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strike a pose ! (come on, vogue.) ✃ op81.

Oscar straightens. “They think he’s better looking than me.” he replies flatly, and the room is filled with quiet laughs. “That’s because he is.” or Oscar Piastri is a joke to the world of fashion. Once Lando lands British Vogue, there’s a mini crisis in the IMG x OP81 team. You’re their solution.

walking the runway: model/stylist!reader x (hopeless)model!oscar. (still an f1 universe!)

in the show: fake dating, pr relationship, slowburn, (one sided) black cat x golden retriever, tension, arguing + swearing, oscar’s down bad from the first scene. suggestive! (but still sfw) angst with a happy ending! this is a work of fiction. please excuse all inaccuracies related to racing/fashion.

word count: 22.5K (yikes !)

words from the designer: hello my loves! i offer you this with nervous, shaking hands. may it be known that everything reader wears is designer and i spent hours picking out her outfits, even if they're unlabelled. that was genuinely the most fun part of writing. loosely inspired by ‘tug of war’ by my dearest kae<3 ( @tsunodaradio ) thank you for forever being my idol. i deeply recommend listening to the playlist below, but also all of reputation by taylor swift and brat by charli xcx work (ironic, i know.) to @2reverse, heres your wish to be first.!! and to @starry-132173, who i basically harrased while writing this, thank you for everything (get it?). consider this my first fic offically dedicated to you <3 (although, i was supposed to dedicate my op81 smau to you, and for some reason the tag didnt save, lol.) this is also my longest fic to date (and possibly ever.) please be gentle with her okay?

my masterlist. the theme song. the playlist.

This isn’t the first time Oscar has been called in due to a ‘fashion emergency’, and he’s certain it won’t be the last. Still, it would help if he understood what that term even meant. His knowledge of the world of fashion had somehow seemed to evaporate since signing his contract with IMG. That was really because the little he did know, had turned out to be false. Now, he is truly hopeless.

He fiddles with the edge of the table, tapping it rhythmically, as he watches. Oscar has always enjoyed people-watching, but it’s particularly fun here. His eyes flick between the sides of the table- the more ‘serious’ side, and the more ‘artistic’ side opposite, to the right and left of him respectively. Mark sits beside him, stony faced as ever, having a muffed conversation with Jules to his left.

Jules is a force of nature. Her lavender hair is pinned up so tightly he’s surprised she doesn’t have a headache, and she’s wearing an outfit that really shouldn’t work. Yet, in some ways, it does. It’s pleasing to the eyes, anyway. She’s wearing a jumper that looks like it was made from her grandmother’s quilt, and a ridiculously pleated skirt, with some scuffed boots. He’s not sure when he started paying attention to the people on his fashion team, but he found it passed the time pretty well.

Normally, they were discussing brands, or merch drops, or some hidden photo-shoot for some v-zine he’d never heard of. Today, though, the atmosphere of the board-room is different. There is no friendly fire through no-mans-land. Today, both sides seem full of nerves. A name he doesn’t recognise seems to be snatched in scattered whispers, but it continuously crops up for the whole torturous fifteen minutes, before Jules begins to speak.

“So, British Vogue went for Lando. That’s an issue.” she says quickly, throwing Oscar a worried glance. He looks up slowly.

“They think he’s better suited for the fashion world than you.” she explains, giving him a pitying shake of the head. Oscar straightens.

“They think he’s better looking than me.” he replies flatly, and the room is filled with quiet laughs.

“That’s because he is.”

The sound dies, without a fight. A complete silence seems to engulf everyone sitting, and no one dares flinch when a pen drops to the floor.

He didn’t even hear the door open, but there you are, standing directly opposite him. The horse-shoe arrangement of the table had never felt so ominous before, but it was like it had been made specifically as a stage for you.

Jules leans into his ear, whispers your name, and now he understands what everyone had been muttering under their breath earlier.

You give him a cold smile, and you raise your arm, like you might wave. Instead, you just twist your earring back forward, and give him time to analyse you. So he does.

You’re wearing lace-looking shoes with criminally thin heels, but you look so on-balance it’s unnerving. Then your trousers, that he’s convinced he could cut himself with, because the creases are dramatically sharp. Finally, your shirt. It’s half tucked, but he can see it’s got a curved edge, and a strange chain-type thing across the waist. (He’d later find out that Gucci deemed it a ‘horsebit.’)

He settles on your face. He expects your features to be softer than your outfit, but they’re not.

The gleam of your jewellery almost drags him from the edge of your jaw, but not quite. He wonders if that’s intentional. Your hair is pulled back from your face, leaving the only hope of any warmth being your eyes, but he knows it’ll take some bravery to meet them. He tries anyway, and you give him a calculated raise of an eyebrow. No cigar. They’re as pristine as the rest of you, and the life drains from his face a little.

“Any notes?” you ask carefully, taking a small step towards him. You look around, for an empty chair, but you do not even frown at the filled seats. Instead, you shrug, like you’d rather stand anyway.

Jules practically falls off her stool, in a wild gesture that you can sit. You give her a polite nod, making the agonising walk across the curve of the tables, each step filling Oscar with something more sinister than dread. He swallows, trying to crack his knuckles, but the sound is not nearly as satisfying as he’d like.

You smooth your shirt as you sit, and he keeps his eyes trained forward, at the door.

Jules says your name like a mangled prayer, and Oscar wonders if she might pass out. You seem unfazed. Then, when Jules introduces him, she almost sounds disappointed. Like the idea of your names existing in the same sentence is a damn shame. You seem to agree, turning away from him slightly.

Still, he’s surprised as you speak.

“I know who he is.”

You say it so casually, like it shouldn’t mean anything. Like it isn't embarrassing for you both, that he has no clue who you are. Somewhere deep inside, his ego flutters. Externally, he’s sweating, like a child who hasn’t done their homework, and the teacher has an outstretched palm.

Jules gives you a relieved sigh, and then shoots Oscar a stern stare.

“I told you to google her, kid.” Mark grunts, and Oscar gives him an apologetic glance.

It probably got lost between memes about godforsaken papaya rules and which meetings to reschedule, so Oscar figures it can’t have been that important. Still, he sneaks his hand into his pocket, typing in your name nervously under the desk.

The result is nearly dizzying. He’s scanning hundreds of photos he can’t quite make out, and he’s so overwhelmed that he doesn’t even hear the monotone voice blaring out from his phone before it’s too late.

The room falls silent again, and every head in the room turns to face him, and his now dramatically pink cheeks.

You turn last, and that’s even worse.

With an entertained smirk, you listen intently as the robotic voice reads out various magazines and photoshoots, with countless brands he doesn’t know.

He fumbles to switch it off desperately, and he’s convinced he watches Mark smack his forehead with a hint of theatrics.

“Sorry.” he stumbles, forcing the word through his pursed lips.

