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Lando Norris took nicknames seriously. Not in thoughful, carefully considered way, it was actually quite the opposite. It was instinctive, immediate, chaotic. People got assigned names before Lando even fully processed who they were, and once it started, it didn’t really stop. Which is how Oscar Piastri found himself in a very specific kind of problem. It started innocently enough, it always does.
“Oscar.” Lando says it like he’s testing it, like it feels wrong in his mouth already. “No… that’s boring.”
Oscar blinks slowly, still focused on the data on his screen. “That’s my name.”
“Yeah, but-” Lando gestures vaguely, like that explains something. “It’s not nicknameable.”
Oscar finally looks at him, expression flat. “You don’t have to give me one.”
Lando smiles. And that’s the moment Oscar should’ve known he’d made a mistake.
“No,no,no.” Lando says, already leaning against the edge of the desk like he’s settling in for something. “Everyone gets one.”
“I don’t need one.”
“You do now.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
Oscar exhales slowly, like he’s recalculating his life choices. “…this feels unnecessary.”
Lando ignores him completely. “Okay, let’s see,” Lando mutters, pacing around like a detective trying to crack a case. “Osc?… Eh, that’s mid.” Oscar just shoots him a side look.
“Oz?”
“No.”
“Ozzy?”
Oscar looks us again, this time with a disgusted face. “Absolutely not, I’m not a dog.”
Lando snorts. “Alright, harsh.”
“It’s bad.”
“Fine, fine. We’ll refine.”
It does not get refined. It gets worse.
“Pia. No, that’s sound like pizza.” Lando cuts himself. “Now I’m hungry.”
Oscar snorts but says nothing more.
“Tri?”
“That’s not even-”
“Piastrini?”
“...that sounds like a type of pasta.”
Lando pauses. “…it does, actually.”
Oscar nods once, like that settles it.
“Okay, scrap that,” Lando says, already moving on. “We need something that fits your vibe.”
“I don’t have a vibe.”
“You absolutely have a vibe.”
Oscar raises an eyebrow. “And what is that, exactly?”
Lando opens his mouth. Then closes it. “…I’ll get back to you.”
It goes on for days, not constantly, but enough. Enough that Oscar starts bracing himself everytime Lando walks into the room.
*
“Morning, O.”
“No.”
*
“Hey, star.”
“...why?”
“Oscar, scar, star.”
“That’s not-”
“Okay, yeah, that one’s bad.”
*
“Champ.”
“No.”
“Rookie.”
“...I’m not.”
“Tehnically-”
“Lando.”
“Fine,fine.”
*
At some point, Oscar stops protesting as much. Not because he’s accepted it, more because it’s clearly not going to stop.
It happens after a race. They’re both a little tired, quieter than usual, sitting in the paddock with that soft kind of expression that settles in after long days. Oscar’s leaning back in his chair, sleeves pushed up slightly, hair a bit messier than usual. There’s a faint flush still lingering on his cheeks and he looks, without trying, without knowing… soft.
Lando notices, of course he does. He’s mid-thought, half-talking about something for the race, when he looks at Oscar properly.
He’s such a pretty boy.
Oh-
“...pretty boy.” It slips out like it belongs there. Like it was made for him.
Oscar freezes. Not dramatically, just… still. He looks at Lando, really looks at him and Lando, for once, doesn’t immediately laugh it off. There is a second, a quiet one, where something lands between them.
Oscar blinks. “Lando, no.”
Lando grins instantly. “Lando,yes.”
Oscar exhales, looking away like he’s already regretting engaging. “Absolutely not.”
“But it’s perfect.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“It is not.”
Lando leans forward sligly, resting his arms on the table, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Pretty boy.” he repeats, like he’s testing it.
Oscar’s jaw tightens just slightly. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Oscar shakes his head, like that’ll somehow end all this. “You’re not using that.”
“Oh, but I absolutely am.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
“Pretty boy.”
Oscar stands up, not abruptly, but with a purpose. “I’m leaving.”
Lando laughs. “You can’t leave everytime I say it.”
“Watch me.”
He doesn’t get far.
“Pretty boyyy.”
Oscar stops, just for a second, just enough that it’s noticable. Then keeps walking.
And suddenly, this isn’t just a nickname anymore. At first, Lando uses it to annoy him. Obviously.
*
“Pass me the bottle, pretty boy.”
No response.
“Pretty boy.”
Oscar sighs, handing him the bottle without looking at him.
“Thanks.”
“And stop calling me that.”
“Noted.” He does not stop.
*
“Oi, pretty boy, you coming or what?”
Oscar doesn’t turn around immediately. But there is a pause. A fraction too long to be nothing.
*
“Pretty boy.”
Oscar looks back. “What?”
Lando grins. That’s when Oscar realises something rather unfortunate. He likes it. Not that he would ever admit it. But there is something about it, about the way Lando says it, easy and cetain, like it settles somewhere under his skin and refuses to leave. Which is a problem because Lando knows. Maybe not fully and not yet, but he is starting to. And Lando is exactly the kind of person who would use that to his advantage.
