Chapter Text
July 4, 2022, wasn't a particularly memorable day for Lando Norris until his phone vibrated, breaking the concentrated silence of his simulator session.
He was in the middle of a fast lap around Silverstone, hands steady on the wheel and eyes fixed on the screen, when Zak Brown's message appeared at the top of his phone with that irritating insistence that only bosses seemed to master. He ignored it for a few seconds, refusing to lose the perfect racing line he'd been building corner after corner, but the vibration repeated once, twice, three times, and the distraction was enough for his virtual car to slip off the ideal line and end up clipping the curb at turn nine.
—For God's sake —he muttered, pushing the visor aside with a brusque gesture and running a hand through his sweaty hair.
He picked up the phone with a mixture of annoyance and resignation, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger as the screen lit up with Zak Brown's name. The message was brief, direct, with no room for interpretation.
16:46 [Signed. Oscar Piastri is officially McLaren. I'll call you in an hour.]
Lando stared at the screen for a long moment, processing the information with his jaw slightly tense. He didn't feel surprise.
The rumors had been circulating through the paddock for weeks with persistence, fed by journalists with anonymous sources and mechanics who talked too much in bars near the circuits. Lando had been attentive enough to the conversations among the team's top brass to know that the decision was practically made, that Daniel Ricciardo wasn't performing at the expected level and that McLaren needed fresh blood, someone young, hungry, with an impeccable record in the junior categories.
There was no one in the world of motorsport who fit that description better than Oscar Piastri.
The Australian had become something of a legend before even setting foot in a Formula 1 car, a media phenomenon whose reputation grew with each passing season. Eurocup Formula Renault champion in 2019, dominating with a margin that left his rivals stunned. Formula 3 champion in 2020, in his debut year, something that hadn't happened in over a decade. Formula 2 champion in 2021, again on his first attempt, demonstrating a consistency so surgical that sports commentators ran out of adjectives to describe him.
Three consecutive championships in three different categories, a feat that only the great names of the sport had achieved and that automatically placed him in the conversation about future world champions.
And now, at twenty-one years old, he was about to become Lando Norris's new teammate.
The omega dropped his phone onto the desk with a sigh that came from the depths of his lungs and leaned back in his chair, letting the news settle in his mind. He didn't know exactly how to feel about it. On one hand, the arrival of a young, talented driver meant more pressure for him, the need to prove that he remained the undisputed leader of the team, the man around whom McLaren should build its future. On the other hand, curiosity gnawed at him with the insistence of a hunger that refused to be satisfied.
He had heard so much about Piastri in recent months that he felt he already knew him, even though he had never exchanged a single word with him. Reports described him as a generational talent, a methodical and calculating driver, with an unusual maturity for his age and a capacity for concentration that bordered on the supernatural. Sports journalists spoke of his impressive ability to remain calm under pressure, of his consistency on track, of his talent for extracting maximum performance from any car put in front of him.
But there were also other comments, whispers in the paddock hallways, stories of his reserved nature, of his tendency to keep his distance from the media, of his reluctance to share details of his private life.
Then there was the other thing. What had truly captured Lando's attention from the beginning, what set him apart from any other driver he had ever known.
Oscar Piastri was an Enigma.
The revelation had come almost accidentally, filtered through unofficial sources that Lando preferred not to question.
In the world of Formula 1, where dominant castes like Alphas and Omegas were commonly discussed and analyzed, where suppressant patches were part of the regulation uniform and pheromonal controls were as routine as medical checkups, Enigmas represented something completely different. It wasn't that they didn't exist—they did, certainly, and probably in greater numbers than people thought—but they tended to keep a low profile. Most people went their entire lives without ever meeting one.
They were like the unicorns of the caste spectrum.
And now, by some twist of fate, Lando was going to share a team with one.
—Oscar Piastri —he said aloud, savoring the name as he looked toward the ceiling of his apartment—. Nice name.—
Lando slowly swiveled back and forth in his seat, the repetitive movement helping him process the information. He didn't know what to expect. He had read about Enigmas, of course, the basics taught in school and what appeared in sensationalist articles, but he had never met one. The literature described them as individuals of extraordinary pheromonal power, capable of altering the chemical balance of an entire room. But it also spoke of their rarity, of their tendency toward isolation, of their ability to go unnoticed when they wished.
