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It had been tough. The last few races were laced with questions about his pride and well-being. Oscar was flying the first half of the season, suddenly it feels like the universe pulled the carpet beneath his feet.
But today, the paddock noticed something different. Immensely different. It starts as any other race weekend. Oscar is calm, that cheeky shy smile, hands tucked in his shorts, plain, borderline boring t-shirt and his backpack as he walks into the paddock. Journalists swarm like ants to sugar, cameras flash. Until, he pauses at the entrance gate and holds out his hand.
Someone steps out of the black SUV behind him.
Long legs, immaculate tailored linen white blazer over an equally expensive looking white t-shirt and sunglasses that cost more than a mechanic’s yearly salary. George Russell, yes, that George Russell, model, heir of tea import, old-money stuff and well known aristocrat. Not to mention, an LSE top graduate.
And here he is, holding Oscar’s hand. Fingers intertwining.
The paddock goes silent.
Half the grid glitches. Lando was the first one to break. Max nearly walks into a barrier. Charles drops his phone and doesn’t even pick it up. Carlos stands there whispering a prayer because he’s sure this is the start of an apocalypse.
Some media tries to corner George, asking about fashion weeks and his runway comeback. He waves a hand dismissively.
“Oh, I’m not modeling right now. I’m here to support Oscar.” He smiles politely as he circles his arm around Oscar’s forearm, clingy and looking in love. Oscar blushes as he ducked his head, letting out a small shy chuckle as the two headed into the McLaren hospitality.
The entire paddock discovers a new form of entertainment: Watching Oscar Piastri’s model-god boyfriend be disgustingly adorable.
It's a little hard to believe that one side, the quiet, reserve and unassuming, has managed to pull such a catch, as Lando would say. But maybe those are the things George actually enjoys about Oscar. The younger is low-key yet confident, he doesn’t need to say much or flaunt, just exist in the moment, subtle and quietly, nothing to prove to anyone.
Oscar and George are tucked into the McLaren rec room, away from cameras and teams, everyone assumes they’re just grabbing a coffee.
Then the first spy stumbles in: Lando. Then Charles, then of course the package deals with Carlos. Even Max casually leaning against the doorframe like he’s “just passing by.”
George sits close, too close for anyone whose only public images show coldly cordial, elusive divine photoshoots, a face card that never declines and unreachable severity. He’s curled into Oscar’s side, arm looped through Oscar’s forearm like a cat who has decided its spot. He giggles at something on his phone, brushing curls behind Oscar’s ear as if the cameras aren’t pointed at them from every direction outside.
Oscar, completely unbothered, is eating his simple avocado toast with salt and salmon like he does before sessions. Every once in a while he hums a quiet “mm-hmm,” like a husband who has heard this rant 12 times at breakfast.
George is mid-rant, his lips pouting and eyes rolling
“…and then they insist on throwing rhinestones on everything. Like no, sweetheart, it doesn’t make it edgy, it makes it look like a bedazzled toddler backpack.”
Oscar nods, chewing.
“Mhm.”
“And don’t get me started on metallic belts this season. They styled them like we are back in the middle ages, honestly!”
“Mhm.”
“And the handbags—oh my god, Oscar, the handbags. I don’t understand, ALL the same box shape! Just… slightly different leather. I paid seven thousand pounds to look like I’m carrying an IKEA storage cube.”
Oscar picks up a tiny bite of his toast he had cut beforehand and feeds it to him without looking.
The room collectively stops breathing. George accepts it, licks a crumb off his thumb, and sighs dramatically against Oscar’s shoulder.
“It’s honestly so embarrassing to wear it.”
Oscar lifts eyebrows, “…Yeah. Not great.”
Oscar leans forward to get his glass of water and takes a sip, before continuing,
“But, you liked that purple jacket from the shoot, it matches the fall theme.”
“My love, its magenta, oh, that one was divine.” George taps his nails on Oscar’s sleeve, eyes bright.
“The stitching alone? You could tell the tailor understood, much respect.”
“I’ll never understand how you can be so angry about clothes.”
“It’s an art form,” George says dramatically, face buried in Oscar’s sleeve now. “You wouldn’t understand. You walk around looking like you just woke up and somehow it’s charming.”
Oscar shrugs.
“That’s because I did just wake up.”
George laughs so hard he has to steady himself on Oscar’s thigh.
The entire grid gasps.
Lando was standing by the vending machine pretending to choose a drink then letting out a hollow, “He hugged Oscar… voluntarily.”
Charles mumbled to Carlos, “I didn’t know models were allowed to… be soft?”
Carlos nodded along, a pack of M&M in one hand as a snack to free entertainment, “Some people are just born final boss.”
Then comes the kicker.