It absolutely gets worse, for Oscar, specifically.
“Pretty boy.”
Oscar doesn’t look up. “No.”
Lando leans a little closer over the back of his chair. “That’s not how responses work.”
“You didn’t ask anything.”
“I said your name.”
“That’s not my name.”
“It is now.” Lando grins widely.
“It isn’t.”
“Pretty boy.”
Oscar exhales slowly, the kind that’s meant to communicate I’m choosing not to engage with this for my own sanity. It does not work. Because the problem isn’t that Lando keeps saying it. The problem is that Oscar is starting to like it.
It’s the small things: the way Oscar’s shoulders go just slightly still when he hears it, the way his attention shifts, fast, automatic, like a reflex, the way he answers quicker, sharper, like he’s tuned in to just that. Lando clocks it before he understands it.
“Hey,Oscar-”
Nothing.
“Oscar?”
Still nothing. Lando glances over and sees Oscar’s deep in conversation with one of the engineers, nodding along, focused. Lando tilts his head, then casually calls. “Pretty boy.”
Oscar turns immediately. “…yeah?”
Lando grins. Oh.
He doesn’t say anything about it because that would ruin it. But something settles into place in his mind, quiet and certain, like a puzzle piece clicking in without effort. Oscar responds to it, not just responds, but locks in. Like Lando’s voice, saying that, is enough to pull him out of anything.
Unfortunatelly, nothing involving Lando Norris ever stays subtle for long.
They’re sitting around in one of the quieter corners of the paddock, Lando, Oscar, George and Alex, half resting, half talking, the kind of lazy downtime between sessions where nobody really wants to move.
Oscar’s scrolling through something on his phone, posture relaxed, legs stretched out slightly. Lando’s next to him, eyes closed, not doing much of anything except occasionally glancing over for no real reason.
George is watching both of them, very carefully.
“Hey, pretty boy, you got timing for the next session?” Lando asks casually. George’s eyebrows shoot up, Alex chokes on his drink.
Oscar nods. “Yeah, ten minutes.”
“Cool.”
Oscar goes back to his phone like nothing happened. Because nothing really happened.
George does not go back to anything. “…Sorry,” he says slowly, looking between them, “what was that?”
Lando opens his eyes to shoot him a look. “What was what?”
“That,” George gestures vaguely at Oscar, “you just called him pretty boy.”
“It’s a nickname.”
“That is not a nickname.”
“It is.”
“That’s-” George stops, visibly recalibrating, “- that is not what you call someone you’re not flirting with.”
Oscar freezes, just slightly.
“I’m not flirting?” Lando says, stretching the words just enough.
George stares at him and then laughs, actually laughs. “Oh my God,” he says, leaning back. “You don’t even realise.”
“Realise what?”
“This,” George gestures again, more emphatic this time, “this whole thing. You’re… doing something.”
“We’re not doing anything.” Lando insists.
“We’re literally just sitting here.” Oscar adds, still not looking up.
George turns to him. “You’re not helping your case.”
Oscar finally looks at him, expression flat. “What case?”
“The fact that you just,” George points at Lando, “respond to that like it’s your government name.”
Oscar opens his mouth, closes it. “… It got my attention.” he says firmly, too measured.
George blinks at him, then looks at Lando, then back at Oscar. “You’re both unbeliveable.”
Alex snorts. “Tell them something they don’t know.”
Lando rolls his eyes, but there is something underneath it now. Because George said it like it was obvious, like it was something everyone could see. He glances at Oscar. Oscar’s already looking back down at his phone, but his ears are slightly red. Not that anyone mentions.
It isn’t jealousy, Lando would never call it that. It’s just irritation.
They’re in the paddock, post session, everything a little chaotic but winding down. People are lingering, talking, laughing. Oscar’s a few steps away, mid conversation with Logan, close enough that Lando can hear bits of it if he tries. He’s not trying, but he hears it anyway.
“...yeah,no, I mean it was a good lap.” Oscar’s saying, calm as ever.
Logan laughs placing a hand on Oscar’s arm. “You’re way too modest, mate.”
The hand lingers there and Lando stares at it. Hard.
Alex, beside him, doesn’t even look over. “Don’t.”
“What?”
“Whatever you’re about to do.”
“I’m not doing anything.” Lando argues, but he is definitely doing something soon.
“If looks could kill, Logan wouldn’t be breathing for last few minutes.” Alex says as matter of factly.
Lando scoffs and looks away, then looks back. Logan leans a bit closer and Oscar doesn’t move. Yeah,no. Absolutely not.
He’s already moving before he decides to. Crosses the space like he has somewhere to be, like this is intentional, like this is normal.
“Oscar.”
Nothing. Oscar’s still listening to Logan, nodding slightly.
Lando huffs and stands abrubtly next to Oscar, crossing his arms. “Pretty boy.”
Oscar turns like someone flipped a switch. “Yeah?”
