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The fan zone was significantly louder than Lando had braced himself for, a wall of humid, reverberating sound that rolled over the barricades in waves.
Not that he should have been surprised. It was Hungary in July, the peak of the European summer leg, and the Hungaroring always felt slightly unhinged in the heat. Hundreds of fans were jammed shoulder-to-shoulder behind the metal barriers, a sea of neon orange and vibrant papaya. Cell phones were hoisted high overhead, flashing in the stark sunlight, and flags snapped lazily in the stagnant air. Every few seconds, above the general roar of the crowd, a specific voice would detach itself and scream his name, then Oscar's, then both of them combined into an overlapping chant.
"Lando!"
"Oscar!"
"McLaren!"
"Papaya!"
Lando lifted both hands in greeting, plastering on his default, high-energy grin as he walked beside Oscar toward the shaded signing pavilion. Underneath the easy showmanship, his skin felt strangely pricklish, a combination of the sweltering temperature and the hyper-awareness that had settled into his bones over the last forty-eight hours whenever Oscar was within arm's reach.
"Bit enthusiastic, aren't they?" Lando muttered out of the corner of his mouth, keeping his smile fixed for the cameras lining the pathway.
Oscar didn't break stride, his eyes sweeping over the crowd with that infuriatingly composed, unflappable calm that usually took Lando three energy drinks and a good session on the simulator to achieve. "You say that every single time."
"Because every single time it's true," Lando shot back softly, waving to a group of teenagers wearing matching bucket hats. "Look at them. They're feral."
"You were waving at them thirty seconds ago like you were running for mayor."
"I'm allowed to be enthusiastic. I'm charming. It's part of the brand."
Oscar's mouth twitched, the tiny, subtle movement at the corner of his lips that Lando had learned to read better than any telemetry trace.
"That was almost a laugh," Lando accused, stepping slightly into Oscar's space as they reached the shaded canopy. "I saw it."
"It wasn't."
"It absolutely was. A little micro-smile."
Oscar looked straight ahead, his expression settling back into a carefully constructed neutral baseline. "I breathed, Lando."
"You breathed while smiling. Devastating admission."
"A crime against humanity."
Lando laughed, a short, bright sound that was instantly swallowed by the roar of the crowd as they finally stepped up to the long signing table.
Rows of black, red, and silver markers were laid out neatly beside stacks of team caps, driver cards, posters, and glossy merchandise. Oscar pulled out his chair and sat down with his usual economy of motion, adjusting his posture before pulling the first poster toward him. Lando dropped into the folding chair beside him, his knee immediately brushing against the frame of Oscar's seat. Instead of taking the marker placed neatly in front of his own nameplate, he reached across the gap and snatched the black Sharpie right from Oscar's side of the table.
Oscar paused, his hand hovering over the desk. He didn't look annoyed; he just looked resigned. He always noticed. Lando could try to be as subtle as a hand grenade, and Oscar would still track every movement with that quiet, analytical focus.
"Don't," Oscar said softly.
Lando uncapped it with an exaggerated *pop*. "I haven't even done anything yet."
"You're holding that marker like a weapon."
"I'm an artist, Oscar. You're suffocating my creative spirit."
"You drew a moustache on my helmet visor last year. In permanent ink."
"And it improved your aerodynamic profile. You gained a tenth in Sector Two."
"It was a terrible moustache. It looked like a caterpillar."
"It gave you character. You were lacking a villain arc."
"I have plenty of character."
"Debatable," Lando grinned, leaning his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand, looking at Oscar sideways. "Highly debatable."
Oscar shook his head, but the tiny, reluctant smile returned, softening the hard edge of his jawline.
The security guards began letting the first group of fans through the queue. What followed was the usual rhythm of a Thursday PR commitment: a blur of bright eyes, trembling hands, hasty greetings, and the rhythmic *scratch-scratch* of permanent ink on glossy paper. Lando signed everything with practiced, effortless ease, occasionally adding little doodles, exclamation points, or inside jokes when a fan asked for something personalized. Oscar was more measured, neat, precise, making genuine eye contact with every person who handed him a hat, passing items back with a polite word of thanks.
Space behind the signing desk was tight. Every time Lando reached for a new stack of cards, his upper arm brushed Oscar's shoulder. Every time Oscar leaned forward to hand a signed cap back to a child, his elbow knocked against Lando's ribs.
Neither of them apologized. Neither of them pulled away faster than necessary. Lando felt every single point of contact like a low-voltage shock, an annoying, hum of awareness that made it hard to concentrate on spelling people's names correctly.
Then a young fan wearing a oversized vintage McLaren shirt stepped up to the table, looking entirely starstruck.
Oscar smiled warmly, leaning forward to sign the hem of the kid's sleeve.
Lando watched the way Oscar's fingers held the pen, the line of his forearm, the precise, steady movement of his wrist. A sudden, restless energy flared in Lando's chest, a desperate need to break the quiet gravity that Oscar carried around himself like armor.
Before Oscar could pull his hand back, Lando reached across the polished wood and plucked the marker straight out of Oscar's grip.
"Oi," Oscar said, blinking in surprise.
"Hold still," Lando commanded, shifting his chair two inches closer.
Oscar's brows pulled together. "What are you doing?"
"Signing your shirt."
Oscar looked down at his own chest, where the tip of the black marker was hovering barely a centimeter above the team-issue cotton. "You're not signing my shirt."
"I'm the lead driver. I do what I want."
"You're going to ruin a perfectly good team kit."
"It's already got my name on the back of it, mate. It's inherently ruined."
"That doesn't make any logical sense."
"It makes total sense in my head, which is where it counts."
