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As a Formula 1 driver, Oscar Piastri knows a little too well how to fake a smile.
After all, PR still matters—and not everyone can be Kimi Räikkönen, the man who made an art of stonewalling the press and leaving timid journalists out in the ice. Oscar admires the legend’s composure behind the wheel, but he has no interest in copying his off-track habits.
In the three years since joining McLaren, Oscar’s PR skills have matured considerably. He handles media questions with ease; his answers are sincere enough to disarm, guarded enough to reveal nothing. In the carefully staged team-bonding and queer-baiting bits with his teammate, he shows just the right amount of cordiality. Anything beyond that, anything deeper, Oscar doesn't see himself sharing lightly—or ever, really. Andrea and Zak have always been pleased with his PR skills. After all, flash and pride invite scrutiny, while warmth and steadiness win fans and project an image of harmony within the team.
But in Hungary, 2026, no one should have expected Oscar Piastri to keep up that front.
By the time the interviews were over, Oscar was exhausted. The very first question proposed by the media had been about the incident with Carlos Sainz.
Incident. Oscar almost scoffed.
It hadn’t been an incident. Sainz did that on purpose, for whatever reason. Oscar thought bitterly. He refused to believe Sainz hadn't seen the Maclaren. Whatever excuse the Spaniard might come up with afterward, it changed nothing. That move had crossed a line, shattering the basic respect Oscar still believed rivals ought to have hold for each other.
Therefore, he wasn't going to make excuses for him this time.
“That's one of the stupidest things I've ever seen on a race track. Whatever excuse he comes up with, I'm not buying it.”
“Honestly? He drove like he was fighting for a world championship.”
Of course, even with Sainz’s nudge, if the gearbox hadn't given out... Sitting alone in the driver's room, Oscar felt his anger slowly curdle into something more bitter. His race pace had been overshadowed by Lando's for almost half a season, but he would have still had a shot at P1.
This season had been such a struggle, hadn’t it? The DNS in Australia and China had turned his car into the best grandstand seat in Formula 1, and even the races he did finish brought little to show for it. His last win, in the Netherlands, felt like a ghost from another life, though it had been less than a year.
But why go back to 2025? The year he’d led the standings for almost half the season, only to end up not even second? The year his teammate shattered him completely? The year he started feeling something strange toward the man who did it?
He was sure, at the end of 2025, that he hated Lando Norris.
That hatred had been so sharp it unsettled even Oscar himself. And now, into a new season, with McLaren’s dominance gone and neither of them in the champion title’s fight, that old rush of blood still clawed at him, screaming.
Beat him. Beat him. Beat him.
Maybe he can consult one of the two Mercedes drivers what it felt like to get beaten by his teammate at the end of this year, Oscar thought with a bit of amusement.
Or maybe he only hated the version of himself that had lost. Oscar rubbed his temples, trying to massage away the dull ache of defeat.
Outside, layered cheers rose and fell. A staff member pushed the door open, hesitated, and spoke in a careful voice, “Oscar, the team’s celebrating... Do you... want to come out?” His eyes were full of that wary tenderness people reserve for the freshly wounded.
Oscar looked at him and let out a gentle laugh.
“Sure, why not?”
Stepping outside, he was hit by waves of heat. The sun was scorching his skin, making him squint. Through his blurred vision, everything outside was drenched in papaya orange. Fans were waving posters, laughing and shouting frantically. Golden confetti is pinning through the air, all of it swirling around his teammate, who had just dominated his first win of the year.
Oscar suddenly felt he didn't belong there.
Still, he pulled himself together and walked over with an easy stride. For a split second, the crowd seemed to hold its breath, then, the celebrations rolled on.
Lando’s face flickered with surprise at the sight of him, which was quickly replaced by embarrassment at his own reaction. He stepped forward as Oscar approached.
“...Hey.”
Oscar gave him a wide and immediate smile, “Congratulations!”
He looked at Lando’s unruly curls, his tanned skin, and the flush of joy across his cheeks.
And then his eyes.
Those wet eyes, still fixed on him, churning with tentativeness, but also glittering with something like hope. Oscar almost thought he was imagining it. Lando’s gaze looked like one of the few purest things left in the world.
For one beat, the noise fell away. The triumph of the win, the sting of the lost...Both seemed to have vanished. Oscar felt as if he and Lando had dissolved into each other’s sight.
People look at what matters to them. But what mattered in that instant wasn’t Oscar, nor was Lando. It was the strange and wordless silence that rose between them.
Neither of them could have explained such silence.
After the photos, Oscar slipped away early and went back to the driver's room to gather his things. The summer break was about to start. He could get at least a month away from all of this. He was almost finished when a soft knock came at the door.
Lando Norris was standing there.
Oscar couldn't hide his surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Weren’t you supposed to be on your way to the bar?
Lando smiled and stepped closer, narrowing the distance between them.
“Osc... thanks for coming out today. I really appreciate it. Especially after everything you went through. Look, I believe in you. It's going to be okay.”
Was Lando trying to make him forget about the Sainz incident? Right. It’s because they were teammates. Former teammates.
A sour taste crept into Oscar’s mouth, but he swallowed it down. He managed to keep his voice level, “Thanks. I'm fine. I'll use the break to recharge.”
Lando hadn’t expected that response. His lips parted, trembling slightly, but no words came.
The thoughts from earlier came flooding back. Did Lando have the slightest idea of how uneasy he was? How bitter? How helpless? Did he know that Oscar had once hated him a little? Did he know how desperately Oscar wanted to beat him? Did he know that, just to stay calm and race with composure, Oscar had to lock every feeling he had for Lando away in some forgotten corner of his mind?
He didn't care anymore.
Oscar rose abruptly, erasing the last scrap of social distance between them. His right hand touched the warm curve of Lando’s neck. He could still feel the faint dampness of sweat there.
The silence between them was thick enough to choke on.
Lando didn’t pull back. Nor did he advance. He just looked at Oscar, as if waiting for his further action. A flicker of frustration arose in Oscar’s chest. To stop Lando’s lips from trembling so much, he kindly pressed his own against them.
The faint taste of champagne bloomed between them. It was heady, almost dizzying.
What am I doing? Oscar thought. Stealing the taste of victory…?
For a second, he felt like he was swaying, weightless, drifting off the surface of the earth. He shut his eyes. He didn’t want to meet Lando’s gaze again. In that way, at least, he could pretend he was still in control.
He was just about to deepen the kiss when a ringtone cut through the quietness. Oscar tried to ignore it, but Lando placed both hands on his chest and gently pushed him away. His eyes had become unreadable again.
Lando pushed him back, and said, in a strangely flat voice, “I think that’s yours.”
It was Mark.
By the time Oscar finished the call—half pep talk, half consolation—Lando was already gone.
On the plane to his holiday destination, Oscar’s phone buzzed with a message from Lando.
“Osc, happy holidays! ^_^”
Something soft gave way in his chest. Oscar smiled to himself. He typed back, “lando, happy holidays!”
The “typing...” bubble appeared and lingered for a long time. In the end, no second message came.
Oscar put his phone away and leaned back in his seat, letting himself look forward to the upcoming summer break.
The coolness of the sea. The scattered birdsong. The wide, empty space between shore and water. These small, solid, tender wonders, along with Lando’s message, pressed against Oscar’s exhaustion and stirred something very deep in him.
His tears were barely a breath away.