—Norris? —his engineer's voice pulled him from his thoughts, resonating through the intercom—. Do we continue with the simulation or are you going to keep spinning in that chair like a child?—
Lando let out a light laugh, grateful for the interruption.
—Give me a second. I'm processing the news.—
—The Piastri one? Yeah, we all heard already. Zak's jumping for joy in his office. I even heard him shout with excitement.—
—I can imagine.—
He straightened up and placed his hands back on the wheel, determined to resume the session. He had work to do, laps to complete, data to analyze. But as the simulation began and his mind focused on the virtual curves of the Spa circuit, a part of his brain kept circling around the same idea: Oscar Piastri, his future teammate. An Enigma. A stranger. A challenge.
The first official meeting happened a month later, at the McLaren Technology Centre in Woking, England.
Oscar had arrived in the United Kingdom in early August to begin his integration with the team, a process that included simulator sessions, seat fittings, meetings with engineers and, of course, the formal introduction to all members of the papaya squad. The building stretched out before Lando as a tangible reminder of everything McLaren represented: history, innovation, excellence.
Lando remembered that day with almost photographic clarity.
The weather was typically British: gray skies, a light drizzle that couldn't quite decide whether to turn into real rain, and a temperature that demanded a jacket. He had arrived early, earlier than usual, driven by a mixture of curiosity and nervousness he couldn't fully understand. He had stopped at the center's cafeteria to order a coffee he barely touched, his eyes scanning the main lobby every few seconds with a restlessness he couldn't quite hide.
Zak Brown had organized an informal meeting in the main boardroom, away from the bustle of the technical departments. The atmosphere was relaxed, with executives chatting in small groups while waiting for the new driver's arrival. Lando stayed near the window, watching the rain fall on the artificial lake that adorned the building's entrance, wondering why the hell he felt so unsettled by the arrival of someone he didn't even know.
—Nervous? —Andrea Stella's voice pulled him from his thoughts, his Italian accent softening the words
Lando turned to find the team principal, who was watching him with a kind smile and arms crossed over his chest. He shrugged, trying to project an indifference he didn't entirely feel.
—Curious, more like. It's strange having a new teammate after so long with Daniel. You get used to certain dynamics.—
Andrea nodded, understanding perfectly what Lando wasn't saying out loud. A teammate change wasn't just a logistical matter; it was a complete reconfiguration of the team's internal balance, a delicate dance of egos, personalities, and tacit hierarchies that had to be readjusted.
—It's a big change. But I think you'll get along well with Oscar. He's a calm guy, very focused.—
Lando suppressed an ironic smile. Calm was a word he had heard associated with Oscar Piastri more times than he could count in recent weeks. It was as if everyone had reached a tacit consensus about the Australian's personality before he had the chance to demonstrate who he really was.
Journalists called him "the most serene driver of his generation." Alpine engineers, his former team, spoke of his "unwavering focus." Even fans on social media seemed to have adopted the idea that Oscar Piastri was some kind of motorsport monk, immune to the pressures that affected other mortals.
—I hope so —Lando replied, turning his attention back to the rain
The conversation was interrupted when the door opened and Zak Brown entered accompanied by a figure Lando recognized instantly from the photographs he had seen online, although none of them did justice to the Australian's real presence.
Oscar Piastri was tall, perhaps a couple of centimeters taller than Lando himself, with a build that spoke of hours of physical training but without the exaggerated musculature of some drivers who confused the gym with bodybuilding. His shoulders were broad, firm, and his back had that characteristic solidity of someone who dedicated time to strength work, but everything about him seemed proportionate, functional. His light brown hair was slightly disheveled, as if he had run his fingers through it too many times, and his eyes, a dark coffee almost black, observed the room with an attention that was disconcerting in its intensity.
He was dressed casually but carefully: dark jeans that fit well, a simple black t-shirt that was fitted enough to hint at the shape of his torso without being ostentatious, and a light jacket hanging from his shoulders with naturalness. Nothing about his appearance screamed "rising motorsport star." If Lando hadn't known him, he would have taken him for an ordinary university student, one of those who went unnoticed in libraries until they opened their mouths and demonstrated an intelligence that left everyone speechless.