Oscar laughed, a real, genuine laugh that echoed from his chest, short and rich.
The fan in front of them started giggling, and the sound infected Lando immediately. Delighted with his own success, Lando made an enormous, theatrical show of examining Oscar's chest, squinting as if assessing a canvas at the Louvre.
"Right. Where's the prime real estate here?" Lando mused out loud.
Oscar looked at him with sheer incredulity. "Real estate? On a polo shirt?"
"For the autograph. It needs to be prominent."
"You're an absolute idiot."
"Professional opinion, thank you."
Lando leaned in closer. The scent of Oscar's hotel soap, something sharp, woody, and distinctly him cut through the heavy smell of hot asphalt and sunblock. Lando held his breath for a split second, pressing the felt tip of the marker firmly against the fabric just above Oscar's collarbone. With meticulous drama, he drew a single, clean, horizontal line.
Oscar didn't move. He didn't pull back. He just watched Lando's face.
Slowly, the amusement bled out of Oscar's expression, replaced by something far more still.
It happened in the span of a single heartbeat. Lando finished the mark, but he didn't pull the pen away. He looked up, and his gaze collided with Oscar's.
The roar of the fan zone, the screaming, the music, the clicking of camera shutters, seemed to drop away, fading into background hum. Oscar wasn't looking at the pen anymore. He was looking directly into Lando's eyes. His expression was unreadable, but his dark eyes were wide, tracking the subtle rise and fall of Lando's chest. His gaze flicked down to Lando's mouth, then back up to his eyes, slow and deliberate.
Lando's grin faltered. His hand remained pressed lightly against Oscar's chest, feeling the solid, rhythmic beat of his heart through the fabric.
Neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed.
Then, Oscar blinked, the shutter closing, the calm mask slipping back into place.
"Finished?" Oscar's voice was lower than before, a rough gravelly edge to it.
Lando forced his hand to retract, looking down at the tiny, meaningless black streak on the pristine white logo. "It's a masterpiece."
Oscar looked down, inspecting it with a deadpan stare. "You've literally just drawn a line."
"It's minimalist. It's abstract. It represents the duality of our driver pairing."
"You drew a smudge."
"Minimalist," Lando insisted, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Oscar shook his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, breaking the strange spell that had descended over them.
"Lando! Over here, please!" a photographer shouted from behind the barrier, and the spell shattered completely.
"Coming!" Lando called out, tossing the marker back onto Oscar's side of the desk.
As he let go, their fingers brushed, the warm skin of Oscar's knuckles scraping against Lando's palm.
It was nothing. A completely routine, accidental graze.
Except Oscar didn't instantly pull his hand back. He let his fingers linger against Lando's skin for half a second longer than necessary, his dark eyes fixed on their joined hands before finally pulling away.
And Lando, his skin burning where they had touched, noticed every single millisecond of it.
---
The remaining forty minutes of the autograph session passed in a strange, hyper-real haze.
To anyone watching, to the PR handlers, the photographers, the hundreds of fans filing past, everything looked completely normal. Lando was his usual energetic self, cracking jokes, pulling faces for selfies, and throwing crumpled paper balls at the security guards. Oscar played the straight man, delivering dry, witty retorts with effortless timing.
When a teenager asked who was the more competitive of the two, they instantly turned and pointed at each other without a moment's hesitation.
"Definitely him," Oscar stated calmly to the fan. "He calculates his losses in his sleep."
"Liar!" Lando gasped, clutching his chest in mock agony. "I am a paragon of grace!"
"You challenged me to a reaction-time test on the lights last week because I beat you by three thousandths in Sector One."
"You cheated in that session!"
"I didn't cheat. I drove faster."
"You used a different engine mode! I know you did!"
"It was the standard mapping, Lando."
"Strategy," Lando insisted grandly, leaning back in his chair and lacing his hands behind his head, looking unbearably pleased with the laughter he was drawing from the crowd. "It's called tactical brilliance."
Oscar turned his head to look at him. He didn't say anything for a long moment. He just looked at Lando, at the messy curls sticking to his forehead, at the flush on his cheekbones, at the stupidly bright grin stretching across his face.
"You're impossible," Oscar said softly.
"And yet you keep coming back for more," Lando shot back lightly, the words tumbling out of his mouth before his brain could filter them.
Oscar's smile faltered.
It was a tiny, almost imperceptible shift, but Lando saw it. The humor drained out of Oscar's eyes, replaced by a dark, intense gravity that made Lando's stomach drop into his boots.
Lando's smile faded too.
The noise of the fan zone buzzed around them like background static. For three seconds, they just stared at each other across the small wooden table, the banter suddenly stripped away, leaving something raw and exposed sitting right between them.
Then the next fan stepped forward, handing over a poster, and the moment dissolved.
When the session was finally wrapped up by the media team, both of them stood up quickly, stretching their stiff backs with unanimous relief. The heat under the canopy had become stifling.
Lando grabbed a sweat-beaded bottle of water from the cooler, unscrewing the cap with shaking fingers, while Oscar gathered his phone and driver card.
"Your autograph technique is atrocious, by the way," Oscar noted calmly, capping his pen.
Lando took a long gulp of water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You're welcome. That shirt is now worth millions."
"I didn't ask for your signature."
"You'll treasure it when I'm a world champion again."
"I'll probably just wash the shirt tonight," Oscar said, tossing the pen into his kit bag.
Lando froze, the water bottle halfway to his mouth. "Don't."
Oscar paused. His hand stayed inside the bag.
The tone of Lando's voice had dropped, no longer playing to the crowd, no longer joking. It was sharp, quiet, and completely unguarded.