You turn back to Jules, with a slight roll of your eyes.

Jules is now half crouched, pushing a slip of paper and a pen towards you both.

“I’d recommend reading that, before you sign it. Or, I can orate, if that’s easier for you.” you say calmly, scanning the contract with a sly smile playing at the corner of your lips.

He feels his cheeks warm again, and he kicks himself under the table.

The bold title blares at him, like an alarm. ‘PR Relationship Contract: Oscar Piastri and-”.

He reads it once. Then twice. Then he rubs his eyes, and tries again. It swirls a little, but the letters don’t change.

“I’m not signing this.” “I want Lando.”

Your words overlap, into some chorus of general complaint. You both turn to each other simultaneously.

He flicks his eyebrow up by reflex, and you return the challenge.

“Why do you want Lando?” “What’s your problem?”

Another beat, and he nods, like you should both ask and answer first, which doesn’t quite make sense.

“Okay. I’ve been in this room long enough to know he’s hopeless. You and McLaren said this would work, and it’s not going to. Get me Lando, or I’ll have to reach out to Ferrari.”

Both Mark and the representative in orange to his right shoot their heads up in panic, and Jules nearly buckles.

“You’re a bit young for Lewis.” Oscar mutters, in one quiet exhale, but you catch it.

“At least he doesn’t waste $600 on a shitty t-shirt.”

There’s not even a hint of a joke in your tone. You’re absolutely, utterly, deadly serious. He's almost impressed that you recognise what he's wearing.

He tries to act wounded, but his tongue moves before he can really think about what he’s saying.

“At least I have $600 to waste on a t-shirt.” he retorts, and the room inhales, waiting.

You laugh, and it’s a cold, bitter sound.

“My shoes cost more than your entire outfit, just so you know.” you reply, your words distorted by your steady laughter. He looks under the table in disbelief, and you flash the red bottom at him, like that’s meant to mean something.

“Your cufflinks cost more than my entire outfit.” Jules blurts out, admiring the triangular shaped pins on the edge of your sleeves. You shoot her an appreciative smile, before giving her a careful frown.

“Are you really the one in charge here? I think I need to get this re-evaluated.”

“She’s in charge of my team.” Oscar confirms, throwing a thumbs-up, and Jules groans.

“Yeah, I’m running this operation. But if you want to contact your lawyer, we can negotiate this some other time.”

You hesitate, looking between the slightly open mouth of the McLaren representative, the intrigued expression on Mark’s face, and then Oscar’s scowl.

“You don’t have Lando, do you?”

“Oscar was the cheaper driver to sign, yes.” Jules confirms, and you have to stifle your giggle with a faux-yawn.

“You’re lucky I’m bored. And that a charity case would look good for me. Taking on the world of F1, and its most unfashionable driver. Sign the contract, Piastri.”

He doesn’t know why his arm obeys before his brain can catch up, but sure enough, his signature is along the dotted line. He doesn’t know when you read the rest of the conditions, because he can’t remember hearing your pages turn, but he realises he probably should’ve checked his own before letting ink touch the paper.

“You’re late.” you murmur, lips not leaving the rim of the stained mug.

Oscar raises his arms in mock-innocence, before sitting opposite you, flinging his coat over the back of the chair.

You look up, staring at his shirt, carefully admiring how the monogramming catches under the light. He waits.

“Any notes?”

You smile, and for the first time, you almost look human.

“Several. First off, Jude Bellingham wore it better, and that must've taken hours of styling. It’s barely even visible in the collection, because there’s so much layering. So you do need to learn that you can’t whack a-” you pause, eyes narrowed, “-second-hand ‘Vintage’ North Face puffer over the top, and assume it’ll have the same effect. It doesn’t. And secondly, you’re better off with a blue shirt, because it suits your complexion better. Finally, if you’re going to try and wear Vuitton to look expensive, at least wear something fun. I’m sure you’d look adorable in one of their striped pieces.”

He’d stopped listening after the first word, and instead, had just stared at the slight sneer of your mouth, the way you tried to hide the passion in your voice, and how long your eyelashes were. Still, he couldn’t help but be slightly impressed, and also stumped by your tone.

“Do you really think adorable is the best angle for me?” he asks, rather suddenly, and you shrug.

“Maybe. I can’t see you going for ‘hot’.”

“But Lando could?”

You raise a non-commital eyebrow.

“He did. It worked. Maybe we should try it.”

He hates that he genuinely cannot tell if you’re joking.

You pull out a folder from your bag, and then a notebook, and two pens.

“Figured we should talk about this, and set some of our ground rules. We’ll get through some legal stuff first, and then we can do some house-keeping. You can relax, Piastri.” you state, pushing your mug to the side and rolling him a biro. He tries to slouch a little, but his leg is still bouncing under the table, and he knows you can feel it.

“First off, let’s establish what we both want. You want to cement yourself in the fashion world, and I want to be part of the wag culture. It’s an untapped audience for me.” you begin, waiting for him to jump in, or correct you. He nods, with a determined swallow.

“Speak, Piastri.”

He grimaces.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s what the goal is. I need them to like, view me as a serious model. Or whatever. I need your world to respect me.” he explains, his voice steady and low. Then, his expression turns a little more thoughtful.

“What did you mean by the wag culture?”

You give him a lopsided smile.

“Well, the actual fashion fans are already my fans. But you’ve got such a huge audience, who pretend they’re into the sport and not the politics, and I want them to see me. Also, the way the fans are so fixated on the partners- I don’t know. I’m interested.”

“Shit. I’m a passion project.” Oscar groans, and then he hears it- a genuine, raw, giggle. The sound is simply infectious. He realises quite quickly he wants to hear it again.

“Boy, you are so not ready for this, if you’re only just realising that. You should’ve got that worked out from the second I walked in and didn't turn on my heels and walk back out.”

He smirks, beside himself.

“You think I need fixing, don’t you? And you think you can fix me.”

You shrug, reaching for your coffee again.

“I mean, your team did reach out to me. But you said it, not me. I will neither confirm nor deny.” you say carefully, narrowing your eyes slightly. He tries to hide his shudder.

“Right, let’s do this, Lara-Jean style. I won’t go no kissing as the first one, but let’s keep it to a minimum, okay? I mean, there’s never loads of PDA in the paddock anyway, right? And you’re…you. So that works.”

He frowns, desperately trying to understand anything you just said. He also tries to work out if he should be offended, but like usual, he’s just confused. When he comes up blank, you sigh.

“Have you not seen To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before?” you ask impatiently, and he shakes his head.

“Piastri, you have sisters! I’m appalled. Okay, well, we’re watching that-”

“-we don’t tell my sisters. When you meet them.” he interjects, and you hesitate. He continues.

“My mum- Nicole. She can know. But my sisters need to think it’s real, when you see them. I just don’t want them to think I’ve turned into such a money-hungry monster that not even love can be real anymore.” Oscar explains, and it’s so earnest you don’t even laugh.

