

“You’ll live,” Oscar says, amused.

“I might melt,” Lando mutters.

Oscar shakes his head, unlocking the car. “I’ll keep a bucket of ice handy.”

The drive to Monaco is quiet. Lando falls asleep against the window before they hit the highway, hoodie bunched up beneath his chin. Oscar glances over more than once — at the relaxed set of his mouth, the way his fingers twitch slightly like he’s dreaming.

He turns the music down low. It’s not awkward, like it might have been months ago. Just quiet. Comfortable.

By the time they step into the apartment, it’s close to midnight. Lando drops his bag by the couch and stretches, blinking sleepily. Oscar watches him for a moment, still a little surprised by how natural it feels to come back here together.

“Go to bed,” Oscar says. “I’ll deal with the bags tomorrow.”

Lando gives him a grateful smile, soft and a bit drowsy. “You’re a good fake husband,” he mumbles.

Oscar snorts. “Don’t get used to it.” But there’s no edge in his voice. Just warmth.

The morning light spills pale and soft through the apartment windows. Oscar pads into the kitchen in bare feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He expects to find the place empty — Lando usually sleeps late after travel — but there he is, already perched at the kitchen table in a hoodie and glasses, laptop open, notes scattered like confetti around him.

Oscar leans against the doorway. “Why are you up so early?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep.

Lando startles a little, then smirks. “Time zones, probably. Brain decided five a.m. was the perfect time to finish my essay.”

Oscar shakes his head, moving toward the coffee machine. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Productive,” Lando corrects, tapping on his keyboard.

He sets a mug of coffee down in front of Lando and a hot chocolate for himself. Lando raises a brow at the second cup. “Hot chocolate? Are you twelve?”

Oscar shoots him a flat look. “It’s early.”

“Right, of course,” Lando says, grinning as he takes a sip of his coffee.

They settle easily into the rhythm of the morning. Oscar flips through his schedule on his phone. “We’ve got one PR thing together tomorrow afternoon. I’m flying to the UK for sim work and testing, in like a week.” He glances up. “You want to come with?”

Lando looks up from his laptop, a little surprised. “Yeah? I mean, if you don’t mind.”

“I thought… maybe we could visit your parents and some friends first,” Oscar says. “Before heading up to the MTC.”

Lando’s grin softens into something warmer. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

The next few days fall into a quiet kind of routine that neither of them had planned, but both slip into easily.

Lando works at the table or the small café down the street, headphones around his neck, occasionally reading a passage of something aloud just to see if Oscar’s paying attention. Oscar does sim sessions at home, the faint whir of the rig filling the apartment, or heads out for training.

In the evenings, they eat together. Sometimes simple pasta at the kitchen counter, sometimes a slow dinner on the balcony, the city buzzing softly below. One morning, they wander down to a café for brunch — sunglasses, hoodies, quiet conversation over croissants. Another afternoon, they find themselves walking along the port with takeaway coffees, the air warm but breezy.

It’s domestic in a way that sneaks up on Oscar. The spaces between them aren’t awkward anymore. They move around each other easily — passing plates, sharing quiet, laughing over stupid things. And somewhere between the late breakfasts and the soft light through the kitchen windows, Oscar realises he isn’t just tolerating Lando’s presence. He likes it.

It’s late by the time Oscar finally shuts his laptop. The apartment is dim except for the soft glow of a lamp in the living room. The TV hums quietly, some show playing on low volume.

Lando’s sprawled across the couch, half curled against Oscar’s side, head tipped onto his shoulder. At some point he must have drifted off — his breathing is even, his curls mussed, the hoodie bunched up around his chin. One leg is hanging off the cushion like he lost the battle with gravity halfway through an episode.

Oscar watches him for a moment, a small smile tugging at his mouth. It’s been a long week — flights, unpacking, schedules — but right now, everything feels oddly still. Warm.

He shifts carefully, sliding out from under Lando and crouching down in front of the couch. “Come on,” he murmurs softly, not expecting a reply. Lando mumbles something incoherent but doesn’t wake.

Oscar slips an arm under his knees and another around his back, lifting him with surprising ease. Lando’s head falls against his chest instinctively, curls brushing Oscar’s jaw.

The bedroom isn’t far, but the short walk feels… strange. Not in a bad way. Just full. There’s a warmth blooming in his chest, quiet and insistent, like a light flicking on in a room he hadn’t realised was dark.

He sets Lando down gently on the bed, pulling the covers over him. Lando shifts, sighs softly, and burrows into the pillow without opening his eyes.

Oscar lingers for a second in the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice comes out low, almost amused at himself. “What are we doing?” he whispers. A beat. “What am I doing?”

He shakes his head, still smiling, and turns off the light.

Chapter Text

The mornings in Monaco start to feel less foreign.

It’s not that the city itself changes — it’s still too polished, too expensive, too full of people who look like they were born on yachts — but the way Lando moves through it shifts. The walks to the café. The quiet hours working at the kitchen table. The way Oscar’s presence in the apartment isn’t something he tiptoes around anymore.

He falls into a rhythm.