Oscar slowly pulled his hand back out and turned to face him. He looked down at the tiny black line Lando had drawn over his heart, then raised his eyes back to Lando's face.
"Why?" Oscar asked softly.
Lando opened his mouth to deliver a quick, witty deflection. *Because it's my art. Because you'll ruin the cotton. Because I said so.*
Nothing came out.
For the first time all afternoon, his brain went completely blank. He just stood there, holding his cold water bottle, staring into Oscar's steady, unblinking gaze.
Oscar waited. He didn't push, he didn't smirk, he just stood there in the humid summer air, letting the silence stretch between them until it became heavy with unspoken things.
Then, mercifully, Oscar's lips curved into a tiny, private smile.
"Thought so," Oscar murmured.
He turned on his heel and began walking toward the air-conditioned refuge of the McLaren hospitality unit.
Lando stared after him, his heart hammering against his ribs. "What does that mean?" he called out, his voice sounding slightly strangled even to his own ears.
Oscar didn't turn around, but Lando saw his shoulders shift as he chuckled. "You'll figure it out, Norris."
Lando stood alone under the hot canvas of the pavilion, watching Oscar's back disappear into the paddock.
The worst part was, Lando suspected he already had.
---
By the time they made it through the evening debriefs, the engineering meetings and the endless shuttle ride back to the hotel, Lando had convinced himself that Oscar was doing this on purpose.
It was the only logical explanation. Oscar was playing some kind of psychological mind game, deliberately trying to throw him off balance.
This wasn't entirely a new concept. Oscar was a master of subtle, low-key mental warfare on track, never raising his voice, never getting flustered, just quietly laying down blistering lap times while everyone else panicked.
The problem was that today, Lando couldn't figure out if Oscar was doing it to win a race, or if he was doing it because he was losing his mind just as fast as Lando was.
They were walking through the quiet, air-conditioned marble lobby of the hotel when Oscar abruptly stopped dead in his tracks.
Lando took two more steps before realizing the rhythm of their footsteps had broken. He spun around, pulling his hands out of his hoodie pockets.
"What?"
Oscar was staring down at his phone, his face illuminated by the harsh blue light of the screen. "Nothing."
"You stopped."
"I am aware."
"Why?"
"Checking something."
Lando sighed, turning around and walking back toward him, invading Oscar's personal space out of pure habit. "What is it? Did the engineers send new telemetry?"
Oscar looked up from the screen, his dark eyes fixed on Lando, a strange, unreadable expression settling over his features. "Someone posted a photo from the signing session."
Lando's stomach did a sudden, uncomfortable flip. "Oh. From the crowd?"
Oscar didn't answer. He simply flipped the phone around so the screen faced Lando.
It was a high-resolution shot taken from the front row of the barricades. The photographer had captured them at the exact moment Lando had been leaning across the table, marker in hand, drawing that stupid line on Oscar's shirt.
In the photo, the crowd around them was a blurred motion of hands and flags, but the two of them were in razor-sharp focus. Lando was leaning in close, his face tilted up, looking at Oscar with an intensity that made Lando's cheeks burn instantly. And Oscar was looking down at him, his expression completely devoid of his usual guarded distance, his mouth slightly parted, his eyes fixed on Lando's face with a quiet, heavy focus.
They didn't look like teammates sharing a joke. They looked like two people in a crowded room who had completely forgotten anyone else was there.
The ambient chatter of the hotel lobby seemed to mute. Lando stared at the image, his thumb twitching against his seam.
"Huh," Lando managed to say, his voice flat.
Oscar raised a single eyebrow. "'Huh'?"
"It's... a good photo. Good lighting."
"That's really what you're taking from this?"
"I look frame-ready. You look like you're about to murder me."
Oscar's mouth twitched, but he didn't pull the phone away immediately. "We look serious."
"We weren't," Lando lied instantly, looking anywhere but at the photo. "We were trying not to laugh at your shirt."
"Right," Oscar said softly. "Of course."
He locked the phone with a sharp *click* and slid it into his pocket. They stood there in the middle of the lobby for a beat too long, surrounded by the faint smell of polished marble and expensive lilies.
"You were going to sign my shirt," Oscar said, breaking the silence as he turned toward the glass elevators.
Lando fell into step beside him. "I did sign your shirt."
"You drew a line, Lando. A literal streak of black ink."
"A signature is, at its core, a series of lines. Mine is just minimalist."
"That's not how orthography works."
"It is in my world."
Oscar rolled his eyes, pressing the elevator call button with a sharp tap. The metal doors slid open instantly, revealing a mirrored, wood-paneled interior.
They stepped inside together. The doors closed, sealing them in.
"You're keeping it, though," Lando said, leaning his shoulder against the mirrored wall, watching Oscar's reflection.
Oscar pressed the button for the third floor. "Keeping what?"
"The shirt."
"I haven't decided yet. It might need a heavy-duty stain remover."
"You're keeping it."
Oscar turned his head to look directly at Lando's reflection. "You seem strangely invested in a piece of team merchandise."
"I put artistic effort into that line, Oscar. It required precision."
"It took you half a second."
"An intense half-second."
The elevator hummed as it climbed. Neither of them spoke as the floor indicator ticked up from 1 to 2.
Oscar shifted his weight, turning away from the mirror to face Lando directly. "Why did you tell me not to wash it?"
Lando stared at the glowing number '3'.
He could have made a joke about team branding. He could have said he didn't want Oscar looking scruffy. He had five different deflections lined up in his head.
Instead, he looked down at his own sneakers, his chest tightening. "Didn't want you to."
Oscar stayed still, waiting. "That's not a real answer, Lando."
"I know."