“Alright, that’s fair enough. But I was going to say we try to avoid family interaction as much as possible.” you revise, and he chews his lip.

“My family doesn’t work like that. The second we’re spotted, you’ll have to come around. I promise, it’ll be okay. I won’t let them get attached, or anything. And we can make it public, which helps us both.” he continues, and you give him a curt, dismissive nod.

“I’m coming to practically every race on the calendar. And you’re paying.” you add, writing it down before he can even disagree.

“And I’m dressing you, and you’re obligated to invite me to every formal event that you can bring a date to. And you will not buy or wear any clothing I haven't approved in advance.” you finish proudly, and he doesn’t try to argue with any seriousness.

“Considering the expense of your outfits, can you not pay for yourself?”

You pretend to think it over, before giving him a dramatic shake of your head.

For a moment, it’s so comfortable that he forgets to find you off-putting. And he forgets to be nervous.

“So, to summarise. We limit any public touching, we watch To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, we lie to your sisters, and I’m constantly on your fucking arm. And you’re like my personal doll.”

He should protest. He should probably be slightly worried that he doesn’t hate the idea of being a glorified barbie. Instead, he just scoffs.

“On my card, I assume.”

“Naturally.”

The taxi ride is fine. Oscar pretends he isn’t watching you as you reapply something he thinks is a lip-liner for the fourth time.

“You’re nervous.”

It’s not an accusation. It’s not barbed. It’s just a statement.

“You’ve been staring at me for the last forty-five minutes, and that’s the best you can come up with?” you retort, not even bothering to meet his eyes.

There had been about a week between the contract signing and the beginning of the US GP. He had spent that week trying to stop himself from finding out every detail about you that he could. He had decided he wanted some level of authenticity, to have something to discuss when you were actually together.

He had forgotten how mean you were.

“God, this isn’t going to work. No one’s going to believe us. I look ridiculous-”

“-You look good.” you correct, with a shrug, flicking your eyes up to admire his outfit. You almost look proud. He knows you’re prouder of the clothes than him, but he takes it like a compliment nonetheless.

He scratches his neck awkwardly, and then he feels something digging into it uncomfortably. You spot it as he cranes, trying to catch what’s making him wince. It’s a rather sharp label, tied with a simple knot into the loop of his collar.

“Piastri, you idiot. You didn’t cut the tag.” you groan, and he gives you a sheepish smile.

“Sorry?” he tries, tugging at it, to no avail. “You don’t happen to have scissors, do you?”

You give him a wide grin, tilting your head innocently to the side.

“Of course! I always bring scissors to the paddock. Front pocket, next to my firework, and my portable chainsaw.” you reply, and he almost thinks you're being serious. You notice when he shifts toward your bag, and you shoot him a violent glare.

He backs off, desperately pulling at it again, and you sigh.

You unclip your seatbelt, slipping towards him and trying to undo it.

“Can’t you just rip it?” he pleads, and you turn to him, your breath hot on his cheek.

“It’s not made out of card, dumbass. So no, I can’t. And even if I could, you’d still have the plastic bit scratching you at the end of the rope. Fine, I’ll have to pull a Louisa Clark. One second.”

You wait for a nod, or a laugh, or some sign of recognition. Instead, you get that blank stare you’ve learnt to resent.

“Right, we’re watching that too, I guess. I’m going to bite it off. Just hold still, alright?”

Oscar tenses, arms falling to his sides awkwardly as you lean across him. Your hair is tickling him as you place an arm on his shoulder. He meets the eye of the driver in the mirror, giving him an awkward smile.

“Are you almost done?” he mumbles, and you make a general noise of assent, lifting the ripped tag like it’s a trophy as you shuffle back to your seat.

“Details, Piastri. It’s all in the details.”

He nods in agreement, mouth irritatingly dry. He can still smell the scent of your hair by his nose.

“What perfume are you wearing?”

The question catches you off guard, and he watches you carefully try to fix the slight confusion etched into your frown. It seems that this is the first time he’s said something unexpected. He hopes he’ll manage it at least once more.

“Good question. I’m not really an expert. I think it’s Mitsouko.”

Oscar wants to make a snide comment about you not knowing something, but he realises that would be rather idiotic, considering he doesn’t even recognise what you just said.

So instead, he gives you a weak smile. “It smells nice.”

“Thanks.”

He knows the silence that will follow should feel natural, but he’s suffocating. His shirt collar feels dramatically tight, even though you had commanded him to undo the top button. And then you had called him a whore, but batted his hand away when he tried to do it back up.

“You’ve got to be nervous. Even I’m nervous.” he admits.

You shoot him a glare he can’t decipher.

“I don’t get nervous. But I’m worried you might fuck this up, yeah.”

He raises an eyebrow reflexively.

“You’ve never been in the paddock before, and you think I’m going to fuck this up?”

You give him a sarcastic smile of encouragement.

“That’s exactly what I think. But we’ll see, ‘cause we’re here. Get ready, loverboy. At least try to look like you tolerate me.”

Oscar hadn’t realised it was so obvious that you made him uncomfortable. He thought, between the placid nods and careful smiles, he’d been fooling you. It seems he had not.

“I do tolerate you.” he promises, but it comes out flat and unenthusiastic.

“Save it. Just remember this when I nominate you for the next Calvin Klein collection.” you fire back, the corners of your lips upturned as his ears betray him instantly.

“You wouldn’t. It would be a trainwreck.”

“A disaster.” you agree. “Although, I’m sure some of your fans wouldn’t mind seeing you half-naked. I mean, we saw the reaction to-”

Oscar shoots you a warning glance.

“-Do not bring up British Vogue. I get it.”

You shrug, but you can’t mask your grin in time.

“You have no idea what I was going to say.”

That’s when the car slows to a stop, and then your smile fades instantly. Oscar gets out, his muscle-memory kicking in. He almost forgets you’re in the car, but he quickly strides over to your door, pulling it open.

You give him a grateful smile, leaning forward to shimmy out, clutching your bag.

He reacts before he really knows what he’s doing, dropping his arm from the door to your hand, helping you out.

It’s a small gesture, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. There’s a holler, and then the flash of lights and clicks of cameras, and someone screams your name so loudly you think they might have fried their vocal cords.

Oscar stiffens as you let your hand settle in his, and you lean towards him, your lips grazing the side of his ear.

“Breathe. Smile. We’ll be fine.” you whisper, turning towards the onslaught of cameras as you begin to walk, dragging him with you.

“You know, it’s not very often that you come along to media day.” Oscar admits, relaxing his grip on you slightly. Your smile doesn’t so much as twitch.

“Media is my kingdom. And we had to debut on a day where I can dress you.”