Oscar leaves early some mornings for training or sim work. Lando claims his corner of the kitchen with his laptop, alternating between actual studying and watching the world outside the window. In the afternoons, they meet at the café down the street. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don’t. It doesn’t matter — the silence between them has changed. It’s easy now.

Evenings are a mix of dinners on the balcony, lazy conversations, or watching some show neither of them really follow. It’s the kind of domesticity that sneaks up on him — soft edges, slow mornings, the way Oscar automatically makes him tea when he makes himself coffee.

For the first time since moving here, Lando doesn’t feel like a guest. He feels… settled.

They fly out to the UK a few days later. It’s early, both of them bleary-eyed at the airport, hoodies pulled up, passing headphones back and forth on the plane. The flight is long enough that Lando dozes off against the window, only half-aware of Oscar adjusting his hoodie when it slips off his shoulder.

The drive up to Bristol feels different this time.

Oscar’s at the wheel, focused on the motorway, while Lando takes full control of the playlist — which means questionable throwbacks, Max’s chaotic party tracks, and a few sappy road-trip songs for good measure. Every so often, Oscar reaches over to skip a song without even looking, and Lando swats his hand away with a grin.

“You have no taste,” Lando mutters, scrolling for another track.

Oscar hums. “I just value my sanity.”

“Tragic,” Lando says, but his voice is light. The hum of the car, the faint drumming of rain on the windscreen, the low music — it’s comforting in a way that creeps up on him.

As they turn into the familiar street, something tightens in his chest. The houses look the same. The hedges trimmed. The old oak still leaning slightly toward the road. Home.

He spots her first — his mum, waiting at the gate in a puffy jacket, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She’s barely let him out of the car before she’s rushing forward.

“Lando!”

He’s half-laughing, half-smothered in her arms, inhaling the smell of fabric softener and home. “Hi Mum.”

She pulls back just far enough to grab his face between her hands. “You didn’t tell me you’d lost weight. Look at you.”

“I’m fine,” he says, rolling his eyes, but he can’t stop smiling.

Then she turns — and her eyes land on Oscar. “Oh!” she says, beaming. “You!”

Oscar barely has time to brace before she’s wrapping him in a hug too. He stiffens for half a second, startled, then melts into it like he doesn’t quite know what to do with all the warmth being thrown at him.

“Thank you for looking after my boy,” she says against his shoulder.

“Uh—” Oscar clears his throat. “You’re… welcome.”

Lando snorts. “You’ve broken him already.”

His mum pulls back, holding Oscar at arm’s length to inspect him. “Handsome,” she declares. “I like you.”

“Mum,” Lando groans.

She waves him off and ushers them both toward the house, chattering the whole way. His dad meets them at the door, quieter but smiling, shaking Oscar’s hand firmly before clapping him on the shoulder.

“Good to finally meet you, mate,” he says.

Oscar’s voice is soft but sure. “You too, sir.”

“Oh, don’t ‘sir’ him,” Lando’s mum calls from the kitchen. “You’ll make him insufferable.”

Lando laughs, tension unwinding in his chest with each familiar sound. The kitchen smells like roasted vegetables and fresh bread. Plates are set, the kettle’s whistling softly, and for the first time in months, the house feels alive around him.

Dinner is easy. Warm. His parents ask Oscar about Australia, racing, their life together. Oscar listens more than he talks, but when he does speak, it’s measured and sincere. His mum leans in at every answer like she’s collecting puzzle pieces. His dad tells old stories that make Lando groan into his hands while Oscar chuckles quietly beside him.

At some point, his mum reaches across the table, resting her hand on Oscar’s. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says simply.

And for a second, Lando sees something in Oscar’s expression — a soft flicker, like he’s not quite sure what to do with being welcomed this openly. It settles warm and low in Lando’s chest.

After dinner, the air outside is cool and damp — the kind that sticks to your skin and makes your breath fog in the air. Lando tugs on a jacket and gestures toward the back door.

“Come on,” he says. “I want to show you something.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow but follows, hands shoved in his pockets. The porch light spills gold onto the garden, and beyond that, the fields stretch out into the quiet night.

They start with the stables. Two of his sisters’ horses stick their heads over the doors when they hear footsteps, ears pricking forward. The smell of hay and warm fur fills the air.

“These are Flo’s,” Lando says, scratching the nearest horse between the ears. “And Cisca’s. They’re basically their babies.”

Oscar steps closer, a little tentative at first, and the horse snuffles curiously at his hoodie. He laughs — a soft, surprised sound that makes something tug inside Lando’s chest.

“She likes you,” Lando says.

“Good taste,” Oscar murmurs, deadpan.

Lando rolls his eyes but can’t stop smiling.

They walk further out, down the little path that winds past the pond. It’s small now, just a dark stretch of water under the stars, but Lando grins at it like he’s seeing it in winter.

“When it freezes, we used to skate on it,” he says. “Well. ‘Skate.’ Mostly fall on our arses.”

Oscar huffs a quiet laugh. “I can imagine.”

“Oliver, Flo, Cisca, me and sometimes the neighbours. We’d stay out here until Mum yelled us in. Thought this was the biggest forest in the world.” He gestures to the trees beyond, the little patch of woods that’s really just a copse but feels infinite when you’re young.

