Chapter Text
IF there was one thing Oscar prided himself on being, it was the fact that he managed to be extremely private.
Not that that was something to be proud of, not in the digital age where every alternate reel he scrolled on screams of ‘never expose this’ and ‘things to never mention online’
But when you have a five year long public career as a top 100 billboards singer, a world tour coming right round the corner and a PR team which did not like the ‘I only want the music to be out there’ mentality, Oscar had to digress himself onto far too many interviews asking him the exact things he had to hit the polite smile on and pray they accepted the basic answer and move on.
So he did digress- sitting on the sofa in his music studio, headphones on and yet theres no notes open in the recording booth as the clock strikes another hour closer to midnight and the only thing that lights up the cramped area is a screen glowing in front of a concentrated face too focused on a commentary being done two continents away.
“-and there is Lando Norris, diving down the inside of George Russel- can he hold it? Yes he can-“
“Oscar- you can’t possibly still be recording here- oh”
“Thirty minutes Logan”
“It’s 11:40, you are supposed to be at the venue at 2- when are you going to sleep?”
“I have an hour”
“Oscar-“ there’s a shuffle of feet, and the recording booth door opens with a click far too loud for the rev of engines on the phone, and the Aussie doesn’t have to turns his head till the mop of blonde collapses next to him. “As your best friend, definitely not your manger- from the bottom of my heart, you need to sleep”
“Its literally twenty more laps-“
“You weren’t watching it last week at a respectable timing, but now you-“
“Yeah cause he dnf’d” and theres no need for Oscar to clarify who the ‘he’ is. Not when hes never really hidden the small (he won’t call it what it was) preference he had in his favourite drivers- not that his likes and time spent refreshing the leaderboards of obscure tournaments hid it well, but hey.
Logan Sergeant only scoffed at the way Oscar’s eyes were still trained on the Lando Norris’s onboards that he could only see from a tilted angle and obscured by a mop of brown hair bent far too close to it.
“Stare any harder and you’re going to enter that mans car”
“Go home Logs,” Oscar rolled his eyes.
“Only when you enter the car with me- Mark called me! Mark! That man hates my guts after Amsterdam, and he called me to get you out of here-“
“First off, he doesn’t hate your guts” the coat weighs heavily on his shoulders, and when the first wave of the midnight cold air hits oscar’s face that he finally shuts his phone screen before sliding into his McLaren while Logan pulled across to the passenger seat.
“Secondly, I thought I was going to start something”
It’s a Mclaren Senna, navy blue in colour and with some modifications that included a more powerful engine than necessary for daily commute but Oscar’s always been a adrenaline chaser- and something that Oscar can’t bring himself to ever let anyone else drive.
“You know Oscar,” and its five minutes away from the turn to Logan’s apartments, that the American begins- and the tone makes Oscar straighten at the exact second he knows what the conversation is about to begin.
“It’s been four months”
“I know,” the bitter taste rises in his throat the way it always does when the topic arises. “I’m trying-“
“The boards waiting for something, even a sample? Something to just let them know you’re not completely AWOL after promising a tour end of year-“
“And I will do it, I just-“ the exhale is harsh, red lights cutting off the intersection. “I need more time. It’s not happening-“
“I know,” Logan’s voice is placating, the way it had been for the past three months every time he knocked on oscar’s booth and watched them drive home. “I know mate, but we don’t have much time now.”
Oscar lets the door click shut fifteen minutes later, chucks the coat right onto the sofa and makes his way to his bed with frustration that boils down to a groan the second its muffled into the pillow.
The answer to his problem is- logically, extremely simple. Oscar needs to actually work on his job, and get right back on the streak he had been on four months ago when he managed to release a 12 song album in three weeks of producing it- and write.
Figure out the melody, write the lyrics, sing it.
The problem, however? Was that Oscar Piastri was currently in the worst slump of his career.
A slump that lasted however many times Oscar slept with a notebook near his bed and sat to stare at walls with the piano open to fingers which lay uselessly on its keys, a slump that continued even though he had visited every place he had written his last songs, a slump that continued however much he tried to get out of it.