It’s a satisfactory answer. He looks down, beginning his analysis. It’s become a custom now, going limb by limb, trying to figure out what you’re trying to say.

Your boots are blue and worn, but they have that red-back he’s learnt to respect, and they look both homely, intricate, and expensive, all in one.

Then it’s your skirt.

It has a unique metal loop by your hip, teasing the sharp line of the bone, with something sparkly within the knitting. He doesn’t understand why he’s so fascinated by the way it dips while you walk, but it takes some effort to trail his eyes upwards.

Your top is clearly satin (he’s glad he can recognise the material), and it sits around your neck effortlessly, buttoned together by something that resembles a large, golden paperclip. It’s somehow both loose and snug at the same time, sitting just where it should with very intentional-looking creases.

He’s fascinated though, at how this blue is richer than the shade of your boots, and yet, it’s harmonious. He’s also fascinated by the open back, and the way the Texan sun is hitting your skin.

He waits, as if asking for silent permission, before slipping his hand from yours and placing it there. He’s not sure what he’s expecting; either to go up in flames or to feel his fingers slowly freeze off, but nothing happens.

Instead, you shift closer to him, like his bare skin on yours is the most natural thing in the world, and you’re not remotely phased by the falsehood of it all.

As you walk past a flash of red, the American flag waving beside you, he thinks he understands the statement. He understands why he’s in beige, and you’re in blue. He understands what you’re trying to say, and he’s not stumped by a raised eyebrow or a shift in tone. He wonders if maybe that really is just how you’re wired to communicate- through colours and fabrics, and he’ll have to figure you out, one top at a time.

By Saturday, it seems the world has exploded. Thursday, you were only plastered over those relentless gossip accounts, and people desperately reposting videos with flashes of you, hands intertwined. Friday, people began to question if it was a prank. With a carefully planted kiss on the cheek before qualifying, the rumours stop flying and instead cemented themselves as ideas of truth.

Oscar is not prepared for how significant you are. That is the first time (of many) that ignorance comes to bite him on the ass. It really does seem that you rule the corner of the world you come from, and he didn’t really have any idea.

“So, how does it feel to just suddenly have the Daughter of Vogue on your arm?” the interviewer asks, her french accent swirling in his head.

Charles stretches out on the couch to his right, and George leans forward, like he’s intrigued.

Oscar near chokes on his Monster, the straw catching the back of his throat.

“She’s related to Turnure?”

He hopes, if you’re watching, that you’re at least somewhat impressed by the name-drop. And that maybe you’ll be so impressed you’ll forget that he hasn’t checked your family tree.

“No, she’s Wintour’s niece.” George corrects, his matter-of-fact tone making Oscar shoot him a sideways glance.

The journalists explode into laughter, and he realises you’re going to have a stern word with him back at the hotel.

“Congratulations on P6.” you murmur, looking up from the sofa that sits in between your conjoined rooms. He tries to act like the hit with Lando and the slow pace hasn’t ebbed at him, and he still has the strength to talk to you, but he’s failing spectacularly.

“Fuck off.”

He notices the way you bare your teeth a little, gripping the corner of the magazine you’re reading a little tighter.

“You have no right to talk to me like that, just ‘cause you’re pissy after a bad day.”

He knows he should apologise, but his exhaustion shifts a little into anger. He hasn’t gotten mad at you before. You’ve never seen him in any light other than those passive nods, the slight raise of an eyebrow as a dare. He’s never so much as muttered something mean under his breath. He’s taken every barb, every comment, every note. You’ve made the last few weeks drag, and he’s never so much as complained. It’s going to rear its ugly head now.

“Who are you to talk about right?”

You give him an incredulous laugh, standing up to move towards him. There’s venom in every step, and that same fear he felt when you first walked into the IMG headquarters hits him straight in the chest.

“You signed the right away, when you signed the contract. Page 6, Clause 8.1 ‘You cannot and will not take out work-related emotions on your respective partner. They are not actually there for emotional support.’” you quote, and it sounds totally inhumane and completely insane. Oscar blinks.

“Are you being serious? That’s in there?”

You nod, but you don’t back down. He can smell you again, and it’s making it a lot harder to focus.

“Cross that out. That’s bullshit.”

You frown. “No, it isn’t. I don’t want you to treat me like crap, just because you were too slow. This is professional. Get a therapist.”

“I have a therapist.” he argues, like that’s some robust comeback.

“Great. Glad that’s settled. Now, we need to address the ‘Vogue’ incident today, okay?” you mutter, turning back towards the sofa. He decides to follow, desperately trying to ignore how his frustration has been swallowed by some feeling that seems scarily alien.

“Daughter of Vogue. I’m not actually related to Wintour, or anyone. I figured you knew that. It’s just like, my title. I’ve been on the cover more than 150 times.” you say, so casually it’s almost impressive.

“Who’s your cousin, then?”

“Gisele Bundchen.” you reply, without missing a beat. He’d probably laugh if he knew who that was.

You give him a stern look when he gives you that blank stare, and he snaps out of it instantly.

“Okay. So I’m dating actual fashion-royalty, and I really should’ve researched you more. I mean, I know the basics. But, y’know. I’ll work on that.”

“Fake-dating.” you correct, and he raises his arms innocently.

You put down the magazine, angling your laptop towards him.

It’s a photo of the both of you, one he doesn’t recognise but he remembers clearly. You, trying to recover from a slight stumble on some gravel. The crease of a rare laugh on your face, face slightly downturned as you look at the ground.

His arm, wrapped around your waist, in a weak attempt to catch you, that would have done nothing other than send him tumbling to the ground with you. The way he’s admiring you, with a softened scrutiny.

He hopes you haven’t noticed. He assumes you have.

“You’re a better actor than I was expecting. Look at this.” you murmur proudly, highlighting words in the article.

‘Lovesick puppy.’ ‘A new kind of smile.’

He doesn’t bother to read the rest. He almost wants to tell you he wasn’t really acting at all, but something in him is pretty sure that would be a terrible idea.

You beam at the success, punching his arm carefully.

“Look at us. We look like a good couple. We’re attractive.” you claim, letting out a gentle laugh, and it’s that same sound from the last week-or-so, the sound he’s been craving since.

It’s then, that his phone rings. It’s Hattie.

“You’re the worst brother, ever.” she announces, as he picks up the FaceTime, angling the camera uncomfortably close to his face.

You laugh again, and it’s nearly dizzying.

“Oh my god. Is that her?” Hattie practically squeals, and you give her a shy wave as he tilts the phone towards you.

“Hi, Hattie. I’ve heard a lot about you. And Mae.” you smile, waving again as another head pops into frame.

Your whole demeanour has shifted. For a second, as your leg presses against him, he forgets about the clauses, and the contract, and his heart swells a little in pride. He’s not sure what he’s proud of, or why he feels it at all, but it’s there. And then you notice, and you move away, and your face has dropped again.