But he wasn't an ordinary student. Lando knew it from the way the room's atmosphere seemed to shift subtly when Oscar entered, a phenomenon so imperceptible that probably no one else noticed. It was something in the air, an instinctive tingling that reminded him of everything he had read about Enigmas and their ability to alter the chemical balance of their surroundings without even intending to. Lando forced himself to breathe normally, ignoring his own body's response with the discipline of someone accustomed to controlling his reactions.
—Lando —Zak's voice brought him back to reality—, I want to introduce you to Oscar Piastri. Oscar, this is Lando Norris, your new teammate.—
Oscar approached with measured steps, extending his hand in a formal gesture that contrasted with the informality of his attire. His expression was neutral, as if he were mentally evaluating every person in the room before deciding how to interact with them.
—It's a pleasure to meet you, Lando —he said, his voice deeper than Lando had imagined, with a clearly perceptible but not exaggerated Australian accent—. I've followed your career for years.—
Lando shook the offered hand, noting the firmness of the grip and the warm texture of the other's skin. He smiled automatically, that smile he had perfected over years of interviews and public appearances, the one that made strangers feel immediately at ease.
—The pleasure is mine. I've heard a lot about you. Champion of everything put in front of you, right? Expectations are high.—
Oscar inclined his head slightly, a gesture that could be interpreted as modesty or simple confirmation. His gaze never left Lando's, and there was something about that sustained attention that was slightly unsettling.
—I'll do my best to live up to them.—
That was all. No more words, no attempt to continue the conversation, not even a smile to break the seriousness of his expression. Oscar simply stood there, waiting for someone else to take the initiative, as if he had calculated exactly how long he should remain in each social interaction before being able to withdraw without seeming rude.
Lando raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. Most people, upon meeting him, dissolved into compliments or tried to strike up conversation immediately, drawn by his natural charisma and his reputation as one of the most approachable drivers on the grid. But Oscar didn't seem impressed in the slightest. It was as if Lando were simply another coworker, someone he would have to coexist with professionally but whom he had no intention of getting close to personally.
That reaction awakened something in Lando, a spark of interest he hadn't anticipated.
—Well —he said, with a livelier tone than he intended—, we'll have plenty of time to get to know each other. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. I know how overwhelming all of this can be at first.—
Oscar nodded once more, his expression not changing in the slightest.
—I'll keep that in mind. Thank you.—
The conversation died there again, and Lando found himself watching the newcomer as he walked away to greet other team members. There was something about his behavior that was both fascinating and frustrating.
—He's a bit serious, isn't he? —someone commented beside him, one of the track engineers who had been observing the scene with curiosity
Lando nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off the Australian.
—Yeah. Pretty serious.—
But as he said it, a part of his mind was already turning the same question over and over: what was hiding behind that facade of absolute control? And why, suddenly, did he care so much about finding out?
The official news didn't take long to explode.
After months of speculation, McLaren confirmed everything through a press release issued on a Tuesday morning in mid-September 2022. The headline was simple, direct, without unnecessary embellishment: "Oscar Piastri joins McLaren starting from the 2023 season." Social media burned within minutes.
Twitter became a hive of conflicting opinions. McLaren fans celebrated the Australian's arrival as if it were the second coming of a motorsport messiah, convinced that they finally had a driver capable of restoring their lost glory. Daniel Ricciardo's supporters, on the other hand, expressed their indignation with a mixture of sadness and resentment, accusing the team of having unfairly treated an experienced driver who only needed time to adapt.
The neutrals, those spectators who followed Formula 1 for the pure pleasure of the spectacle, were divided between admiration for Piastri's impeccable record and skepticism about the pressure of debuting with a team that had such high aspirations.
Sports news programs dedicated entire hours to analyzing the signing. Whole shows were structured around the same question: was Oscar Piastri the missing piece in McLaren's puzzle? Presenters broke down his statistics with almost obsessive meticulousness, repeating over and over the numbers everyone already knew.