Oscar listens quietly, letting him talk. His presence isn’t heavy; it’s steady. Warm.

They wander through the trees, boots crunching softly on the damp path. The air smells like wet earth and woodsmoke from distant chimneys. Lando feels the past and the present overlap in strange, easy ways.

By the time they make it back to the back porch, the stars are sharp above them and the air has turned colder. They lean against the railing, shoulders brushing lightly.

Oscar breaks the silence first. “Season starts fast this year,” he says.

Lando hums. “Yeah. You ready?”

Oscar exhales through his nose. “As ready as I can be.” Then, glancing sideways: “You?”

Lando shrugs. “Got a brutal semester. I’m a bit behind, but I’ll catch up. I always do.”

There’s a beat — the kind that stretches just a second too long. The porch light hums. Somewhere in the distance, an owl calls.

They look at each other, and the thing that’s been growing between them is suddenly there — not spoken, not acknowledged, but solid. Warm. Close.

Lando looks away first, rubbing his hands together against the cold. “I’m freezing.”

Oscar nods toward the house. “Come on. Bed before you turn into a popsicle.”

His childhood room hasn’t changed much: same posters, same too-soft mattress, same narrow bed that’s definitely not built for two grown men. But neither of them mentions it as they crawl under the covers.

It happens naturally — like it always should have. Lando turns onto his side, and Oscar shifts in behind him without thinking, an arm draping loosely around his waist. Lando tucks himself back into the warmth, nose brushing against Oscar’s chest. He can hear his heartbeat, steady and calm, and the faint scent of his cologne clings to the fabric of his hoodie.

Oscar’s hands are warm against his stomach. His breath fans softly through Lando’s hair.

Lando lets his eyes close, his chest tight with something he doesn’t have a name for yet. The bed is too small. The mattress dips in the middle. But wrapped up like this, it feels perfect.

Chapter Text

The next afternoon, Oscar knows something’s different the second he hears the noise downstairs.

It’s not the usual hum of the house. This is louder — overlapping voices, laughter ricocheting off the walls, footsteps pounding up and down the hallway. By the time he makes it to the living room, it’s like stepping into organised chaos.

Oliver, Flo, and Cisca are sprawled across the furniture, mid-argument about some half-remembered childhood story. Max Fewtrell is perched on the armrest, grinning like he’s in on every joke, Pietra tucked comfortably against his side. Keegan’s on the floor, cross-legged, with a mug in one hand and a mischievous glint in his eye.

And at the centre of it all is Lando — hoodie sleeves pushed up, curls wild, laughing so hard he’s practically folded over.

“—and then Flo fell straight through the hedge,” Oliver is saying.

“Because you pushed me!” Flo fires back, throwing a cushion at his head.

“Max dared me!” Oliver protests.

“It was worth it,” Max adds, completely unapologetic.

Cisca’s laughing so hard she’s crying. Keegan nearly chokes on his drink. Lando’s doubled over, helpless.

Oscar leans against the doorframe, watching it all unfold. It’s chaotic. Loud. Impossible to follow. But it’s warm — so warm. This isn’t the polished world of the paddock or the careful choreography of PR events. This is lived-in, messy, alive.

And Lando… Lando blooms in it. He’s quick, sharp, loud, his grin wide and unguarded. For a moment, Oscar just watches, taking in a version of him that’s both completely familiar and utterly new.

Max spots him first. “Look who finally emerged from hibernation!”

Lando twists around immediately, eyes lighting up. “Oscar!”

Before he can retreat, Flo waves him in like she’s known him her whole life. “Come on, don’t lurk. We’re telling embarrassing stories.”

Pietra stands to make space, tugging him toward the couch. “You’re part of this now.”

“I—” Oscar starts, but he’s already being steered into a seat between Max and Cisca, handed a mug, and wrapped in the easy current of the group.

“This is Oliver, Flo, and Cisca,” Lando says, gesturing to each with exaggerated flourish. “The chaotic trio. Max you know. Pietra. Keegan. Don’t listen to a single thing they say about me.”

Oliver grins. “Oh, we’re telling everything.”

The next hour is a blur of stories — their stories. Childhood games gone wrong. Late-night skate sessions on the frozen pond. Lando stuck in a tree during a snowball fight. The Great Hedge Incident of 2009. Every tale comes with overlapping voices and shouted corrections, like a live commentary.

Oscar listens more than he speaks, but every time he chimes in with a dry aside, the whole group bursts into laughter like he’s been part of the dynamic forever. Max slaps his knee at one point and declares, “Right, that’s it. You’re officially one of us now. No take-backs.”

Pietra nods solemnly. “Membership is permanent.”

Cisca adds, “You’ll regret it when Flo starts singing at midnight.”

“HEY,” Flo says, scandalised, which just makes everyone laugh harder.

Oscar laughs too — not the polite kind he uses in interviews, but real, caught-off-guard laughter. The kind that sneaks up on him. He glances at Lando mid-story, sees him glowing in the middle of his siblings and friends, and feels something shift quietly in his chest.