“I need something new,” the chant had become a daily thing, started after hearing Mark calling him out for being a man of routine- and then becoming the spark that did enough to light the fuse that very night at 1:30 am when the bottle of red wine finished itself and suddenly the apartments website turned to one flight ticket booked with no return.
“A fresh start”
Confirm payment
So it was the next morning that Logan woke up, turned on his phone and almost yelped at the two missed calls from a man that never called - that the American heard one sentence when the call picked up at first ring.
“I’m in Monaco”
Somewhere in London, Oscar can swear the scream he had cut the call before would wake up the neighbours.
⚑ ⚑
The thing about living in Monaco, was the fact that Oscar was one month in (and considerably more furniture in the barren apartment) was that the very people he had been seeing on screens now walked round the roads like it was the most casual thing possible.
The first time Oscar saw Charles Leclerc in the bakery, he promptly walked right out (signed two albums and tried not to let his smile be awkward) and never walked back in.
It’s not like he knows hes not a celebrity, knows that Charles had once posted to Oscar’s song (Logan had walked in on Oscar passed out on the floor that day, not that it was an overreaction- in his opinion) so if he did try to shake hands he probably wouldn’t get scoffed at- but the thing about being as he is, is that that time would be when Oscar could remember all the roads in the small country before he tried to make friends with people he watched on screens.
“One pain un chocolat and an American please,” the new cafe he’s a regular in has his sign on the wall behind them and the waitress no smiles every time he orders the exact same thing at exactly the same time every morning.
“You do not have to tell me anymore, Oscar” Maria smiles from across the counter, her white hairs tied in a bun and she smells of the coffee beans that surround her. “I am old but I can remember you after two months”
“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” he tries to tone down his accent, smiles softly when he sees her take a beat to understand it before he swipes his card and watches her bustle away towards the coffee machine.
And its as he watches her work, pull out the beans and the steam froth in the cup- that the bell tinkles behind them. Oscar doesn’t turn, thumbing across his phone while a foot tapped slowly on wooden floors, trying to catch something that would give him that small boost to write something in a blank book in his jacket pocket.
And maybe that’s his mistake, especially here. Because its two seconds later that Oscar realises there are new feet standing in his peripheral vision and a face slightly out of focus but a bit familiar-
“Hey Maria!”
The lady turns, and its the exact second that the concentration on her face turns into a wide smile- that Oscar realises why the accent sounds far too familiar.
“Lando! You are back!”
In another life, Oscar will say the way he turns around is cinematic- one of those scene where everything looks like a normal interaction however much the music crescendoes around the character- that the second that name leaves Maria’s lips his coffee will be ready and the whole thing is a normal interaction in a small cafe.
But it isn’t.
Because Oscar turns around at a speed to rival the speed of cars in Eau Rouge, and takes in the sight of Lando Norris exactly one metre away from him.
“Got to come back for the best croissants” the McLaren driver has his hands in his jacket, oversized leather and navy jeans that make him look like he had stepped off from the cover of a magazine. His hair is curly, slightly wet and the Adams apple bobs as his laugh filters straight through Oscar’s ears.
“You are only here for the race, menteur”
Liar, Oscar’s brain supplies- and yet he’s frozen.
Lando doesn’t look to his right, but its when Maria turns back to her first guest and passes him the takeaway cup with a smile that Oscar clears his throat and is about to mutter a ‘thanks’- that theres a tap on his shoulder.
“Hey,” For the first time in Oscar’s life, Lando Norris smiles at him.
“Hello” Oscar keeps it normal, prays the red isn’t creeping up his neck even as his hand closes around the cup tighter.
“Mind if I squeeze past you? Want to grab the coasters before I forget”
Oscar blinks, then realises he’s blocking the whole takeaway counter and promptly shuffles to the side. “Right, sorry”
“No worries mate,” Lando smells of Tom Ford and leather seats, and his hazel eyes are much lighter when seen from close. “Thanks”
“Yeah,” its a rather dumb response, one that comes from the lack of anything else reaching eyes trained on the line of Lando’s jaw. “Yeah no problem”
And he doesn’t know why he waits ever so longer, watches the Brit retract his hand- maybe he’s waiting for some flash of recognition? Something?