Driver development experts pointed to his ability to adapt quickly to unfamiliar cars, his surgical consistency in races, and his ability to avoid errors under pressure as the main reasons McLaren had chosen him. The more critical journalists, however, reminded that Formula 1 was a completely different animal from the junior categories, that the leap from Formula 2 to the pinnacle of motorsport had destroyed promising careers in the past, and that sharing a team with someone like Lando Norris, already established as the squad's undisputed leader, would not be an easy task for a rookie.
Lando, for his part, watched everything from a distance, sheltered in the tranquility of his Monaco apartment while the motorsport world debated about his future teammate.
Social media seemed to him a fascinating and exhausting circus in equal parts, a spectacle in which fans projected their hopes and frustrations onto drivers they didn't even know. He found it curious how people talked about Piastri as if they knew him personally, as if his achievements in junior categories were an open window into his personality, when in reality everything they knew about him came from carefully rehearsed interviews and meticulously controlled public appearances.
The expectation grew over the following months, fed by the wait. Oscar didn't give revealing interviews during that period, didn't appear on podcasts or television shows, didn't fuel social media with controversial posts. He remained silent, focused on his preparation, and that silence only served to intensify the mystery surrounding him. Fans began creating theories about his personality, some reasonable and others completely outlandish, and Lando found himself reading some of them with a mixture of amusement and genuine curiosity.
On the day of the official presentation, in January 2023, the McLaren Technology Centre filled once again with journalists, photographers, and television cameras. The event was broadcast live to millions of viewers, and Lando found himself standing next to Oscar on stage, smiling for photos while the flashes illuminated the room with blinding intensity. The Australian was impeccably dressed in team colors, his expression as neutral as ever, and Lando couldn't help but wonder if he was nervous, if behind that facade of absolute control there was some emotion he didn't want to show.
He didn't look it.
Oscar answered journalists' questions with a precision that bordered on robotic, giving complete answers but revealing nothing that wasn't already in the press release. He spoke of his excitement about joining McLaren, of his respect for the team's history, and of his desire to learn from his new teammate. All professional, all perfectly rehearsed. Lando watched him out of the corner of his eye, fascinated by the way the Australian handled media attention without breaking a sweat.
When the event ended and journalists began to disperse, Lando approached him with a relaxed smile.
—You've survived your first press conference as a McLaren driver. Congratulations.—
Oscar turned his head toward him, and for an instant Lando thought he saw a flash of something in his dark eyes, a spark that disappeared as quickly as it appeared.
—Surviving wasn't exactly the goal —he replied, with a tone so neutral it was impossible to tell if he was joking or not.
—What was the goal then? —Lando asked, tilting his head with curiosity.
—Not saying anything stupid.—
The answer was so unexpected that Lando burst out laughing, attracting the attention of some journalists still lingering in the room. Oscar didn't flinch; he simply stood there, watching him laugh with an expression that could be interpreted as satisfaction or simple patience.
—Well —Lando said, still smiling—, I think you succeeded.—
That small exchange marked the beginning of a dynamic that would repeat itself over the following weeks.
Lando quickly discovered that his new teammate was exactly what he seemed: reserved, meticulous, silent. He wasn't rude or unfriendly; he simply didn't talk much. He preferred observing to participating, listening to opining. In technical meetings, he sat in silence and took notes in a notebook he always carried with him, a black-covered notebook that seemed to contain more information than the engineers' computers. At social events, he stayed at the edges, near the exit, as if he were calculating how long he should remain before being able to escape politely without offending anyone.
Lando, who was the complete opposite—loud, expressive, incapable of holding back a joke even in the most inappropriate situations—found him fascinating. Not in the biological sense, although that too, but in the personal sense. He couldn't understand how someone could be so contained all the time, so perfectly controlled, so deliberately invisible. Every interaction with Oscar was like trying to read a book written in a language he didn't quite master: he could recognize the words, but the deeper meaning slipped through his fingers.
And, to his own surprise, he discovered that he wanted to decipher him.
It wasn't a matter of attraction, at least not at first. It was curiosity, the same curiosity that had driven him to take apart toys as a child to understand how they worked on the inside. Oscar was a complex mechanism, a precision machine wrapped in a layer of calm that defied all of Lando's attempts to find a crack. And Lando, who had never known how to resist a good challenge, set out to find it.