For once, he’s not on the outside looking in. He’s in it.

By late afternoon, the house has quieted down. The whirlwind of siblings, friends, and laughter slowly dissolves into the familiar hum of home winding down. Max and Pietra have left. Keegan’s been dragged off by Flo for dinner. Oliver and Cisca are arguing half-heartedly upstairs about who’s borrowing what.

Lando and Oscar are in his room, half-packing, half-procrastinating.

Clothes are scattered across the bed. Oscar’s suitcase is open on the floor, methodically filling up in neat, deliberate folds. Lando’s, predictably, is a mess — everything thrown in vaguely the right direction but not quite making it inside.

Oscar folds a hoodie with precise edges. “You’re going to have to sit on that to close it,” he says without looking up.

“I’ll manage,” Lando mutters, shoving a pair of trainers into the side pocket. “It’s a technique.”

Oscar gives him a flat look. “A bad one.”

Lando grins. “Still works, though.”

They fall into an easy rhythm — moving around each other in the small space without bumping elbows, trading clothes between piles, folding, zipping, shoving. It’s domestic in a way that feels strangely settled, like they’ve been doing this for years.

Oscar sits cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through his schedule, frowning at it like it personally offended him.

Lando flops down on the bed, hands behind his head. “You look like you’re planning a military operation,” he says.

“It basically is,” Oscar mutters. Then he lowers the phone, shifting to face Lando properly. “Alright. I should probably warn you about the next few days.”

Lando raises a brow. “Warn me?”

Oscar nods. “Yeah. Once we get to Woking, everything’s going to move fast. First couple of days are mostly simulator work — long sessions, data reviews, a million engineers asking questions. Carlos will be there too, so there’ll be a lot of back-and-forth. Then track testing. Early starts, late finishes, no real downtime.”

Lando listens, eyes wide but curious.

“And,” Oscar adds with a grimace, “media. PR. Sponsors. Every possible interview they can cram in before the season starts. Press days, photos, videos, stupid promo shoots. It’s… a lot.”

Lando props himself up on his elbows, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Sounds fun.”

Oscar snorts. “It’s chaos. Pure chaos. I just don’t want you getting there and wondering why everyone’s sprinting around like their hair’s on fire.”

“I’ll stay out of the way,” Lando says. “I’m just there to watch the madness.”

“Good,” Oscar says, but there’s a faint smile on his face. “Because it’s going to be loud. Testing weeks always are.”

Lando shrugs easily. “I’m set for the next few days with coursework. Totally ahead. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Oscar tilts his head, studying him. “You sure?”

“Yes,” Lando says firmly. “Go do your thing. I’ll be fine. I can entertain myself. Probably by watching you get ambushed by PR.”

Oscar groans. “Please don’t encourage them.”

“I’d never,” Lando says, eyes glinting.

Oscar throws a balled-up sock at his head. Lando dodges, laughing, and for a moment the room is filled with easy, domestic noise — the kind that makes everything outside this little bubble feel far away.

They fall back into their packing — Oscar folding with sharp corners, Lando creating organised chaos piles — but the conversation lingers in the air. It’s not a warning meant to push him away; it’s Oscar letting him in on what’s coming, quietly making space in the way he knows how: through honesty.

Lando zips up his bag with a triumphant flourish. “See? Perfect fit.”

Oscar looks at the overstuffed suitcase, then at him. “…It’s going to explode the second you open it.”

Lando grins. “Yeah, but that’s future me’s problem.”

Oscar shakes his head, laughing softly.

Outside, the light is starting to fade. The hum of the house, the soft clink of mugs downstairs, the quiet between them — it all folds together into something warm. A still moment before the world speeds up again.

The MTC always feels like stepping into another world.

The glass curves, the polished floors, the hum of quiet, precise movement — everything runs on tight schedules and sharper edges. Oscar slips back into it like muscle memory. Early mornings. Long sim sessions. Debriefs with Carlos and the engineers that stretch into the late afternoon. PR people orbiting like hawks.

Lando doesn’t follow him around. He’s not trying to wedge himself into Oscar’s world. But he is there — a quiet presence around the edges.

While Oscar’s buried in simulator work, Lando sets up camp in one of the quieter corners of the MTC café, laptop out, headphones half on. He always seems to have a hot chocolate beside him, messy notes sprawled across the table. He waves when Oscar passes by, sometimes mouthing something sarcastic, sometimes just smiling.

And every time, something in Oscar’s chest loosens a little.

On the third day, Oscar ducks out of a PR briefing early — or rather, escapes. He spots the corridor leading to the café and bolts down it like someone being chased.

Lando looks up just as Oscar drops into the chair opposite him, hat pulled low, exhaling like he’s run a marathon.

“Hideout?” Lando asks, deadpan.

“PR ambush,” Oscar mutters. “They wanted me to film another ‘Day in the Life’ TikTok.”

Lando tries and fails to stifle a grin. “Oh no.”

Oscar narrows his eyes. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” Lando says, very obviously laughing.

Oscar groans and slouches in the chair. Around them, the café hums with the low noise of staff coming and going, engineers grabbing coffee, people bustling between meetings. But here — at this little table tucked against the window — it’s quiet.