The elevator chimed softly, announcing the third floor. The doors slid open, revealing the quiet, dimly lit hallway with its thick patterned carpet.
Oscar didn't move immediately. He held Lando's gaze for one long, lingering moment. Then, his face softened, a small, almost private smile touching the corners of his lips.
"Okay," Oscar murmured.
He stepped out of the elevator. Lando stood frozen for a second before scrambling out after him, his heart hammering against his ribs.
They walked down the silent corridor side-by-side until they reached their doors. Rooms 307 and 308, directly opposite each other, just as the team always booked them.
Oscar reached his door first, tapping his keycard against the electronic lock. The light flashed green with a soft beep. He turned around, resting his hand on the handle.
"Dinner?" Oscar asked casually.
"Obviously," Lando said, trying to sound relaxed. "I'm starving."
"Seven?"
"Seven."
Oscar nodded once. "See you then."
He opened his door and stepped inside, the heavy wood swinging shut behind him with a soft, final click.
Lando stood in the middle of the hallway for a long time, staring at the brass numbers '308'. He pressed his palm against his forehead, letting out a long, ragged breath.
"Brilliant," he muttered to the empty hall. "Absolutely brilliant."
Because now he was going to spend the next hour and fifteen minutes pacing his room, trying to figure out why Oscar had looked at him like that and why every part of him wished Oscar hadn't stopped.
---
At six forty-three, Lando was lying star-shaped across his hotel bed, staring blankly at the ceiling fan, when his phone buzzed against his hip.
He snatched it up instantly.
Oscar: *Found something.*
Lando frowned, typing back with one hand.
Lando: *That sounds ominous. Did you find a spider in your room again? Because I am not coming over to kill it.*
The three little typing dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Oscar: *Your marker.*
Lando sat up straight on the edge of the mattress.
Lando: *How on earth do you have my marker? I left it on the table.*
Oscar: *You gave it to me when you were done vandalizing my clothes.*
Lando: *Technically I gave you my autograph. The marker was just the delivery mechanism.*
Oscar: *Technically you drew a line on my chest and then handed me the weapon.*
Lando smiled despite himself, the tight knot in his chest loosening just a fraction.
Lando: *Keep it then.*
There was a noticeably longer pause this time. Lando watched the screen, his thumb hovering over the glass.
Oscar: *Why?*
Lando stared at the single word. His heart gave a heavy, deliberate thud.
He started typing: *Because you might need it.* Delete.
He typed: *Because I want you to have it.* Delete.
He typed: *So you remember today.* Delete.
He wiped his palm against his shorts and typed:
Lando: *A souvenir.*
The response came back almost instantly.
Oscar: *Of what?*
Lando's smile faded entirely. He stared at the screen, the silence of his hotel room suddenly heavy.
*Of what?*
Of the crowd screaming their names. Of the heat. Of the way Oscar's chest had felt under his hand. Of the look in Oscar's eyes that had nothing to do with racing, nothing to do with McLaren, and everything to do with the terrifying, magnetic pull that had been building between them for months.
He could say it. He could type it out right now, send it across the hallway, and break the wall down completely.
Instead, his cowardice won.
Lando: *My artistic career, obviously. It peak today.*
A moment passed, and then:
Oscar: *Tragic. Your career was so young.*
Lando let out a short, genuine laugh, falling back against his pillows.
Lando: *You wound me, Piastri.*
Oscar: *You'll survive. See you downstairs in ten.*
Lando looked at the text for far longer than was healthy. He tossed the phone onto the nightstand and dragged both hands over his face.
"Get a grip," he whispered to the empty room. "Just get a fucking grip."
The phone buzzed again. He grabbed it instantly.
Oscar: *And yes, I'm wearing the shirt.*
Lando's heart didn't just thud this time; it practically leapt into his throat. He stared at the words, a slow, unstoppable grin spreading across his face.
Lando: *Good.*
Oscar didn't reply. He didn't need to.
For reasons Lando was too terrified to fully dissect, that single text felt like a line being crossed—and there was no turning back.
---
Dinner was supposed to be completely casual.
That was the official story they had told their press officer. No team management, no PR handlers, no cameras, no sponsor obligations. Just two teammates finding a quiet, low-key spot in the city to eat pasta and pretend the pressure of a race weekend wasn't waiting for them in the morning.
It lasted approximately four minutes before reality intruded.
"That's the third person who's taken a photo of you since we sat down," Oscar observed dryly, slicing through his bruschetta with neat precision.
Lando glanced over his shoulder toward the bar. A tourist in a red polo shirt instantly looked away, pretending to be deeply interested in a liquor bottle on the shelf.
"I wasn't even looking at him," Lando muttered, turning back around.
"You were. You looked right at his camera lens."
"I did not."
"You raised your eyebrow at him, Lando."
Lando grinned, taking a sip of his sparkling water. "Maybe he just thinks I'm exceptionally handsome. Can you blame him?"
"He probably does," Oscar said casually.
The words were spoken with such flat, matter-of-fact certainty that Lando nearly choked on his water. He coughed, setting his glass down with a loud *clink*, staring at Oscar in utter disbelief.
Oscar continued eating his meal as if he hadn't just dropped a bombshell into the middle of the table.
"What?" Oscar asked, looking up with an innocent blink.
"Nothing," Lando squeaked, clearing his throat. "You... you just said I was handsome."
Oscar shrugged, his expression serene. "I said he probably thinks you're handsome. Objective observation."
"That's not the same thing at all!"
"Isn't it?"
Lando waited for the punchline. He waited for Oscar to smirk, to pull a face, to turn it into a joke about Lando's ego.