Before Oscar heads into the garage, George cups his jaw and kisses him. Soft, elegant, unbothered. Eyes closing, lashes so elegant resting on his pretty cheekbone and Oscar takes it like it’s the most natural thing in the world, muttering,
“I’ll only be gone a few hours.”
“I know,” George replies, thumb brushing Oscar’s cheek. “Win for me, will you?”
The silence is nuclear.
Lando turns to Max, “Bro, have you ever seen him smile like that?”
Max shakes his head, hands on his hip before taking a sip of his daily red bull, “Wish that was me.”
—
Lando corners him between the motorhome and the media pen, eyes wide like he’s just witnessed a supernatural event.
“Dude, just—how? You dress in the same lousy shirt and shorts every day and somehow you bag George Russell. THE George Russell.”
Oscar blinks, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. He knew this would happen the moment George asked to come to one of his races. The world would implode. Fellow drivers would glitch and maybe TikTok would be unusable for a week.
But that doesn’t change the fact that Oscar doesn’t feel special. He leans against the wall, arms crossed casually.
“George likes me,” he says simply. “I didn’t… do anything.” Lando stares, gaping, arms wide in disbelief,
“Y-You literally wear socks with the team slides. George is like a… Renaissance painting! He probably smells like designer linen and champagne.”
Oscar nods as if Lando is describing tomorrow’s weather,
“He does smell nice.”
“That’s NOT the point!” his teammate groans
Carlos and Charles then appear in the doorway of the McLaren garage like two cats who absolutely know they’re somewhere they shouldn’t be. Carlos leans against the tire rack, arms folded.
“Gorgeous, your boyfriend,” he mutters with a grin.
Charles immediately slaps the back of his arm, “Don’t say it like that—” Then turns to Oscar, completely unabashed.
“But yeah, he is right. I watched him on his runway debut. So nice.”
Oscar pauses mid-adjusting his suit, “…uh. Thanks?”
And Charles is already vibrating with social hunger, “Introduce me to him, please.”
Oscar blinks. Slowly. He looks at the Ferrari driver who speaks multiple languages, charms every interviewer and is now begging like a kid asking for a celebrity autograph.
“He’s just a person, Charles.”
“No he is not,” Charles says instantly, “He is an event.”
Carlos nods solemnly beside him, “A phenomenon.”
Oscar sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. The engineer beside him is desperately pretending not to listen.
“You guys realize I’m dating him, right? Not applying to be his fan club president.”
Lando chipped in, raising a finger, “Exactly. You have access. Use it.”
Oscar only rolled his eyes at the absurdity of his gridmates.
—
George is perched neatly on one of the high stools, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap like he’s about to watch a ballet performance instead of a Formula 1 race.
“I’ll sit here in the garage while you race, yeah? How long?”
Oscar adjusts his gloves, casual as ever, “Well, today we have 57 laps.”
George processes that like he’s considering the length of a movie.
“…Oh. Easy then.” George smiles cheeky and teasing. A mechanic behind them silently drops a wrench.
Oscar opens his mouth, then closes it. He really shouldn’t be surprised. This is the man who once described a transatlantic flight as “short-ish” because he slept through most of it.
“Alright,” Oscar says. A tiny smile.
George smiles back, soft. Then he stands, gliding close, body language smooth, intimate, practiced from a thousand photoshoots but meant for one person only.
“Come here, baby”
And Oscar, without thinking, steps forward against the barrier. George cups Oscar’s jaw, thumb brushing his cheek and leans in. George then peppers him with quick, warm kisses, forehead, cheeks, lips, even the tip of his nose, making sure to give attention to every little bit of freckles the young driver has and Oscar’s knees feel like they might buckle.
“George!” Oscar whispers, cheeks flaming, laughing and panicking all at once, “the cameras…”
George doesn’t care. He only cares about this moment, about Oscar, about the way Oscar had regained the spark, the fire in his eyes from getting pole and winning sprint, flushed and triumphant, the fastest man on the track and his.
“You’re incredible,” George murmurs again, pressing a fleeting soft kiss to Oscar’s lips.
Oscar blinks, meeting his eyes.
“Yeah?”
George smiles, slow, warm, private.
“I’m so proud of you.”
Oscar’s chest tightens.
He swallows, eyes darting away, but George catches his chin gently, bringing him back.
“No, look at me, love.” George says, voice steady but soft, “You’ve worked so hard for this. Every morning, every late night, every minute you thought you weren’t good enough… you pushed through.”
He presses a small kiss to each of Oscar’s cheeks, his ears go pink.
“You don’t need to be loud.” A kiss to the tip of his nose, quick, sweet, “You just drive like you always do, calm and steady.”