Lando pushes his spare pastry across the table without looking up from his laptop. “Here. Bribe.”

Oscar accepts it wordlessly.

Later, he’ll go back to the simulator, to the media room, to another endless round of testing and briefings. But for now, sitting here across from Lando, watching him scroll through coursework with a furrowed brow and messy handwriting, the world slows down just enough for him to breathe.

Lando doesn’t say anything profound. He doesn’t need to. His presence is steady, grounding. Like a small piece of normal in the middle of the storm.

Chapter Text

By the time they land in Miami, the season is in full swing. Australia had been a blur — jet lag, paddock chaos, the hum of engines vibrating in his chest again. Lando had spent most of that week hovering at the edges: coursework in the media centre, watching Oscar and the team from the garage, waving when Oscar caught his eye.

But Miami is different.

The air is thick and warm, humming with energy. Music spills out from the fan zones, the paddock is a riot of colour and noise, and everything feels louder here — like the race weekend is constantly on the brink of boiling over.

Lando’s still getting used to slipping in and out of Oscar’s orbit. He’s not part of the circus, not really, but he’s learned how to find the quiet spaces between the chaos. The media room’s corners. The garage steps. A tucked-away hospitality seat with his laptop and a headset, half-watching the feeds while chipping away at assignments.

He meets Logan on Friday afternoon.

Oscar finds him sitting in the hospitality area, curled up with his laptop. “Come on,” he says, tugging lightly at his hoodie sleeve. “There’s someone you need to meet.”

They weave through the paddock until Oscar spots a familiar figure leaning against a fence near the Williams hospitality area, sunglasses perched on his head, posture loose and confident. Even from a distance, Lando can tell he’s trouble — the good-natured kind.

“Lando, this is Logan,” Oscar says when they reach him. “Logan, Lando.”

“Finally,” Logan drawls, shaking Lando’s hand with exaggerated ceremony. “The famous not-a-boyfriend.”

Lando sputters. “What—”

Oscar groans. “Don’t start.”

Logan’s grin is all teeth. “You know how long I’ve been hearing about you, mate? I was starting to think you were imaginary.”

Lando blinks, caught between embarrassment and curiosity. “He… talks about me?”

“All. The. Time.” Logan throws Oscar a mock-betrayed look. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that face. You’re the one who wouldn’t shut up about this ‘fake marriage’ situation. Like I wouldn’t notice if you suddenly had a husband.”

“Logan,” Oscar warns.

Logan ignores him completely. “Do you know how I found out? He FaceTimed me from the airport when everything went down. Literally mid-panic, in a queue. I’ve never seen him that pale.”

Oscar mutters something murderous under his breath. Lando, to his horror, laughs.

They move into the shade, leaning against the barrier. The conversation flows easily — Logan’s sharp, quick, the kind of friend who knows Oscar inside out and enjoys poking the bear.

“So,” Logan says, propping his arms on the railing. “Has he told you about karting days? Or is he pretending he was born fully formed in an F1 car?”

Lando grins. “Nothing specific.”

“Oh man.” Logan’s eyes light up. “Okay, picture this: thirdteen-year-old Oscar, tiny little kart, dead serious about everything. We’re in Florida for winter training. He refused to take a day off. Not one. So I convinced him to sneak into the hotel pool after hours — like, 1am. He jumps the fence, gets caught halfway over by security, rips his shorts clean down the middle. Spent the next day walking funny and pretending nothing happened.”

Lando snorts before he can stop himself. “No way.”

Oscar covers his face. “Logan.”

“Or the time in North Carolina,” Logan continues, undeterred. “We were staying with my folks. He accidentally reversed the quad into my dad’s shed. I’ve never seen him move that fast in my life.”

“I paid for the door,” Oscar mutters.

Logan points at him. “And still got grounded.”

Lando’s laughing properly now — the kind that comes from his chest. It’s so strange, hearing stories of Oscar before the polished media presence. These are messy, sunburned, teenage stories. Florida, North Carolina, hotel pools and broken sheds. It’s like getting glimpses of a boy he’s never met but already knows.

Logan notices the shift, his grin softening slightly. “We kind of grew up together,” he says. “Racing, living out of suitcases, pissing off adults. He’s like a brother. A very grumpy brother.”

Oscar bumps his shoulder lightly. “You’re not exactly a ray of sunshine yourself.”

Logan throws him a dramatic look. “And yet, somehow, we make it work.”

Lando watches them banter, feeling the warmth of it settle somewhere low in his chest. This is the kind of friendship that’s built in hotel hallways and paddock parking lots — forged over years. And Logan is clearly part of Oscar’s reallife, not just the version the world sees.

Before they part ways, Logan claps Lando on the shoulder. “Good to finally meet you, man. I was starting to wonder if he was hiding you in a bunker.”

Lando grins. “No bunkers. Just Monaco.”

“Close enough,” Logan says, laughing. “Come find me later — post-race plans are happening, and if Oscar bails I’m dragging him.”

Oscar groans. “Oh god.”

Logan winks at Lando. “You’ll see.”

The race unfolds like a dream.