“I need you for something.” Lando says casually, but his hand lands briefly at Oscar’s waist, just to urge him to come with him now.
Oscar goes with him without question, just smiles back at Logan with an apologetic look.
They’re a few steps away now, out of earshot. Oscar turns to him. “What do you need?”
Lando opens his mouth, closes it. Right… good question. ”Uh- nothing.”
Oscar blinks. “You pulled me out of conversation for nothing?”
Lando shrugs, looking anywhere but directly at him. “Don’t like the guy.”
Oscar goes very still. “Logan?”
“Yeah, him.”
“Why?”
Lando frowns slightly, like the answer should be obvious. “I don’t know, he was just...” he gestures vaguely, “there.”
Oscar stares at him when something clicks. His lips slightly twitch into a smug smile. “Right… You’re jealous.”
Lando chokes. “I’m not jealous.”
Oscar raises an eyebrow. “No?”
“No.”
“Then you won’t mind if I go back to talk to Logan.” Oscar gestures behind him with his thumb.
Lando’s face slips into a disgusted look and he looks behind Oscar. Thankfully, Logan had already left. “He’s gone.”
Oscar turns for a second. “Lucky you.” He tells Lando with a laugh.
From across the paddock, George and Alex watch the whole thing.
“This is actually painful.” George mutters.
Alex nods. “They’re arguing and flirting without realising either.”
It is late after a long day of driving, racing and testing, later than it should be. They don’t plan to end up in Lando’s room, they just do, like it’s where they were always going anyway. Oscar sits on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, looking mindlessly across the room. Lando’s standing across from him, near the door at first, then closer, then right in front of him. There’s something different about tonight, heavier.
Oscar pulls a questioned look. “What?”
Lando doesn’t answer right away, just looks, really looks. The race is still there on him, the slight flush in his cheeks, not fully faded yet. The way his hair’s all over the place, softer, messier than usual. There’s a strand that keeps slipping forward no matter how many times Oscar’s pushed it back. Lando thinks about pushing it back himself but restrains. For now.
“Do you know why I call you that?” Lando asks, looking straight into Oscar’s eyes.
Oscar exhales slowly, looking right back into Lando’s eyes. “…No.”
Lando smiles slightly, there is a pause because he thinks about it again. This time he reaches out, hesitates, then gently brushes that loose strand of hair away from Oscar’s forhead. He leaves his hand there, lingering at the tips of his hair. “Because you look like this.” he says quietly.
Oscar’s breath hitches, just a little.
Lando’s fingers slide lightly through his hair, softer now, almost absentminded. “After a race,” he continues, voice lower, more thoughful than Oscar’s ever heard it, “your hair just does whatever it wants.”
Oscar swallows.
Lando’s hand shifts, fingertips brushing down to his temple, then lower. His thumb rests briefly against Oscar’s cheek, warm. “And the way you’re always flushed, your cheeks are that pretty shade of pink. Like you’re just,” he huffs a quiet breath, “I don’t know… Like you’re still in it.”
Oscar doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe properly.
Lando’s thumb presses slightly, just enough to feel the warmth there, before slining to Oscar’s ears. “And then,” he pauses, something softer creeping into his expression, “your ears…” his finger slowly swipes across Oscar’s helix. “They go red. Every time.”
Oscar lets out a shaky breath. “…They do not.” He turns his head shyly away from Lando, trying to hide more blush arriving to his cheeks.
Lando quietly laughs. He brings his hand to touch Oscar’s chin. “Look at me, pretty boy.” He slowly turns Oscar’s head as Oscar’s eyes immediately flick to his, like always. But it sounds different now.
Lando leans in slightly then stops. They’re close enough now that Oscar would only have to move an inch. He doesn’t.
“There’s also the way you look at me like this.” Lando says in a whisper.
Oscar blinks slowly, not taking his eyes off Lando’s.
“Like you’re waiting for me to say it.”
Oscar doesn’t deny it this time. “Maybe I am.” he says quietly.
And that… that’s it. Lando closes the distance. It isn’t rushed, it’s slow, careful, built on everything that came before it. Oscar leans into it almost immediately, like he’s been waiting for that too. Lando’s hand stays at his jaw, steady, grounding. Oscar’s fingers curl lightly into the front of Lando’s shirt, pulling him forward sliglhtly, just enough that Oscar’s able to fall on his back on the bed and Lando to follow.
When they pull apart, they don’t go far. Oscar stays on his back, looking up at Lando, while Lando keeps his hands on each side of Oscar’s head. “God, you’re even prettier like this.” His hand lands on Oscar’s cheek, caressing it, while his thumb travels across Oscar’s puffed lips.
Oscar lets out the biggest smile, his eyes slightly closing from it. “Yeah? You might have to make me even prettier then.”
Lando doesn’t hesitate, just jumps back to kiss Oscar once again.
“My.” kiss “Pretty.” kiss “Boy.” kiss.
Oscar smiles into the kiss. “Yours.”