Oscar didn't. He just picked up his glass, taking a slow drink, his dark eyes watching Lando over the rim with a quiet, steady heat.
"You're horrible," Lando whispered, feeling a sudden surge of warmth creeping up his neck.
"I know," Oscar replied mildly.
Lando shook his head, but he couldn't stop the smile from breaking across his face.
They were tucked into a corner booth of a small, family-run trattoria three blocks away from the main tourist strip. The wooden tables were bare, lit only by small candles stuck in old wine bottles, and the open windows let in the warm evening breeze carrying the distant hum of Budapest traffic.
Oscar had kept his word. He was wearing the team shirt from earlier.
Lando had noticed the moment Oscar had stepped out of Room 308. He had tried desperately not to look at it, but his eyes had immediately drawn to the chest panel.
The little black line Lando had drawn was still there, sharp and dark against the white fabric, sitting directly over Oscar's heart.
Lando pointed at it with his fork. "You really didn't change."
Oscar looked down at his chest. "I told you I was wearing it."
"You could have put on a normal t-shirt. We're off the clock."
"I like this shirt."
"It's vandalized, Oscar. By an amateur."
"I don't mind the vandal."
Lando's fingers tightened around his fork until his knuckles turned white. "It's literally just a streak of ink."
"You keep saying that," Oscar noted softly, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. "As if you're trying to convince yourself."
"Because it is!"
"Then stop staring at it."
Lando opened his mouth to deliver a scathing retort. He closed it. He opened it again.
Oscar's mouth curved into a slow, victorious smirk. "Thought so."
"You are enjoying this way too much," Lando accused, leaning back into his seat and crossing his arms over his chest.
"A little bit, yeah. It's rare to see you completely speechless."
"I am taking a tactical pause."
"Sure you are."
For the next hour, the conversation shifted back into safer, more familiar territory. They talked about the setup for Free Practice 1, the degradation of the soft tires in the heat, the ridiculous thermal camera images from the garage, and a hilarious argument between two mechanics over a misplaced torque wrench.
Then, as the wine bottle emptied and the restaurant grew quieter, the talk drifted away from motorsport entirely.
They talked about music, about Oscar's childhood in Melbourne, about Lando's obsession with golf, about places they wanted to travel when the season finally ended in December.
Oscar mentioned a specific ramen place in Tokyo he'd been trying to get a reservation at for two years.
"Oh, I went there last November," Lando said casually, popping an olive into his mouth. "It's incredible. Best ramen I've ever had."
Oscar paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "You went? And you didn't tell me?"
"You didn't ask."
"I shouldn't have to ask, Lando. We were in Tokyo at the same time!"
"You were doing sponsor events with your manager! I wasn't going to interrupt!"
"I would have ditched them for good ramen," Oscar said, his tone entirely serious. "You're a terrible teammate."
"I'm a great teammate! I saved you from a heavy food coma!"
Underneath the table, Lando extended his leg and nudged Oscar's shin with his sneaker.
Oscar didn't pull his leg away. Instead, he nudged back, his shoe sliding against Lando's ankle.
Their ankles rested against each other. Warm. Solid.
Neither of them moved away.
It was a tiny point of contact, just two shoes resting together under a tablecloth, but Lando felt as though every nerve ending in his body had suddenly migrated to his left leg.
He looked down at the table. Oscar looked down too.
Then, very slowly, both of them looked up.
The casual atmosphere evaporated instantly. The candlelight flickered between them, casting long shadows across Oscar's sharp cheekbones.
Lando swallowed hard. "You're doing it again."
Oscar's voice dropped an octave, smooth and quiet. "Doing what?"
"Looking at me like that."
Lando's heart began to thump against his ribs, a heavy, insistent rhythm. "Like what, Oscar?"
Oscar didn't break eye contact. He didn't blink. "Like I'm trying to figure out what you're thinking."
It was the closest either of them had ever come to acknowledging the elephant in the room. Not the racing, not the media, but the strange, magnetic tension that had been pulling them together for months.
Lando leaned forward, his elbows resting on the wood. "Maybe I'm thinking the exact same thing."
Oscar's gaze flicked down to Lando's lips, then back up to his eyes. "Maybe you are."
"Excuse me, gentlemen? Would you like to see the dessert menu?"
The waiter appeared out of nowhere, holding two leather-bound menus.
Both Lando and Oscar jumped slightly, pulling back at the exact same instant, their ankles untangling under the table.
"Ah, no, just the bill, please," Lando managed to say, his voice a little too loud for the quiet restaurant.
When the waiter walked away, Lando let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. "This is ridiculous."
Oscar picked up his water glass. "What is?"
"Us. Sitting here pretending we're just having a normal dinner."
Oscar looked at him for a long moment, the humor gone from his face. "Yeah," he said softly. "It is."
---
The walk back to the hotel was quiet.
The summer night air was thick and balmy, carrying the scent of river water and ozone from an approaching thunderstorm. They walked side-by-side down the quiet side streets, their shoulders brushing with every few steps. Neither of them moved apart to create space.
Halfway back, under the dim yellow light of a streetlamp near an empty park, Oscar stopped walking.
Lando took two steps before turning around. "What's up?"
Oscar reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out the black marker from the signing session, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger.
Lando stared at it in disbelief. "You actually brought it with you to dinner?"
"You told me to keep it."
"I didn't think you were going to carry it around in your pocket like a talisman!"
Oscar rolled the marker between his long fingers, the plastic clicking softly. "You gave it to me."
"By accident!"
"You said it was a souvenir, Lando."
Lando's chest felt tight. He stepped closer to Oscar, stopping just outside his personal space. "It is a souvenir."