Oscar starts on pole. He holds it through the first corner. And then — he flies. Lap after lap, flawless. Smooth. Aggressive when needed. Completely in control.

Lando barely blinks. He leans forward with everyone else during pit stops, heart hammering, grin stretching wider with each lap time flashing green. When Oscar takes fastest lap with three laps to go, the garage erupts. Mechanics slap each other on the back, cheers rise like waves, someone starts yelling in Spanish.

And when the chequered flag falls — pole, win, fastest lap — it’s like the world explodes.

The team surges forward, shouting, laughing, hugging. Lando’s swept up in it without meaning to, grinning so hard his cheeks ache. He yells something he can’t even hear over the noise. His heart is pounding like he’s been in the car himself.

They spill out toward parc fermé with the rest of the crew. Cameras flash, music blares, the grandstands are a wall of sound. Lando hangs back a little, watching.

Oscar climbs out of the car to a roar. He’s flushed, breathless, helmet under his arm. Carlos gets to him first, practically tackles him in a hug. Logan’s next, yelling something incoherent. And then, like he feels it, Oscar’s head turns.

Their eyes meet across the chaos.

He pushes through the crowd toward Lando, still in his race suit, sweat and champagne already mixing on his skin. Before Lando can say anything, Oscar’s arms are around him, pulling him into a massive hug. Lando laughs against his shoulder, his arms coming up instinctively. The sound, the heat, the smell of fuel and champagne — it all blurs.

When they pull back, Oscar doesn’t let go completely. His hands come up to cradle Lando’s face, thumbs warm against his cheeks. And before Lando even realises what’s happening — before Oscar can think twice — he leans in and kisses him.

Quick. Fierce. Completely unplanned.

The crowd is still yelling. Cameras are flashing. But in that heartbeat, it’s just them.

Oscar pulls back grinning, eyes bright. Lando’s a little breathless, dazed but smiling. “I’m so proud of you, Osc,” he manages, voice cracking with it.

Oscar’s grin widens — soft, real, unshielded. Then someone from PR is yelling his name, waving him toward interviews, and he squeezes Lando’s shoulder once before he’s swept away into the media pen.

Lando stands there for a moment, in the middle of the noise, his heart still hammering. Around him, the team celebrates. Cameras flash. The air smells like champagne and engine heat.

And all he can think is — that wasn’t staged. That was real.

Chapter Text

The Monday after Miami feels like the world has finally exhaled.

The chaos of the race is over. The parties have died down. The paddock has moved on to the next thing, as it always does. Outside, the sky over Miami is a soft blue, heavy with leftover heat. Inside the hotel, the air conditioning hums steadily, a quiet contrast to the roar of engines from the day before.

Oscar’s still tired in that way that runs bone-deep — but it’s a good tired. A warm, lingering hum in his chest that hasn’t left since the chequered flag fell. He can still hear the garage exploding, still feel the weight of Lando’s hands when he pulled him close in parc fermé. Still taste champagne and adrenaline and that kiss that wasn’t supposed to happen.

They’re sitting in a small, nondescript conference room at the hotel when it happens.

The legal team lays out the revised paperwork, clipped and professional. Their tone is brisk — this is just another clause to tick off. “As of now, the annulment option is open,” one of them says. “If you want to proceed, you can sign within the next two weeks. Otherwise, the marriage remains valid.”

Oscar doesn’t hear much after that. Just that line. If you want to proceed.

He glances sideways at Lando. He’s sitting straight, hands folded on the table, expression neutral in that careful way he’s learned for PR meetings. But his foot is bouncing under the table. Always a tell.

They sign the attendance sheet, accept the folders, thank the lawyers. And then they’re walking through the hotel corridor, folders tucked under their arms, the air thick with something unsaid.

Lando breaks it first. “Do you… want to grab a drink or something?” he asks, voice softer than usual.

Oscar nods. “Yeah.”

They end up in a quiet corner of the hotel lounge, away from the buzz of guests and staff. It’s late afternoon, sunlight spilling gold through the windows, painting everything in a warm haze. They sit side by side on a low couch, folders untouched on the table in front of them.

For a while, neither speaks. They just sit. Breathing.

Finally, Oscar exhales slowly. “I’ve been thinking about this,” he says.

Lando glances at him. “The… marriage thing?”

“Yeah.” Oscar taps the folder with one finger. “When this started, it was just—” He gestures vaguely. “Crisis control. A fake fix to a real problem. And I kept telling myself that’s all it was. That there was a line. But somewhere along the way…”

He trails off, searching for the right words. His chest is tight in a way that’s both terrifying and right. “Somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling fake.”

Lando doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are fixed on Oscar, wide and steady.

Oscar swallows. “Australia. My mum. Your family. Bristol. The MTC. That stupid café where you kept stealing my pastries. You’re just… there. And I want you there. Not because of PR or because it’s easier, but because it’s you.”

Lando’s breath hitches, almost imperceptibly.

Oscar pushes on, voice quieter now. “And then yesterday—” He huffs out a shaky laugh. “That kiss. I didn’t plan that. I didn’t think. I just saw you and everything in me said go. And for the first time since this started, it wasn’t damage control. It was me choosing you.”