“Can you put Mum on? I need to talk to her.” he says firmly, and Mae nods, dutifully passing the phone over. After some rustling and the sound of the phone dropping onto marble, followed by a couple seconds of dark. And then she comes into frame, with a grin.

“Hi Nicole.” you say sheepishly, dropping your head onto Oscar’s shoulder to say hello.

He should be used to you in his space by now. You’d been hanging out constantly for a while, and it had felt like your hand hadn't left his for more than five minutes this weekend, but he still can’t handle it. He’s convinced it’s the perfume. Or maybe the way your hair tickles your neck. Or the way he can feel your heartbeat, or the mint on your breath, or the urge he has to fight to rest his head back on yours.

He tells himself it’s because he’s never done anything like this before. It’s not as easy for him as it is for you, to pretend to be head-over-heels, and then drop it the minute a camera isn’t around.

Still, it doesn’t explain the heat rising in his cheeks, or the way he adjusts himself slightly so you’re more comfortable.

“Mum, can you make sure they can’t hear you?” Oscar asks carefully, and Nicole nods, closing a door and narrowing her eyes.

“I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, but we’re not actually together. It’s this elaborate PR scheme.” he admits, like it’s just another tiktok McLaren has forced him to post. The phone crackles back, and Nicole’s expression is stuck between humour and disbelief.

Oscar turns to you, for reassurance.

“Do the thing. Quote that clause.” he mutters, and you give him a wicked grin.

“I made that one up, sorry.”

He gives you an astounded glare.

“I didn’t want you to whine at me. But, yeah. He’s telling the truth. It’s a fashion thing.” you confirm, and Nicole’s expression sinks into visible disappointment.

“I should’ve seen this coming. We were wondering how you’d managed it. Well, that’s alright. I hope it works out.”

Oscar knows he should be offended, but it’s a completely valid point. He’d already been told he was punching an outrageous amount of times, and he’d had to pretend not to notice the slightly pitying glances people sent your way when you’d scold him like a toddler for slouching, or not walking in a straight line.

“Do you at least, y’know, get along? I don’t know how these things work.”

The question is heavier than either of you expected, and you both make awkward eye-contact.

“Um, yeah. ‘Course. It’s just like, acting. We’re friends.” Oscar offers, and his statement is almost closer to a question than a truth. You nod.

“Friends.” you confirm.

Nicole looks relieved, giving you both a thumbs up.

“Well, you still have to come round. The girls will get suspicious if you don’t, but I’d also love to meet you. Real or not, if you’re stuck with Oscar, you’re stuck with us.”

Oscar winces, and you give him an endeared smile as he makes an excuse for a hasty goodbye, hanging up.

“Your mother is adorable. And your sisters.” you burst out, and it sounds genuine. He’ll take it. Even if his family becomes your favourite part of him, it’s a part of him nonetheless.

“Do you have something for me to sign? Just to confirm.”

“Confirm what?” you ask, shuffling away from him.

“That we’re officially friends.”

“You know, you don’t have to come to this. McLaren just loves to pretend we’re some strange, functional family after things go wrong. Lando is actually dating his girlfriend, and he hasn’t dragged her to one of these in a long time.”

He’d like to see if you have that slight gleam in your eyes you get when he says something funny but you don’t want to give him any satisfaction, but he unfortunately can’t see through closed doors.

“When was the last one? Baku?”

He inhales loudly, a low whistle, like you’ve wounded him.

“That was below the belt.”

He hears your unexpected laugh, and he wonders if it’s worth ramming into the barriers in Mexico if it will give him something else to joke about.

With a gentle click, the bathroom door swings open, and you step out, still dabbing the side of your cheek.

“I’m not expecting notes.” you say quietly, watching him, as he watches you. He assumes you’re trying to come across as confident. He doesn’t know you well enough yet to notice the slight bashfulness painted on your face. It’s something he’ll come to search for later on.

Oscar’s never been great at subtlety, but he’s trying his best here. He makes an effort to look disappointed, as if he had a long list of critiques that he was ready to dish out.

He hopes it’s somewhat convincing, and you don’t notice the way his breathing is a little more forced, or the way he’s slightly panicked by the feeling of his heart expanding. Still, you tilt your head slightly, giving him a look of scrutiny he’s come to recognise. He mirrors it dutifully, eyes dropping to your shoes. He’s got good at this now- figuring you out. Weeks of outfits have helped him learn what occasions warrant what length heels, or which type of neckline you’re most comfortable in, compared to which you think looks best.

Today, your heels are sleek and long, with a shine he knows is manufactured and not polished in. A gold chain sits above your ankle, but it’s only visible through the slit of your dress.

Your dress. He thinks it might be rewriting the very chemistry of his brain with each stitch, in a way that is nothing but cruel.

The skirt is a translucent black, stretching to your hips. It has a drawstring that sits at the bottom of the bodice part, and you’ve tied it lazily into a lopsided bow. He assumes the imperfection is meant to distract from how wholly perfect you look, but it doesn’t work.

The top-part itself is ruched (a word he wished you’d taught him on a flashcard, instead of like it was something more complicated than the very engine of his car) with little slits stretching towards an open loop of bare skin between your collarbones.

The whole thing is tied with two straps around your neck that look dramatically thin, but he doesn’t question the physics of it. Instead, he follows the dangle of your earrings to the sunglasses sitting in your hair, and then he settles on your face.

The smile you’re giving him is disgustingly distracting. It’s a question, and a challenge, and a certainty, all rolled into a flash of teeth and shiny lips.

For a second, he wonders what they might taste like. He’s never asked if the products you use are flavoured. Maybe he should.

That is when the realisation that Oscar might be a little into you hits him square in the face, like a knuckle to the jaw.

In some ways, it’s completely and totally convenient. In others, he feels as if the world might as well chew him whole and spit him out again. Still, it’s manageable. It’s that thrum of attraction that you learn to live with, like when it’s your lab partner or a friend you know you can’t cross that line with. He swallows it, enjoys the slight burn as it passes through his throat, and then lets it go.

Still, the slightly stunned silence isn’t helping his case, so he stands.

He coughs, with an absent nod.

“I like your shoes.”

It’s your turn, now. Obviously, you’d told him what to buy, but you hadn’t actually seen it on.

He’s in tailored trousers and a chequered shirt, and you give him an approving nod, until you land on his collar.

“You know, you really need to stop buttoning your shirts all the way up. We’re not in secondary school anymore.” you accuse, fiddling with his top button and pulling the neck wider.

He doesn’t risk looking down, to meet your focused eyes. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained on the door.

That is, until he feels you tug at his belt, shifting it to the left.

With a blink, he dares to give you an amused glance.

“You could at least buy me dinner first.”

He waits, and hopes for a laugh. He knows he’ll settle with a smile. Instead, he gets neither, and you give him an exasperated sigh.