The problem was that Oscar didn't make things easy. He didn't reject Lando's attempts at closeness, but he didn't encourage them either. He answered his questions with brief, precise responses, accepted his lunch invitations with a courtesy that revealed no enthusiasm, and listened to his jokes with an expression that oscillated between contained amusement and indifference. It was as if he had built an invisible wall around himself, a wall so subtle no one could see it but so solid it was impossible to breach.
Lando tried everything. He asked him questions about his childhood in Melbourne, about his time in junior categories. The answers were always correct, always polite, but so empty of personal details it was frustrating. It wasn't that Oscar lied; he simply offered nothing that hadn't been directly asked. It was as if he had learned to speak without saying anything, to be present without letting himself be seen.
One day, during a particularly long simulator session, Lando decided to change strategy. Instead of asking questions, he began talking about himself, sharing anecdotes from his childhood, stories about his family, details of his life that he normally reserved for his closest friends. He didn't know exactly why he was doing it, but something told him that the best way to break down Oscar's wall was to offer him a bridge, to show him that he was willing to be vulnerable first.
And, to his surprise, it worked. Not immediately, not spectacularly, but little by little Oscar began to open up. It wasn't a drastic change, nothing that someone not paying close attention would notice, but Lando noticed. A smile here, a sarcastic comment there, a moment of comfortable silence that before would have been awkward. They were small advances, imperceptible to anyone not watching closely, but for Lando they were signs that the wall wasn't insurmountable.
—You're like a puzzle, you know? —he told him one afternoon, after a technical meeting that had dragged on longer than necessary.
Oscar looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
—A puzzle?—
—Yeah. One of those ten-thousand-piece ones that people abandon halfway because it's too complicated.—
—And you? Are you the type who abandons or the type who finishes?—
Lando smiled, that smile he used when something challenged him.
—Depends on the puzzle.—
Oscar didn't respond, but for the first time Lando thought he saw something resembling curiosity in his dark eyes. And that, he thought, was a start.
-_-
It was March 2023, during pre-season testing in Bahrain, and the desert heat seeped through every crack of the McLaren garage like a constant reminder that the season was about to begin.
The atmosphere in the paddock was a peculiar mixture of nervousness and expectation, the kind of energy that preceded the first days of testing and turned every conversation into an endless analysis of times, tires, and aerodynamic configurations. Mechanics moved with precision, engineers reviewed screens full of data incomprehensible to the untrained eye, and drivers wandered between sessions with the tense calm of those who knew every lap counted.
Lando was in his usual corner of the garage, reviewing the morning session's data with his track engineers, when a familiar figure passed beside him with a helmet under his arm. He didn't need to turn his head to know who it was; he had developed a kind of involuntary radar for detecting the Australian's presence. It was annoying, in a way, that hyperawareness of someone who didn't even seem to notice his existence most of the time.
He called out without thinking, obeying an impulse he didn't bother to analyze.
—Hey, Piastri.—
Oscar stopped mid-step and turned his head with a slow movement, as if every action he performed passed first through an efficiency filter before being executed. His expression was neutral, a mask of indifference that revealed nothing of what was happening behind his dark eyes. He didn't look annoyed by the interruption, but he also didn't show the slightest interest in prolonging the conversation.
—Yes?— His voice sounded even, without inflections that could be interpreted as enthusiasm or annoyance
Lando leaned against the car with a pose he knew favored his shoulders and elongated his silhouette in a way that normally attracted attention. It was an automatic gesture, something he did without thinking when he wanted to appear attractive, and he didn't stop to consider why he was doing it at that moment.
—Have you tried the new simulator yet? —he asked, with a casual tone he had perfected—. It's insane, way better than the old one. If you want, I can show you how it works.—
The offer was reasonable. Lando was the team veteran, the one who knew every corner of the Woking facilities, the one who had spent countless hours in that simulator and could point out all its secrets. There was nothing strange about wanting to help the rookie adapt. It was what any good teammate would do.
—Thanks, but I already familiarized myself with it last week.—The answer came without a pause, without a blink, without any indication that he appreciated the gesture.