The silence stretches — not uncomfortable, but heavy with everything hanging between them.

Lando shifts slightly, turning to face him more fully. “You know,” he says softly, “I kept waiting for the moment where it would all go back to how it was. When we’d end it, say it was fun while it lasted, and walk away. But… it never did. Every time something happened — your mum, my family, late nights, the garage, Miami — it just felt more real. Like somewhere along the line, we stopped pretending and didn’t notice.”

Oscar’s throat is tight. “So what do we do now?”

Lando looks down at the folder between them, then back at Oscar. His voice is steady. “We make a choice. Not because we have to. Because we want to.”

Oscar doesn’t look at the folder. He looks at Lando — really looks. The golden light catches on his curls, his face flushed from the lingering Miami heat. Familiar and electric all at once.

Oscar doesn’t look at the folder. He looks at Lando — really looks. The golden light catches on his curls, his face flushed from the lingering Miami heat. Familiar and electric all at once.

“I don’t want to annul it,” Oscar says. The words come out quiet but certain. Solid. “I don’t want this to end.”

For a heartbeat, everything is still. And then Lando exhales, a slow, warm sound. “Good,” he says, a small, incredulous smile tugging at his lips. “Because neither do I.”

The tension breaks like a wave. Oscar laughs, breathless, and Lando does too, their shoulders bumping. The folders sit forgotten on the table. The choice is already made.

Oscar shifts closer, the movement easy, instinctive. He wraps an arm around Lando’s shoulders and pulls him in — not a dramatic sweep, just a quiet, firm hold. Lando melts into it immediately, tucking his face against Oscar’s neck, breathing him in like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Oscar presses a kiss to Lando’s temple. Soft. Certain.

Neither of them says anything after that. They don’t need to. The hum of the hotel fades into the background. The world outside keeps moving, as it always does. But here, in this quiet corner, they’ve made their choice.

Together.

Chapter Text

The air smells like salt and flowers.

They chose somewhere quiet — a small coastal garden, tucked away from everything. The ocean hums softly beyond the hedges, a steady rhythm under the murmurs of gathered friends and family. Warm light filters through the trees. There’s no stage, no flashing cameras. Just rows of chairs, a simple arch draped in soft fabric and greenery, and the people who matter.

Lando stands at the edge of it all, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. Black tux. Crisp, tailored, a little too warm in the afternoon sun — but he doesn’t care. His mum is at his side, looping her arm through his. Her eyes are already glossy.

“You good?” she whispers, squeezing his arm.

He swallows, grinning despite himself. “Yeah. I think so.”

She laughs softly, kissing his cheek. “Then let’s get you down there.”

The music swells — not grand, just soft and familiar. Lando’s heart is hammering in his chest as they step onto the path. Rows of faces turn toward him. Logan’s grin is blinding. Max is already crying. His siblings wave like idiots from the front row. Oscar’s family is clustered on the opposite side, Nicole dabbing her eyes, Adam squeezing her hand.

And at the end of the aisle, under the arch, stands Oscar.

White tux. Hair neatly combed, sunlight catching on the gold ring still resting on his hand — the same one they’d exchanged months ago in a courthouse, barely looking at each other, terrified and uncertain.

But now? He’s smiling. That soft, steady smile that Lando knows down to his bones. The one that makes his chest ache in the best way.

Every step closer, the noise fades a little more. By the time he reaches the front, it’s just them.

The ceremony is simple. Short. Perfect.

No speeches about crisis management or PR strategies. No legal teams lurking in the background. Just the soft murmur of the officiant, the sound of waves, the rustle of fabric in the breeze.

Oscar takes Lando’s hands in his, thumbs brushing over his knuckles like they’ve done it a hundred times before. His eyes are bright, warm, sure.

Lando can feel his heart in his throat.

The vows are quiet and personal — whispered promises between two people who’ve already lived a whole story before this moment.

Oscar takes a slow breath, fingers tightening gently around Lando’s hands. His voice is steady, quiet, meant just for him.

“I didn’t plan for this. For you. When all of this started, it was chaos — fast, messy, out of my control. We built something out of nothing, pretending because it was easier than admitting we didn’t know what we were doing.”

His mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile. “But somewhere between fake smiles and real late nights… between my family taking you in like you’d always been there and watching you fall asleep on the couch with your laptop still open… something shifted. You became the calm in the middle of everything I didn’t understand.”

He swallows, eyes shining. “You made space in places I didn’t even know had room. And every quiet morning, every road trip, every stupid PR event we got stuck in together… you turned what started as a fix into the best part of my life.”

Oscar squeezes Lando’s hands, voice softening even more. “So this time, there’s no pretending. No cameras. Just me choosing you. Not because I have to. Because I want to. Because somewhere along the way, you stopped being my accident — and became my choice.”

Lando lets out a shaky breath, a grin tugging at his mouth even as his eyes glisten. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this without sounding like a total idiot,” he starts, earning a quiet laugh from the crowd. “But then I remembered — that’s kind of our thing.”