“It’s about the-”

“-Details. I know.”

You give him a patronising thumbs-up. “You’re learning. Congrats.”

It’s a short walk to the restaurant. Still, it feels like some elaborate performance, even though the streets are surprisingly quiet. When your hands brush as you walk, he tries to act like the contact doesn’t sting a little.

The room itself has the same quiet hum of a team that knows how to work together, even if the animosity between them is far from invisible.

“So, who knows?”

Oscar gives you a wary look.

“Zak and Andrea, naturally. Then all the PR people, they’re the ones on the left. I think that’s it.” he nods, checking each group off his mental list. You give him a surprised hum.

“Not Lando?”

He raises an eyebrow, letting a careful smile stretch across his face.

“Not Lando. He’s terrible at keeping secrets.”

You’re not sure you believe that, but you don’t push. Instead, you loop your arm into his with some force, and you let him drag you to a seat.

“So, how’d you meet?”

The lovesick look you’ve had plastered on your face all evening falters for the first time. There’s a flicker of panic in Oscar’s eyes, and he turns to you.

You grin.

“During the summer break. It was shameless of me, really. Just shot him a message. Something about how I was rooting for him, and asking which race is the best to see for the first time.”

You drag his hand that’s hanging lamely off his chair into yours, placing it firmly on the table. Like it’s proof.

Lando scoffs. “I don’t believe you.”

Oscar’s eyebrows shoot up to somewhere so high you lose track of them, but you just squeeze his palm.

“I couldn’t believe myself either. I don’t think I’ve ever dm’ed someone like that before. And then he gave me such a long-winded response, about the pros and cons of every upcoming race. What a dork.”

Lando lets out a gentle chuckle, and you laugh with him.

“By the time I realised that wasn’t exactly why she’d reached out, we’d already bumped into eachother in a café. She made a joke about how excited she was to come to Hungary, and I thought she’d just been teasing me the whole time. I mean, I spent an embarrassing amount of time on my lists. Then she gave me this look, and I was gone.”

He brushes his thumb over the back of your hand, and if Lando actually didn’t believe you, you know he does now.

“Mate, I just can’t believe you didn’t tell me. You know I’m a fan.” he sulks, and you can feel Oscar relax.

“I thought the same. I was complaining I hadn’t met you before now just earlier. And I loved your Vogue article. The photography was inspired.”

Lando breaks into that signature grin you’ve seen plastered all over the McLaren socials, and you smile, but not back at him. Instead, because Oscar’s fighting your foot with his, in annoyance.

“You really hate when I bring that up, don’t you?” you mutter, so quietly you’re certain only he can hear you. He nods, trying to bat the smile away from his face.

“Well, once you do your own, I’ll bring that up instead. And I expect the part about me to be disgusting.” you reply calmly, watching him struggle to choose an expression.

There’s some clicks from cameras, and moments where you’re convinced the whispers are about you, but the majority of the dinner is survivable. As you begin to say your goodbyes, Lando makes his way over to you. Oscar is talking to Andrea, with that stern stare you’ve come to associate with his team, and you watch.

“He’s terrified of you.” Lando announces coyly, like it’s some big secret.

“Pardon?”

“Oscar. Did you see the way he was pulling his collar every time you’d break eye contact? That man was sweating. He was gripping your hand like it was life support. I’ve never seen him so nervous, and I see him before every race.”

You shrug. “Stressful weekend for him. You can imagine.”

Lando leans closer, quietly placing a hand on your shoulder and whispering into your ear. It’s not malicious, but it’s calculated.

“I’m not sure I’m convinced by you two. Something's up. What are you hiding?”

“Nothing.” you assure him, picking at your dress. When Oscar comes over, clearly hesitating to sling his arm around your shoulder, you lean into him.

“I’m a skeptic.” Lando explains. “I’m not convinced you would’ve managed to stay silent this long.”

“We just didn’t want to tell people, until we were sure. Imagine the dramatics.” Oscar says wisely, and you nod along. You can’t tell if the curly-haired boy is being serious, but his eyes still don’t widen, and there’s suspicion all over his face.

“What do you two even talk about?” he presses, and you have to stop yourself from glowering at him.

“We don’t do much talking.” you say sweetly, giving him a warm, final smile.

While Oscar splutters, you grab his arm and drag him out of the restaurant.

“You’re no help at all.” you hiss aggressively, dragging his ear to your mouth. He half-yelps, and you push his head back away from you as you walk on.

“It’s just Lando. He’s annoying like that. I’m telling you, everyone else thinks we’re deeply in love.”

You throw him a cold look and keep walking, and Oscar realises he’s seeing you stressed for the first time.

He reaches for you, pulling you back towards him.

“Look, it’s totally fine. Wait for the photos to drop, and we can see how everyone reacts. If everyone’s suspicious, we can re-evaluate. But I think we did a good job in there. I would’ve believed us.”

“That means absolutely nothing to me. But okay.”

He gives you a hurt look, and you can feel your frown slowly unfold.

“Also, we’re doing some shoots together. And I need to meet your family. I’m thinking we see your family after Mexico, and then we do the shoot in the gap before Vegas?”

Oscar pauses, like he’s mentally arranging his own calendar that you know he’s probably never seen.

“Sure. But flying over to Melbourne for a few days is a little intense. You’re acting like we have a timeline.”

The stare you give him is so full of judgement that he almost wishes he could go back and swallow his last sentence, even though he’s not entirely sure what he said wrong.

“Are you seriously suggesting we take this fake-relationship slowly?”

The pure incredulousness in your tone makes him feel rather like he should put himself in time-out.

“Alright. Sorry. I just meant-”

“-Save it. We just need to get the formalities done, so we’re all sorted to just, somewhat fade away in the off-season.”

Oscar pauses.

“We’re done by the off-season? I didn’t read that.”

“You didn’t read it all, did you? And no, not officially. We decide when. But that seems logical. If I just never show up again after Abu-Dhabi, I doubt people will ask questions. Everyone will know what’s happened.”

It’s logical. Of course it is. Still, something heavy presses in Oscar’s chest when he thinks about it, and he can’t really figure out why.

“Right. Makes sense.”

The P5 in Mexico sits bitter in Oscar’s throat. He knows the drive was sound. The over-takes were good. But still, he watches Lando slink off to the cool-down room, watches his name drop to P2 in the championship standings, watches his own confidence begin to shatter.

Team members in orange clap him on the back, but he doesn’t recognise their faces. The colour blurs into a storm of something heavier than hate, and sadder than disappointment.

He knows the fire will come later. He knows he will come back. Although, right now, all he wants is somewhere to breathe, and someone to breathe with.

But his family isn’t here, and his team is celebrating, and for a moment, it feels like he deserves the loneliness.

“Hey, stranger.”