But it doesn’t happen.
Not when Lando turns his gaze right back at the counter and places a tip in the jar, and so Oscar decides its time to leave. His feet carry him back to the door out of trained reflex, the bell tinkles the way it always does and yet its drowned in the way he can only hear the fast rate of his heartbeat in his own ears- paper bag crinkling round its edges as his pace quickens the exact second it hits cement.
So he doesn’t notice the way Lando’s eyes snap back to him the second he had begun to look away, watching with far too much concentration at the disappearing figure while the phone in his pocket had its song paused at the exact second he had walked into the bakery.
⚑ ⚑
“Monaco Grand Prix”
Logan Sergeant appears at oscar’s flat two days later and with a paddock pass in his hand and a look in his eyes that makes Oscar pale slightly before he lets the American in.
“I can watch it from my balcony” Oscar grabs the ginger ale, “I’m literally living by the chicane, I’m not paying to go do that from somewhere else fifteen minutes away”
“Oscar, Oscar, this is not because you like this sport” Logan singsongs, tucking his hat closer over his ears and dangles the passes even closer to the Aussie’s face.
“This is a phenomenon which tends to happen when youre a famous person, called promotion! and by the way- you were invited, so its free.”
“For what?” Oscar scoffs, “I’m not releasing anything yet, I don’t even have a single prepared”
“The fans don’t need to know that”
“They do though?”
“Oh my god I got you tickets to the McLaren motorhome, for the love of god you love them! just go!”
It’s the thrill of it, Oscar knows- when the electric hum changes from the idea of being the grandstands to being in the paddock- in the one team he had supported for so many years. “McLaren? Are you sure?”
⚑
And that’s exactly how, one week later- on a Saturday, Oscar Piastri walks into the paddock with two hundred cameras clicking his pictures before he makes his way straight to the orange motorhome.
“Oscar! Since when do you watch f1?”
Since I was a kid, but Oscar can’t say that- because saying one thing leads to a 100 headlines and some critique somewhere who’d call him out on things which were true but hit him with the ‘clout chaser’ allegations and so he doesn’t say anything- instead puts on the PR smile and waves and signs the most random of things before he’s greeted by Zak Brown.
“Oscar! Glad you could make it.” Zak Brown looked exactly like every interview Oscar had ever watched. Same grin, same enthusiasm, and the complete inability to stand still for longer than three seconds.
And somehow, that thought alone nearly made Oscar laugh.
“Thanks for having me,” Oscar smiled, accepting the handshake. “Didn't expect to be invited.”
“Oh, come on. You're practically family already.”
Oscar blinked. “Sorry?”
“everyone in here loves your stuff.” Some PR trained part of Oscar knows that wasn't true, but when Zak points at the engineers on one of the garage who pass a thumbs up- a small part of him wants to believe it.
But then the man disappears, after handing Oscar a pair of headphones that are a bit too big on his ears and yet Lando’s voice crackles in his ears- and Oscar’s already turned to the side of the garage in which a McLaren driver sits in the cockpit of the car.
He’s not wearing his helmet, the balaclava not on and his head is tilted upwards- laughing at something one of the mechanics say, and Oscar can only stare.
And maybe it was because of all those romcoms that Logan watched, all those scenes in midst of busy paddocks that always somehow had the first time the two leads would exchange eyecontact- the got Oscar’s hopes up.
Because in everything, his gaze somehow always flicked only towards one side of the garage even as he stood perfectly in between the two of them. And it was fine, ofcourse it was- Oscar was hardly entitled to a conversation.
Lando was speaking to Andrea Stella now, serious expression on his face, laughing at something one of the mechanics said. Then disappearing into the garage before appearing back fifteen seconds later.