Oscar didn't smile. He added nothing more.
—Ah, good. Good.—
The silence that followed was brief but dense, charged with an awkwardness that only Lando seemed to feel. Oscar remained standing there, with the helmet hanging from his hand, watching him with a patience that was almost insulting. It wasn't a hostile look; it was simply the look of someone waiting for the conversation to end so he could continue with his business, as if interacting with his teammate were just another task on his list of daily obligations.
Lando held the smile, that smile that had melted countless people over the years, the one he used in interviews, photoshoots, and fan encounters, the one that seemed to have an almost magical effect on most people. He held it for a second, two, three, waiting for it to provoke some reaction, any reaction.
There was nothing.
—Well —Lando finally said, breaking the silence with a tone that was meant to be carefree—. If you need help with anything, you know where to find me.—
—I'll keep that in mind.—
And he left. No goodbye, no gesture indicating he had noticed Lando's slightly flirtatious tone. He simply turned on his heel and disappeared among the pit boxes with the same calm with which he had arrived.
Lando stared at his back, perplexed.
—Are you okay? —one of his engineers asked, noticing the expression of bewilderment that had settled on the British driver's face.
—Yeah, yeah. All good.—
He blinked a couple of times, shaking his head as if that could clear the confusion that had accumulated in his mind. It was nothing, he told himself. He was just being friendly. Oscar was his teammate, after all, and it was natural to want to help him integrate, to be concerned about his adaptation to a new team and an unfamiliar car.
But a part of him, a part he preferred not to listen to, knew it wasn't just friendliness.
Over the following weeks, Lando found himself thinking about Oscar more than he considered healthy. It wasn't just the novelty of having an Enigma as a teammate, although that certainly played an important role in his fascination. It was something deeper, a magnetic attraction that went beyond professional curiosity or simple interest in the unknown.
He had never met an Enigma in person. He had heard stories, of course. The literature he had read described them as natural predators, but the reality was very different from the myths. Oscar wore suppressant patches at all times, required by contract, and his presence was calm, almost invisible if one didn't know exactly where to look.
That made him even more intriguing.
Lando began looking for excuses to interact with him, convincing himself that it was part of his responsibility as a teammate.
At first they were subtle approaches, harmless. Nothing too obvious, just enough to establish a connection without seeming desperate.
—How are you finding the new seat? —he asked one morning, leaning against the doorframe of the engineering room where Oscar was reviewing data with his race engineer
Oscar looked up from the monitor, and for an instant Lando thought he saw a spark of surprise in his eyes, as if he hadn't expected anyone to interrupt him in the middle of his work. But the expression disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the characteristic neutrality that seemed to be his default state.
—Fine. Still getting used to it, but it's comfortable.—
—That's good. The seat is crucial. If you're not comfortable from the start, everything else gets complicated.—
—Yeah, that's what they told me.—
Silence. Oscar returned his focus to the screen, his fingers moving over the keyboard with the same precision with which he drove, and Lando remained there a few more seconds, waiting for something, anything. A question in return, a comment about the weather, a joke about how boring technical meetings were. Any sign that the interaction wasn't completely one-sided.
There was nothing. The Australian didn't seem to realize that someone was trying to start a conversation with him, or if he noticed, he didn't care enough to make the effort to keep it alive.
—Well —Lando finally said, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes—, I'll leave you to work.—
—Thanks.—
The response was automatic, devoid of any real emotion. Lando walked away with a strange feeling in his chest, a mixture of frustration and curiosity he couldn't quite understand. He wasn't used to being ignored. Not like this, not with such indifference. Oscar seemed immune to all of it, as if Lando's presence had no effect on his mood or his behavior.
The most irritating part was that Lando couldn't stop thinking about it. Every failed interaction replayed in his mind for hours, analyzing every word, every microexpression he might have misinterpreted. He found himself mentally reviewing the moments shared with Oscar like a detective examining evidence, searching for clues that would explain why someone so closed off fascinated him so much.
He found none. He only found more questions, more curiosity, more desire to keep trying.