The smile you’re giving him isn’t pitying. It’s sympathetic, but not patronising. Somewhere, you might be proud.

“Hi.”

It’s shaky. You don’t comment on how you can see the way his eyes are glistening. It’s almost awkward, the way you both stand.

You know you should probably offer him a hand, or try to act how you imagine his real girlfriend would in this situation, but nothing comes to mind.

He moves for you both, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, your shallow breaths mixing, and you nod.

“You drove well today. I’m sorry.”

His eyes are closed, but he smiles a little.

“It’s okay. I can get him back.”

Neither of you bring up how little is left of the season. Neither of you mention how Lando seems untouchable. Neither of you dare to confess this is the closest you’ve ever been to eachother, and that you seem unfazed by his sweat.

“Are you angry?” you whisper, and he hums.

“I don't know. Should I be?”

“I would be.” you admit, and you’re telling the truth. It makes you think of how different you are. It makes you pull your head back.

“Come home with me?”

You know he doesn’t mean his flat in Monaco. You know it’s not really a question.

You say yes anyway, and you only realise where you recognise that phrase from by the time you’re at the airport.

It feels ironic, thinking of Orpheus and Eurydice, as Oscar looks back at you on the travelator. You almost expect him to start singing to you, but his lopsided smile is an alright alternative.

Nicole opens the door, stained apron still half-tied. Her smile widens at the sight of you both, even though Oscar looks like he’s been to hell and back, and you really need to wash your hair.

She embraces him instantly, and you swear his ribs must be close to snapping.

“You need to come home more often, Oscar.” she reprimands, but she looks so happy that it doesn’t really land.

Then she turns to you, and hugs you kindly, like you’re more than a stranger.

“Thank you for being with him. Even if it’s not quite how it seems, I like knowing he’s not alone. At least he has someone to turn to after the races.” she mutters, and you swallow.

“Of course. Thank you for having me.”

Oscar watches the way you hug her back, the way you’re not quite sure what to do with yourself. For the first time since he’s laid his eyes on you, you seem a little unsure of what to do with your body. You seem shy. He didn’t expect his mum to be the one to make that happen.

His sisters are visiting tomorrow, and Nicole has already booked a restaurant, she explains as she ferries you in.

Oscar leads you up the stairs, showing you to the guest room. You put down your suitcases gratefully, admiring the portraits on the wall.

“My dog.” he tells you, pointing at the painting the furthest away, and you smile.

“I’m a cat person.”

“Of course you are.”

You flash him a cheeky grin, before leaning on the doorway.

“Can I see your room?”

The walls are blue, there are ink stains on the carpet. It’s not hard to envision all the days spent here.

“I left when I was fourteen.” he offers, looking around at his own bookshelves.

He has the periodic table above his desk, next to a rogue sock from (presumably) the last time he was here, but the rest of the wall space is covered by posters of cars and drivers you don’t recognise.

You land on one of Mark Webber. “Hah. Guess the little boy in you is thrilled.”

“Ecstatic.” he bemuses, and you chuckle. The sound makes his heart squeeze.

“Well, I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Piastri.”

It’s almost funny, the way he associates his last name with you, now. Maybe that’s more symbolic than it needs to be, but he doesn’t care. He’s not sure why you refuse to call him Oscar, and he wonders what it might mean if you ever do.

“G’night. Good luck for tomorrow.”

“What?”

“My sisters. They love you. You’ll need it.”

“You look gorgeous.” Nicole says fondly, as you walk into the kitchen.

You meet Oscar’s eye, giving him a nod that says ‘Hello’ and ‘Are you ready?’ all in one.

You’re wearing a denim shirt-dress, with ridiculously chunky hoops in your ears, and some flat shoes. It was anyone but you, he wouldn’t bother looking twice. It’s not much of a statement.

But still, he lingers.

He lingers on the stack of rings on your middle finger, and the bracelet on the opposite hand. Then he settles on your necklace, and he wishes he’d never noticed it.

“D’you like it?” you ask quietly, noticing his eyes trained on it. He nods. It’s his number, and that feels unbelievably more intimate than half the photos of the two of you flying around.

He’s in jeans and a black t-shirt, which he had figured was too understated for you. He understands how you fit now, like you have pieces of each other in the way you dress.

“Oh, that is adorable. You’re rather good at this whole thing. I’m surprised. I would’ve guessed Oscar is quite taken by you, and I’m his own mother. There’s no need to be worried about the girls.” Nicole chirps, and Oscar's ears turn a disturbing red.

“Mum.” he complains, but you just smile, planting a slightly mocking kiss to his cheeks.

“Taken by me, huh?” you tease, and he covers his face with his hands, trying to ignore how your lips seem to linger on his cheek.

There’s no real need to point out that you’ve never done that before, because he’s sure it was a joke, but he almost wants to suggest you should do it more often, and he can’t quite figure out why.

When you arrive at the restaurant, his sisters are already sitting.

“How obnoxious are we going to be?” you ask quietly, and a slightly wicked smile creeps across his face.

“Unbearable.” he decides, and you nod.

Mae waves you over excitedly, pulling out a wicker chair, and you sit gratefully.

“Hi. It’s so great to meet you guys!” you say enthusiastically, and you can tell Hattie nearly explodes.

“You don’t understand how much we adore you. I mean, this is so embarrassing, but you’ve been on my wall for years.” Hattie admits, and you grin.

You pay each of them compliments in turn, sticking to what they’re wearing, until the conversation shifts. Soon Hattie is telling you all about her favourite artists, Edie is showing you a tattoo she wants, and Mae is rambling about her degree. Oscar pretends he isn’t watching, but when you gush over Hattie’s hair for the billionth time, he frowns.

“How come you’re so nice to them, and so mean to me?” he mutters, and you shoot him a sideways glance.

“Because I actually like them." you fire back, covering it up with a low laugh like he said something funny.

He gives you a dramatic pout, clutching at his heart like he’s wounded.

“So, how long have you been together?” Edie asks, when you move your ear away from his mouth.

“Just about two months now.” you say quickly, with a practiced ease.

Hattie nearly hollers, while Mae tries not to choke.

“And you didn’t say anything? Oscar, you suck.” they all complain, and he drops his head.

You grab his chin with your hand, pressing the side of your faces together.

“My fault. I wanted to keep it quiet for a while. Until we were sure it wasn’t more a summer-break thing.” you explain, and Oscar nods.

Hattie scrunches her face up.

“Oscar, you better not fumble her.”

“Like you’re fumbling the championship.” Edie adds quietly, and the whole table inhales.

You break the awkward silence by cackling. It’s probably the most undignified you’ve ever sounded, but you don’t really care. Every other breath is a wheeze, until everyone but Oscar is gripping their stomachs with heavy laughter.

“Brutal. That was brutal.” he groans, staring at your creased faces. “And you. I can’t believe you’re laughing. You’re meant to be on my side.” he protests.