Oscar held the pen out toward Lando, butt-end first. "Then sign something properly."
Lando looked at the pen, then up at Oscar's face. "Here? On the street?"
"Why not?"
"Because we're standing under a streetlight in central Budapest and someone's going to take a photo!"
"People take photos of us everywhere. You're an F1 driver, Lando. You sign things on streets all the time."
"Not like this," Lando whispered before he could stop himself.
Oscar's expression softened, the sharp edges melting away under the warm streetlamp glow. "Then where?"
Lando looked at the black marker. He looked at the white shirt resting against Oscar's chest. He looked into Oscar's dark, waiting eyes.
"My room," Lando said quietly.
Oscar didn't hesitate. He didn't joke. He just nodded once, a solid, unwavering gesture.
"Okay," Oscar said. "Your room."
They started walking again, faster this time, neither of them speaking another word for the rest of the way back.
---
The hotel corridor on the third floor was completely deserted when they stepped out of the elevator.
It felt unnaturally silent. Every tiny sound was magnified tenfold, the soft *shhh-shhh* of their shoes on the plush carpet, the hum of the air conditioning units, the sharp, metallic *click* of Lando pulling his keycard from his pocket.
They stopped right between their doors. Room 307. Room 308.
Oscar turned to face him, leaning his shoulder lightly against the doorframe of 308.
Lando stood opposite him, his keycard held tightly between his fingers, his heart thumping a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"So," Lando said, his voice sounding slightly hollow in the quiet hall.
"So," Oscar repeated softly.
"You want me to sign something."
"I do."
"And you brought the marker."
"I did."
"You're weird, Piastri."
"You're the one who started this whole thing by drawing on me."
"Fair point."
Oscar smiled, that quiet, devastating little curve of his mouth that made Lando's brain short-circuit.
Lando leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms in a desperate attempt to look composed. "What am I signing, then? A cap? A poster?"
Oscar looked down at his own shirt—at the white cotton stretched across his chest, at the tiny black streak sitting over his heart.
Then he looked back up, catching Lando's eyes with an intensity that made Lando's breath hitch.
"You could sign the shirt properly this time," Oscar suggested softly.
Lando let out a short, nervous laugh. "You've been wearing a team shirt to a nice restaurant just so I'd draw on it again?"
"No."
"That sounded suspiciously like a 'yes'."
Oscar took one step across the narrow hallway, closing the distance between them until he was standing directly in front of Lando.
"Maybe I just wanted to see if you'd notice," Oscar murmured, his voice dropping low.
"I noticed," Lando breathed. "I noticed the second you walked out of your room."
"I know."
The words hung between them in the warm, air-conditioned hallway.
Lando's smile completely faded. Oscar was standing so close now that Lando could smell the faint scent of his cologne, could see the golden flecks in his dark eyes, could see the tiny, rapid pulse beating in the hollow of Oscar's throat.
For a long moment, neither of them breathed.
Lando slowly reached out his hand. Oscar reached into his pocket and handed over the black marker.
Their fingers brushed again, not a quick graze this time, but a deliberate, slow handoff. Lando's thumb slid across the warm, smooth skin of Oscar's knuckles as he took the pen.
Neither of them pulled away immediately. Lando's heart was hammering so hard he was convinced Oscar could hear it.
Finally, Lando let his hand drop, uncapping the marker with his thumb. The sharp scent of permanent ink filled the small space between them.
"Where?" Lando asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Oscar looked down at his shirt. "Anywhere you want."
"That's a dangerous invitation, Piastri."
"You're the artist, Norris. You tell me."
Lando held the pen hovering above the fabric. His hand was trembling slightly, a subtle vibration he prayed Oscar wouldn't notice.
He looked up into Oscar's eyes. "Do you actually want my autograph, Oscar? Or are we just playing a stupid game?"
Oscar's expression shifted. The guarded, cool demeanor he wore like armor completely dissolved, leaving him looking raw, quiet, and startlingly vulnerable.
"I think," Oscar said slowly, every word weighed and deliberate, "I've wanted something from you for a very long time."
Lando froze. The hallway seemed to contract around them, shrinking until there was nothing in the universe except the two of them and the heavy air between them.
"What?" Lando managed to ask, his voice cracking slightly.
Oscar looked down at his own sneakers, a faint, genuine flush rising on his cheekbones. It was so completely un-Oscar-like that it made Lando's chest ache with a sudden, overwhelming sweetness.
"I don't fully know yet," Oscar confessed softly.
"That doesn't sound like you," Lando tried to joke, but there was no strength behind it. "You always have a plan."
"I know." Oscar looked back up, his dark eyes searching Lando's face. "Can I come in?"
Lando's heart gave a massive, violent thud against his ribs.
"Yeah," Lando breathed. "Yeah, come in."
Lando tapped his keycard against the lock. The door beeped, the mechanism unlatched, and Lando pushed it open, stepping backward into his room.
Oscar followed him inside. The heavy wooden door swung shut behind them with a soft, definitive *thud*, locking them into the quiet, dimly lit room.
---
The hotel room was exactly as Lando had left it two hours ago.
His suitcase was sitting open on the luggage rack, a crumpled hoodie was draped over the armchair, his laptop was glowing softly on the desk, and a half-empty bottle of water sat on the nightstand.
It was entirely ordinary, completely safe.
And suddenly, with Oscar standing in the middle of it, it felt like the most dangerous place on earth.
Oscar stood near the entryway, his hands buried in his pockets, his posture stiff. Lando remained a few feet away near the foot of the bed, still holding the uncapped black marker in his right hand.
The air conditioning hummed softly overhead. Outside, the distant rumble of thunder rolled across the Budapest skyline.