Lando tried again and again, deploying his entire arsenal of natural charm. Each interaction was like tossing a coin into a bottomless well, waiting to hear the echo of water that never came. But Oscar's response was always the same: formal kindness, a courtesy so perfect it was almost insulting, and no hint of interest in deepening the relationship beyond the strictly professional.
The British driver wasn't used to that kind of resistance.
Since he had burst onto the Formula 1 scene, his natural charisma had opened doors that remained closed for others, winning over engineers, journalists, sponsors, and fans with the same ease with which he breathed. Being ignored in that way—not with hostility but with polite indifference—produced in him a mixture of frustration and fascination that kept him awake at night, turning over every conversation as if he could find a hidden key between the words.
On one occasion, during a team photoshoot at the Woking facilities, Lando came up from behind and planted his hands on Oscar's shoulders, a playful gesture that normally melted anyone on the receiving end. The contact was brief but deliberate, a calculated invasion of the Australian's personal space that was meant to provoke some visible reaction. Oscar turned slightly, without removing the hands from his shoulders, without tensing his muscles in surprise.
—Relax, Piastri. You look like you're posing for a passport photo —Lando said, leaning forward with a mischievous smile.
Oscar observed him with those dark eyes that revealed absolutely nothing, blinking once before responding.
—I am relaxed —he replied with complete seriousness, articulating each syllable as if the statement were a verifiable fact.
—Are you sure? Because that tense jaw says otherwise.—
—It's my normal face.—
The answer was so unexpected, so devoid of irony, that Lando let out a genuine laugh that echoed through the photography studio. He pulled back slightly, shaking his head while laughter still shook his shoulders.
—God, you're a case.—
—A case of what?— The question sounded authentic, without a trace of sarcasm, as if Oscar genuinely needed someone to explain the meaning of that expression to him.
—Of… I don't know. Of a serious person. Very serious.—
Oscar blinked once more, processing the information with the slowness of someone translating a foreign language in their head.
—Ah. Well, I suppose so.—
And he went back to posing for the camera, leaving Lando with the feeling of having hit an invisible wall. The session continued without further incident, but the British driver found himself watching his teammate from the corner of his eye for the rest of the day. He found nothing. It was like contemplating the surface of a calm lake, without a single ripple that would betray what was happening in the depths.
Another day, during a team meeting that dragged on longer than necessary, Lando deliberately sat next to him and spent the entire hour making sarcastic comments under his breath about the presentation slides. They were quick, sharp observations, the kind of humor that normally made his engineers laugh and that had earned him the reputation of being one of the funniest drivers in the paddock. Oscar didn't react a single time.
Not a smile, not a snort, not even a nod of the head indicating he was listening. He remained motionless in his seat, back straight and eyes fixed on the screen, absorbing every piece of data like a sponge insensitive to environmental noise.
At the end of the meeting, when attendees began to disperse and Lando stretched with an exaggerated yawn, he couldn't contain himself.
—Didn't you find that boring? Not even a little?—
Oscar closed his notebook with a deliberate movement, put the pen in his jacket pocket, and turned his head toward his interlocutor.
—I was paying attention. There was relevant information.—
—Didn't you hear any of my jokes?—
—Yes, I heard them.—
—And?—
—They were… funny.—
The tone was so expressionless, so perfectly monotone, that Lando couldn't help but laugh once more. It was a brief laugh, more from disbelief than amusement.
—You're terrible at lying.—
—I'm not lying.—
—Then why didn't you laugh?—
Oscar looked at him with a confused expression, as if the question genuinely puzzled him. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, barely a millimeter, the most expressive gesture Lando had seen from him in weeks.
—I don't always laugh when something strikes me as funny.—
Lando watched him for a long moment, searching for some crack in his impassive facade, some indication that this answer was a joke or a provocation. He found none. There was only honesty, an honesty so naked it was almost uncomfortable.
—You're fascinating, you know that?—
Oscar tilted his head, still confused, as if the word fascinating didn't fit into the mental framework he had of himself.
—In what sense?—
—In the sense that you're impossible to read. Literally impossible.—
—Ah. I suppose that's a good thing.—
—Is it?—
—For a driver, yes. It helps maintain focus.—
Lando sighed, defeated but even more intrigued, feeling that every conversation with Oscar pushed him deeper into a labyrinth with no apparent exit. He didn't understand how someone could be so contained and deliberately neutral, so oblivious to the subtleties of flirtation and innuendo. It was like trying to seduce a statue.