And somehow—Not once. Not once did his eyes fall on the one area that Oscar stood at.
Oscar tried not to care. Tried being the operative word.
By the time twenty minutes remained before the race, he'd escaped outside. The mechanics had smiled, listened to a few questions and promptly turned back to their work- Not because he wasn’t interested, no his eyes were trained on the screens with razor confidence and yet some small part of him needed the quiet before the bustle of trackside chaos started.
The Monaco sun was warm against his shoulders, the distant hum of the crowd floating over the harbor. It was quieter here, away from the endless stream of cameras and questions.
Oscar leaned against the barrier, a champagne glass still full from ten minutes ago and letting himself breathe.
“Thought I'd find you out here.” Oscar nearly dropped the flute.
“Jesus—”
Lando Norris stands two steps away with crinkled eyes and a race suit around his waist.
“Dramatic aren’t you?”
“Mate you’re meant to be two floors down right now,” Oscar exhales, theres an incredulousness in his voice s he watches the McLaren driver only move to lean over the railing himself. “If anything Zak’s going to be dramatic at you disappearing”
“Zak's always dramatic.”
“He’s your boss.”
“He'd agree with me.”
Oscar snorted at that, shaking his head when a strand falls over his eyes- and prays to everything that the heat cuts down the way his hands are shaking.
God he’s not an insane fan, its a reasonable level if you’re a fan of a sport and are approached the way he was- but hell, if there was one thing- Oscar wasn’t going to show the levels of fanboyism he had long been accused of to the very person.
“Besides, I escaped.” Lando grinned, looking out over the harbour.
“Escaped?”
“Terrifying place, the motorhome.”
Oscar laughed despite himself, the sound softer than he'd intended.
“Seriously though,” Lando continued, there are bracelets on his arm that make his whole wrist dissapear “I saw you disappear.”
It takes him by surprise, the tone in which Lando’s words fall- like a fact less than what people called ‘corporate mingling’ at these events. “You did?”
Theres a pause, one in which theres a shout from below as the fans catch a glimpse of orange on the balcony. “Yeah.”
“You were watching me disappear?”
“No, that sounds creepy.” Lando groans, head dipping low into his arms and its then that the same smile that the Aussie had been hiding in his cheeks threatens to rise again. “At the café.”
Ah
Ofcourse
If there is one thing that Oscar had learned growing up with three sisters, was the ability to lie amazingly well. “Really?”
“You left pretty quick, but I saw you in the paddock- remembered the face”
“Glad I’m rememberable,” internally, Oscar could already feel the heat rise up his neck rise at the cringe that rose at the last word. He’s a singer, he can rhyme words- what is rememberable?
“How were the croissants?”
“Sold out,” Lando pulls a face, cheeks hollowed out and a frown rising but it disappears the second Oscar clucks in sympathy.
“That’s why I get the chocolate ones,”
It’s small talk, talk between two people who have quite a power imbalance in knowledge of each other- Oscar believes. Because Lando Norris is a topic he is no stranger to, but for the latter Oscar is probably a face in millions he’ll forget in five minutes after he leaves.
Its then that the Rolex watch right next to them chimes for ten minutes, and Oscar sees the exact second the McLaren drivers head latches onto the notifications suddenly pinging on his watch.
“Got to go?”
Oscar knows he does, knows from the fact that there is always the preparations before they begin Q1. But Lando doesn’t know he knows, and if there is one thing he’s not announcing its that.
“Yeah- got to go to work”
And Oscar only smiles in response, lets the glass in his hand dip ever so little before tilting his head. “Best of luck”
“Thanks mate,” And with one last grin, Lando jogged away.
Oscar stays- waits till the breath knocked out of his lungs comes right back, till the orange figure disappears and he can get the way his fingers tremble to calm down right before there are celebrities pulling up next to him with smiles and conversations already on their tongues.
Completely unaware that the photographers below had captured him smiling wider than they usually managed all weekend, right before the photos were emailed straight to a account with far too much credibility for the content it would soon produce.
⚑ ⚑