"You know," Lando said, forcing a nervous smile onto his face as he looked down at the pen, "this is an insane amount of drama just for an autograph."
Oscar let out a short, quiet laugh, the tension in his shoulders breaking just a fraction. "Shut up, Lando."
"There he is. The dry wit returns."
Oscar shook his head, but his smile slowly faded as he took two deliberate steps toward Lando.
"I meant what I said out there," Oscar murmured, stopping right in front of him.
Lando's stomach coiled into a tight knot. "About... wanting something?"
"Yeah."
"Okay," Lando whispered.
"I don't know what the rules are," Oscar admitted, his voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner. "I don't know how we do this without messing up everything we have."
"Okay."
"But I think..." Oscar swallowed hard, his dark eyes locking onto Lando's with a fierce, terrified honesty. "I think it might be you. It's been you for months."
Lando stared at him.
For the first time in his life, Lando Norris had no witty comeback, no sarcastic deflection, no self-deprecating joke to hide behind.
Oscar looked nervous, genuinely, deeply nervous and seeing that unguarded fear on the face of the most composed driver on the grid shattered every remaining defense Lando had built up.
Lando closed the distance between them, stepping right into Oscar's space.
"That's really convenient," Lando whispered.
Oscar blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"Because I think it's been you, too," Lando confessed, his voice shaking slightly. "And I've been going out of my mind trying to pretend it wasn't."
A tiny, breathless laugh escaped Oscar's lips, his head dipping forward in relief. "That's a terrible confession, Lando."
"I'm a race car driver, mate, not a poet."
"You're not even a good driver," Oscar murmured, looking back up, his eyes shining in the dim light.
"Oh, fuck off," Lando grinned.
Oscar laughed properly then, a warm, rich sound and as he looked up, they were already so close that neither of them had to move very far.
Lando lifted his left hand. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his palm hovering in the air between them, giving Oscar time to step back.
Oscar didn't step back. He leaned in.
Lando brought his hand resting gently against the side of Oscar's face. His skin was warm, smooth, the faint shadow of stubble pricking against Lando's palm.
Oscar inhaled sharply, a tiny, catching intake of breath that vibrated against Lando's thumb.
"Still okay?" Lando asked softly, his thumb tracing the sharp line of Oscar's cheekbone.
"Yeah," Oscar breathed. "Yeah, Lando."
"You can tell me to stop anytime. Seriously."
"I don't want you to stop." Oscar's dark eyes locked onto Lando's mouth. "You're taking ages, by the way."
Lando let out a quiet chuckle. "Sorry. Didn't realize there was a pit-stop time limit."
"There isn't."
"Good."
Lando leaned in the rest of the way. Oscar met him halfway.
The first kiss was almost laughably gentle, a quiet, tentative press of lips in the dark hotel room. It wasn't explosive or dramatic; it was a slow, soft opening, a question being asked and answered in the span of a single breath.
When they pulled back an inch, Oscar blinked, looking slightly surprised. Lando stared at him, his heart thudding wildly in his chest.
"That was..." Lando started.
"Yeah," Oscar agreed softly.
"A bit..."
"Yeah."
Oscar's mouth curved into a faint smile, and Lando felt a sudden, profound wave of warmth rush through his veins.
"We're terrible at this," Oscar whispered, his breath fanning across Lando's cheek.
"We've literally never done this before," Lando pointed out. "Give us a second to get the setup right."
Oscar laughed quietly, his forehead dropping forward to rest against Lando's shoulder.
And somehow, that small moment of shared humor broke the last remaining barrier of awkwardness.
When Oscar lifted his head back up, his eyes were clear, dark, and entirely sure. He reached out, his long fingers catching in the fabric of Lando's hoodie, pulling him back in.
The second kiss was completely different.
It was deeper, firmer, filled with months of built-up frustration, unspoken glances, and hidden longing. Lando's hand slid from Oscar's cheek down to the back of his neck, his fingers tangling in Oscar's soft brown hair. Oscar let out a low sound in the back of his throat, his grip on Lando's hoodie tightening as he pulled Lando closer, pressing their bodies together until there was no space left between them.
Lando tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his mouth sliding against Oscar's with a rhythm that felt dangerously natural. Oscar responded instantly, his lips parting, tasting of red wine and sparkling water, hot and insistent.
They kissed until they were both breathless, until the thunder outside had turned into a steady, pouring rain against the windowpane.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were flushed, their chests heaving, their foreheads resting together in the quiet room.
Lando let out a long, shaky breath, his hands resting on Oscar's shoulders. "This is probably a terrible idea."
"Probably," Oscar agreed softly, his thumb stroking Lando's hip through his hoodie.
"We're teammates."
"I am aware."
"There are fifty cameras pointing at us twelve hours a day."
"I know."
"If Zak finds out, he'll execute us."
"Probably."
Lando let out a huff of laughter, pulling back just enough to look Oscar in the eyes. "So?"
Oscar's dark eyes were steady, unblinking, filled with an absolute, terrifying certainty. His hand slid down Lando's side, his fingers intertwining with Lando's, squeezing tightly.
"So," Oscar murmured, "I still don't want to stop."
Something deep inside Lando's chest settled into place, a jagged piece finally snapping into position.
"Me neither," Lando whispered.
They stood together in the middle of the hotel room for a long time, their hands locked, listening to the rain lash against the window glass.
No press officers, no telemetry data, no fan zone screaming. Just the quiet reality of what they had finally allowed themselves to have.
After a few minutes, Oscar glanced over toward the desk, his eyes catching the capped black marker sitting beside Lando's laptop.