Oscar laughs quietly, warmth blooming in his chest. “George…”
George leans in, their foreheads pressed together, fingers curled around Oscar’s collar.
“You are everything they’re not prepared for,” he whispers, “And that’s why you’ll win.”
His voice trembles, not with nerves, but pride, “I love how you think,” he tells him, eyes soft and reverent.
“How you breathe. How you find that quiet place in yourself when everyone screams around you.”
“That’s what drew me to you,” George admits.
“Not the millionaires family and the sponsorships. Not the trophies.” His fingertips trail over Oscar’s chest, resting where his heartbeat thunders,
“It’s how you get up every time. How you never let the world shake you.”
Oscar’s throat tightens. There’s a buzzing in his ear from the team radio, someone yelling about tires, but it feels miles away.
George’s hands slide down to Oscar’s waist, firm, grounding.
“And when you get out of that car,” he whispers, “no matter the result—” a final kiss to the lips, slow and soft,
“—I will be right here. Proud of you.”
Oscar exhales, “Thank you,” he breathes, shoulders drop, tension melting away.
George smiles, eyes shining like sunrise on water, “Go make them remember your name, Oscar Piastri.”
George squeezes his hand once before letting go.
And when Oscar walks to the car, helmet sliding on, back straight and shoulders steady, it’s not the roar of engines pushing him forward. It's the echo of George’s soft voice and the warmth of those tiny kisses still fresh and blooming on his skin.
—
The moment the race ends, George knows something is wrong.
Oscar lifts the trophy like it weighs a thousand kilos, then the champagne sprays and he barely reacts, just wipes his face mechanically, eyes down, shoulders squared like armor.
He’s not being stoic. He’s hurting.
And there’s nothing in the world George hates more than seeing Oscar suffer silently.
Max and Carlos glance at him and then look away. They know. He had them. He had the pace. Not because he wasn’t fast, not because he wasn’t good enough. Because someone else made the wrong call.
George watches the split-screen from the McLaren garage. Microphones crowding him, with lash after flash of camera and Oscar’s stiff, jaw locked tight. The McLaren CEO came up to him but it seemed to only make it worse. Anyone seeing can tell the smile never reached Oscar’s eyes, hollow and matte empty.
George always sees the truth, Oscar is swallowing his pride so hard it might choke him.
Nothing hurts more than seeing Oscar’s silence now, because Oscar doesn’t rage. Oscar doesn’t break things or blame people. He turns everything inward, like pain is a puzzle only he should solve.
George leans forward in his seat, elbows on knees, eyes never leaving the garage TV.
He whispers, barely audible to the engineers and staff around him,
“Baby… no…”
All he can do is watch. The TV shows Oscar leaving the press pen, shoulders tight, eyes down, walking too fast.
George’s throat burns. He stands, already moving toward the exit, toward wherever Oscar will come through next.
Oscar is sitting alone on the sofa in his room, still damp from the podium spray. A fresh team shirt, grey shorts.
The door opens carefully.
George slips inside and closes it behind him, the sound soft as a heartbeat.
He doesn’t speak at first. He just walks straight to Oscar and kneels beside the sofa like he’s afraid Oscar might vanish if he doesn’t anchor himself somewhere close. Oscar looks at him only once, tired eyes, the edges sharp from held-in frustration.
George reaches up and cups Oscar’s cheek with both hands, thumbs brushing lightly, not pity, not performance, just tenderness.
“....Ossie,” he whispers, barely audible. Oscar breathes out, slow. His shoulders drop. George leans forward, forehead gently pressing against Oscar’s. That’s all. No loud pep talk, no pitying consolation. Just contact.
“You did so well,” George murmurs, voice trembling because he hates seeing Oscar hurt.
“You were brilliant from start to finish.”
Oscar doesn’t answer, but he closes his eyes, letting George’s breath settle on his skin. George adds another touch, soft fingertips at the nape of Oscar’s neck, like someone soothing a heartbeat.
“They messed up,” George says quietly, brushing a kiss to Oscar’s temple, “Not you.”
Oscar’s jaw unclenches, a tiny sound escaping, half sigh, half relief.
George continues, slower, gentler, like he’s talking someone down from a dream. Oscar’s hands finally move, wrapping around George’s wrists, grounding himself.
“…It still hurts,” he admits, barely above a whisper.
George nods, nose brushing Oscar’s skin, “I know. It’s okay that it hurts.”
He climbs up onto the sofa beside him without letting go, curling sideways against Oscar’s body like a cat settling into a lap. Head tucked under Oscar’s jaw, one arm looped around his waist. The faint smell of sweet champagne still lingers on his skin but George doesn’t care.
No talking for a while. No advice. Just warmth.
Oscar’s breathing slows, steadying.