One afternoon, during a simulator session, Oscar made a line error so unusual that Lando let out a mocking whistle from the adjacent cockpit.
—Was that a spin or an artistic interpretation?—
Oscar didn't respond immediately. He stared at the screen with a slight frown, as if the error physically pained him, and then swiveled his seat toward Lando with deliberate slowness.
—It was a miscalculation. It won't happen again.—
—Hey, relax, I was just joking. No need to get dramatic.—
—I'm not being dramatic. I'm stating a fact.—
—See? That's exactly what I mean. That intensity. That constant seriousness. Don't you ever relax?—
Oscar considered it for a moment, as if the question required deep analysis before being answered.
—I do relax. Just not in the way you would consider relaxation.—
—And how do you relax?—
—I read. I listen to music. Sometimes I go for walks.—
—Walks? Just like that? Without a destination?—
—With a direction. But without a specific destination.—
Lando fell silent for a second, processing the answer, and then shook his head while an incredulous smile curved his lips.
—You're the strangest human being I've ever met.—
—Is that a compliment?—
—I don't know. Maybe.—
Oscar nodded, accepting the ambiguity with a calm that Lando found both exasperating and admirable. He didn't push, didn't show the slightest curiosity about whether that statement was a compliment or an insult. He simply returned to his simulation with the same concentration as always, leaving the British driver with the feeling of having lost a battle he hadn't even known he was fighting.
On another pre-season trip, during a team dinner at an elegant restaurant in Barcelona, Lando noticed that Oscar had sat at the far end of the table, as far as possible from the center of attention, and that he spent most of the time observing the other diners instead of participating in conversations. It wasn't hostile behavior; he simply seemed to prefer the role of spectator, absorbing the atmosphere without intervening in it.
Lando waited until the others were distracted and slid into the empty chair next to the Australian.
—Don't you like the food? You've been pushing that fish around your plate for twenty minutes.—
Oscar looked down at his plate, as if realizing for the first time what he was doing.
—It's fine. The food is fine. I'm just not very hungry.—
—Are you feeling sick?—
—No. Just not hungry.—
Lando rested his elbow on the table and his chin in the palm of his hand, studying him with a curiosity he no longer bothered to hide.
—Are you always like this at dinners? Watching people?—
Oscar looked at him for a moment, evaluating whether the question deserved an honest answer.
—I like listening. People say interesting things when they think no one is paying attention.—
—That's… vaguely creepy.—
—I don't mean it with malice. It's just observation.—
—Right. Observation. Like a spy.—
—Not like a spy. Like a driver. Details matter.—
Lando smiled, shaking his head.
—Only you could turn a team dinner into a data analysis session.—
Oscar didn't respond, but his lips moved almost imperceptibly, a hint of a smile so fleeting that Lando doubted he had seen it. It was enough. That small gesture, that tiny crack in the armor of seriousness, was worth all the frustrating conversations of the previous weeks. Lando found himself wanting to see it again, to provoke it again, to find a way to make that facade of absolute control crack even for an instant.
And in that desire, in that growing obsession with deciphering the indecipherable, Lando began to understand that what he felt for Oscar had stopped being simple curiosity. It was something deeper, more unsettling, something he wasn't sure he wanted to name. But the certainty was there, pulsing beneath his skin like a second heart, and every interaction with the Australian made it harder to ignore.
In retrospect, he should have left it there. He should have accepted that Oscar Piastri was simply a different person, someone who didn't respond to social stimuli the same way others did. He should have filed that incipient attraction under the label of "satisfied curiosity" and moved on with his life, focused on everything that really mattered.
But Lando had never been good at accepting defeat, especially when it came to someone who genuinely interested him. The idea of giving up, of admitting that Oscar was an impossible puzzle to solve, was unacceptable to him. So he kept trying, again and again, throwing smiles and comments against that wall in the hope that someday, perhaps, something would manage to break through.
And Oscar interested him. Much more than he wanted to admit, even to himself. Everything fed a fascination that grew every day.