A faint smirk returned to Oscar's lips. "What about my shirt?"
Lando burst out laughing, throwing his head back. "You're still thinking about that stupid shirt?"
"You promised me a proper signature, Norris. I'm holding you to your contractual obligations."
Lando picked up the marker, popping the cap off with a dramatic flourish. "Right then. Turn around."
Oscar raised an eyebrow, but he obeyed, turning his back to Lando.
Lando stepped in close, placing his left hand gently on Oscar's shoulder to steady him. He placed the tip of the marker against the center of the white fabric, right between Oscar's shoulder blades.
Carefully, neatly, Lando signed his actual name across the back of the team polo shirt. Not a joke, not an abstract line, but his genuine, sweeping signature.
When he finished, he capped the pen with a firm *snap*. "There. Better?"
Oscar turned back around, twisting his neck to try and look at his own back. "Is it legible?"
"It's beautiful. It's an original Norris."
Oscar looked at Lando, his dark eyes softening into something infinitely gentle. He reached out, taking the marker from Lando's hand, and slid it into his own jacket pocket.
Lando raised an eyebrow. "You're keeping the pen too?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
Oscar smiled, a small, secret thing meant only for the two of them. "So you have to sign something else next time."
Lando stared at him, his heart doing a strange, fluttering gymnastics routine in his chest. He laughed softly, stepping into Oscar's space once more.
"You're already planning the sequel, are you?"
Oscar shrugged, his hands resting lightly on Lando's waist. "Maybe."
"Can't wait," Lando murmured.
---
They stayed in Lando's room for another hour, sitting side-by-side on the edge of the bed, doing absolutely nothing productive.
That was the strange, wonderful part. After months of unspoken tension and hyper-analyzed interactions, there was no sudden rush to figure everything out. The panic was gone, replaced by an easy, comfortable quiet.
They talked about karting stories from when they were kids. Oscar admitted he had watched all of Lando's early Formula 3 races on YouTube before he'd ever met him.
"You watched my races?" Lando gasped, nudging Oscar's shoulder with his own. "You were a fanboy!"
"I was analyzing the competition," Oscar corrected smoothly. "There's a difference."
"You were a fan. Admit it."
"I thought your overtakes were reckless."
"They were brilliant!"
"They were lucky," Oscar countered, but his eyes were crinkling with quiet affection.
Lando looked at him, at the way the dim lamp light caught the side of Oscar's face, at the way their hands were still loosely joined on the duvet between them.
"What?" Oscar asked, noticing the silence.
"Nothing," Lando said, shrugging. "Just looking at you."
Oscar went quiet. The casual words settled heavily into the space between them. He looked down at their joined hands, his thumb tracing the knuckles of Lando's index finger.
"I think I like it when you look at me," Oscar admitted softly.
Lando squeezed his hand, his heart feeling ridiculously full.
Outside, the thunderstorm had passed, leaving behind a quiet, rain-soaked night. Tomorrow morning, the circus would restart. There would be strategy meetings, engineering debriefs, media scrums, and thousands of eyes watching their every move from the grandstands.
Eventually, they would have to step out of Room 307 and become Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri again, teammates fighting for the same piece of tarmac, professional drivers representing a multi-million dollar team.
But tonight, in the quiet of a hotel room in Hungary, they could just be themselves.
Oscar leaned his head sideways, resting it lightly against Lando's shoulder. Lando tilted his head, resting his cheek against Oscar's soft hair, inhaling the faint, familiar scent of his soap.
Neither of them spoke for a long time. They just sat together in the quiet room, watching the rain trickle down the glass.
Eventually, Oscar let out a quiet huff of laughter.
"What's funny?" Lando asked softly.
"I just realized something terrible."
"That usually happens when you think too hard."
"We're going to have to do a joint press conference on Sunday," Oscar noted, his voice muffled against Lando's shoulder.
Lando winced. "Oh, God. You're right. Tom is going to murder us if we look at each other weird."
"You're going to laugh. I know you are."
"I am not going to laugh!"
"You're going to pull a face the second a journalist asks about teamwork."
"I am a professional, Oscar! I have immense self-control!"
Oscar lifted his head, giving Lando a deadpan stare. "You drew a line on my chest during an official signing event today."
Lando grinned, completely unbothered. "And it was the best decision I've made all weekend."
Oscar looked at him for a long beat, his expression softening into that quiet, steady warmth that Lando was rapidly growing addicted to.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the black marker, and set it neatly on Lando's nightstand.
"Keep it here," Oscar said softly.
Lando looked at the pen, then back up at Oscar. "Why?"
"So it's here for next time."
Lando's chest felt light, the lingering panic from earlier entirely gone. He leaned in, pressing a soft, warm kiss to Oscar's cheek, right near his jawline.
"Okay," Lando whispered against his skin. "Next time."
Oscar stood up slowly, stretching his arms over his head. "Come on. We have FP1 in eight hours. We need to sleep."
Lando nodded, standing up to walk Oscar to the door.
They stopped at the entryway. Oscar pulled the heavy door open an inch, looking out into the empty, quiet hallway.
He turned back to look at Lando one last time.
"Goodnight, Lando," Oscar said softly, his dark eyes lingering on Lando's face.
Lando smiled, leaning against the doorframe. "Goodnight, Osc."
Oscar stepped out into the hall, the door closing quietly behind him.
Lando stood alone in his room for a long moment, staring at the closed wooden door. Then he looked over at his nightstand, where the black marker sat under the lamp light.
He let out a short, quiet laugh, shaking his head as he walked over to turn off the light.
For the first time all season, he had no idea what was going to happen next and for the first time in his life, he wasn't scared at all.