He glances down at their joined hands, thumbs brushing over Oscar’s. “When this started, I didn’t know what I was walking into. I just… said yes. To help. To make it work. And somewhere between press conferences and jet lag, meeting your family and you sneaking me pastries at the MTC café… it stopped being fake. It became this. Us.”

His voice softens. “You’re not the loudest person in the room. You don’t always say what you feel. But I’ve seen you at your best and your worst — tired, focused, nervous, laughing so hard you can barely breathe. And every time, I’ve found myself wanting to be there. To see it. To see you.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes shining. “You make the worst coffee, by the way. Like, genuinely terrible. But you still make it for me, every single morning, and I love you for that. I love that you drive me crazy with how much you care but pretend you don’t. I love the way your brain works, the way you light up when you’re with the people you love.”

There’s a quiet ripple of laughter through the crowd, soft and fond.

The joking edge melts into something soft and sure. “If I could go back and change anything — the mess, the pretending, all of it — I wouldn’t. Not a second. Because every part of this, every mistake and miracle, brought me here. To you. And if I had to choose again… I’d still pick you. Every time.”

They re-exchange the same gold rings — the ones that started it all. When Oscar slides the band back onto Lando’s finger, it’s no longer a PR prop. It’s heavy with meaning. Real.

Lando mirrors the gesture, hands trembling just a little, and Oscar smiles like he knows exactly why.

The officiant says something about choosing each other again. About this being theirs now. And then —

“—you may kiss.”

Oscar doesn’t hesitate. He cups Lando’s face, pulls him in, and kisses him like he’s waited his whole life for this moment. It’s slow, warm, and a little shaky at the edges, like neither of them can quite believe they made it here.

Applause erupts around them — siblings cheering, Logan whooping, Nicole crying in earnest now — but none of it really registers. For a heartbeat, it’s just them, under soft light, salt air wrapping around them.

The reception is everything the ceremony wasn’t — loud, messy, joyful.

String lights crisscross the garden, lanterns glow softly as the sun dips low. Tables are scattered under the trees, food and champagne flowing, music spilling from the speakers. Someone’s already started dancing on the grass barefoot. Flo and Oliver are arguing over who can do a better waltz; Cisca is definitely winning.

Lando barely gets five steps before he’s tackled by his siblings, a flurry of hugs, teasing, and genuine warmth. Nicole squeezes him so tight he can barely breathe. Logan picks him up off the ground like it’s a podium celebration. Max shoves a glass of champagne into his hand and declares it “hydration.”

Oscar is never far — always a glance away, a hand brushing against his, a shared grin across the crowd. Every time their eyes meet, Lando’s chest does that stupid warm thing again.

At some point, Logan and Max commandeer the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Logan announces, swaying slightly on his feet (someone definitely didn’t pace their drinks), “if we could have your attention for, like, five seconds…”

Max snatches the mic. “We just want to say — and this is very important — that you are witnessing the union of the two biggest idiots we know.”

The crowd bursts into laughter. Oscar groans, covering his face; Lando nearly spits his drink.

Logan points at them dramatically. “Seriously. Remember that time you two had to fake being married because you were both emotionally constipated?”

“Logan,” Oscar warns.

Max grins. “And then proceeded to accidentally actually fall in love? Peak idiots. But —” His voice softens slightly. “—the kind of idiots you can’t help but love.”

Logan raises his glass. “To Lando and Oscar. Somehow making a PR disaster into the softest, weirdest love story we’ve ever seen.”

Everyone cheers. Glasses clink. Lando’s cheeks hurt from smiling.

Oscar leans in and murmurs, “Remind me to never let them near a microphone again.”

Lando laughs. “Never.”

The night spills into music and dancing. Lando finds himself twirling with Flo at one point, then with Pietra, then somehow dragged into a group dance that involves questionable choreography. Oscar dances with Nicole, laughing as she spins him like he’s ten again. Someone starts singing badly into the mic. It’s warm and chaotic and perfect.

Eventually, the crowd starts to thin. People drift toward shuttles or linger around the edges of the garden with the last of the champagne. Lanterns sway softly in the ocean breeze. The music quiets.

Lando’s halfway through helping Flo gather stray glasses when he feels a hand slip into his. He looks up to find Oscar, jacket off, tie loosened, hair a little messy, smiling that soft, quiet smile that always undoes him.

“Dance with me,” Oscar says.

The band is packing up, the lights are dim, but someone puts on a slow song through the speakers anyway. Just for them.

They step onto the empty patch of grass where hours ago they stood exchanging vows. Oscar’s hand finds the small of Lando’s back; Lando’s curls brush against Oscar’s jaw as he leans in. The world around them fades until it’s just their quiet laughter and the music, the ocean whispering in the distance.

No photographers. No legal teams. No pretending. Just the two of them swaying slowly under lantern light.

Oscar rests his forehead against Lando’s. “This is my favourite part,” he murmurs, “I love you.”

Lando hums softly. “I love you too.”

Their fingers brush over the gold bands on each other’s hands — a quiet, tactile reminder of everything that’s led them here. Under the lantern light, with Oscar’s hand in his, Lando knew, he’d found it. Found him - and this thim, it was theirs.