“Sorry, Pi- baby.” you correct, catching yourself before his surname slips off your tongue.

Oscar tries to mask his slight surprise, reaching for his water.

“Gross.”

This time, Oscar joins in with the laughter, and you don’t realise it’s time to go until he’s tapping your shoulder.

“Do I want to know what you’re going to do?” Edie asks, giving you both a wary look.

“We’re watching To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before.” you say firmly, and there’s a choir of approval from the table, while Oscar just sighs.

“Do I really have to watch this?” he pleads, fiddling with the remote.

“Yes. Absolutely. It’s in our rules.”

He groans, turning to you desperately. You’re carrying a dramatically large bowl of popcorn, which explains the smell from the kitchen. But he’s more focused on the sight of you in ridiculously fluffy socks, wearing a pyjama set with depictions of rather well-dressed teddy-bears. Your hair is in something too messy to be a bun, but it’s not quite down, and he thinks this might be the first time you don’t look mildly intimidating.

“Sorry, it’s hard to command authority looking like that.” he argues, but you pay him no mind.

“Shut up, Piastri. Just press play.”

He listens. He could just say no, and go upstairs, and claim your stupid rules mean jackshit. But he doesn’t, he presses play, and lets his eyes flick between you and the screen.

He doesn’t ask you why you’re sitting close enough for your legs to be touching, instead of the other end of the sofa.

Instead, he hopes that might mean the day he becomes ‘Oscar’ is one day closer, and you’re growing used to him in your space. Maybe the titles, and the hand-holding aren’t real, but he knows that not minding having you around is real, and he wonders if you’re finally getting there too.

He’s not entirely sure when, he thinks during the bus trip to the ski-resort, but it seems that rather suddenly your head is on his chest, and his arm is slung around your shoulder. You’re half asleep, hearing the slow beating of his heart through one ear, and Lara’s voice through the other.

For a second, you forget to act like you’re above it all, and that you mind having to spend so much time with him. It seems that you’ve grown rather fond of Oscar Piastri, without even realising it.

He reaches forward with his other arm, grabbing a handful of popcorn. As he pulls his outstretched palm back, you take one, popping it into your mouth. He looks outraged.

“Oi. I was going to eat that.”

“Just get more.” you retort, overly-exaggerating as you chew.

You stare at each other for a second, daring the other person to look away first. He leans again, grabbing more popcorn, throwing some more into his mouth.

You know you should turn back to the screen. He knows he should too. But he doesn’t actually care about the film, and you could probably quote it if prompted. His eyes drag down to the corner of your lips, and you wonder if this is about to be the best or worst mistake you could possibly make.

He waits, like he’s giving you a chance to back down. You don’t.

“Oh, Mae adores this film.” Nicole says loudly, perching on the furthest armrest. If she can tell she’s interrupting, she’s unapologetic about it.

You both jump away from each other as subtly as possible, with Oscar going back forward to the bowl as you shift closer to where Nicole is now standing, half turned away.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you. You enjoying it, Osc?” she asks, and he gives her a slightly strained smile.

“Loving it.”

It’s not quite sarcastic, but it’s flat. She frowns, raising her arms up in innocence.

“Crikey, mate. I was just asking.”

You nudge him in mock-offence, but the edge of your arm on his nearly makes him shiver.

“Sorry, sorry. Yeah, it’s alright. Not really my kind of film, though.”

“Funny, for your situation, though.” Nicole jokes, and you nod, explaining that that’s why you’re forcing him to watch it.

The only real differences he can see is that they’re students, and that they actually end up together at the end. They’re not just going to cease to exist, come December 8th.

Oscar doesn’t talk much about Brazil. He doesn’t talk much about the stretch of the championship gap. You don’t push it. Still, it’s almost uncomfortable. You haven’t properly spoken since Melbourne, and it was back to feeling strained again. You smiled for cameras, but he’d drop your hand faster than before, and you’d have to hide your frown when you’d get a little lost.

It’s only when you land in New York, that he realises he’s been a bit of an asshole.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be taking out a bad weekend on you.” he apologises, as you fuss around your kitchen, grabbing him a mug as the kettle boils.

“It’s alright. I get it. I’m sorry you’re stuck with me.”

He looks up from the island counter, confusion written all over his face.

“What do you mean?”

“Y’know. Like, you have a shit race, and then you have to deal with me, and keeping up appearances. And, I don’t know. I suppose you could have a real girlfriend, and they could actually be more comforting. I can just imagine you’re a little miserable.”

You pass him his tea with a sympathetic look, but he shakes his head.

“It’s alright. I mean, the whole thing is a little wacky. But I like having you around, I guess. When you’re nice to me. Feel free to do some more comforting, though.” he murmurs, something between a laugh and a confession trapped in his throat.

“I’m not mean, Piastri. I’m accurate.” you reply, like it’s simple, like you’re not wounding him with your obstinance.

“Just to check- you do know my name, right?”

You snort. “Sure. Something with O, I think. I’ll get it straight one day.”

There’s some warmth in the silence between you. Still, it only exists to be broken.

“So, you’re in my kingdom now. Are you scared?”

He scoffs. “I’m not scared of clothes and cameras.”

You shrug, sipping your tea quietly. “Maybe you should be.”

He opens his mouth, as if to argue, but you give him a glance that makes him shut it again.

“So, I know you like Sinner. And he just booked Gucci, so you’re heading there first. You’ll be using the same collection, and the billboards and website will just rotate between photos of the two of you. It’s very much chartered territory.” you begin reassuringly, but his so-called ‘non-existent’ fear of clothes and cameras is painted all over his slightly panicked face.

“You’re going to be there, right?”

“If you want me to be. I did some work with them recently, so it should be fine.”

“I want you there.” he replies instantly, and you just roll your eyes.

“Alright. And then we have a couples shoot.”

You can see the cogs whirring in his head.

“It’s for Prada. They’re launching a new winter collection, that has some matching stuff. We fit the vibe, it seems.”

Oscar raises a curious eyebrow. “What does that entail?”

“What you’ve been doing for the last month. Someone dresses you, you pretend you’re in love with me, and then people take photos. We should be pros, by now.”

“Cool. That’s cool. Are they going to send me up into the mountains too?”

You purse your lips in surprise.

“You saw the Gucci collection?”

“‘Course. Almost bought the fleece.”

“Are you trying to impress me, or are you a real Jannik fan?” you question, and he laughs, throwing his head back a little.

“Can the answer be both?”

You smile in spite of yourself, looking down into your mug so he doesn’t catch it.

“No, you’re not going in the mountains. Sorry to disappoint. Maybe they’ll edit you in.”

Oscar is tapping his legs awkwardly as you push through the warehouse doors. He almost wants to reach for your hand, for some guidance, but he wouldn’t be able to handle your confused stare. So instead, he whistles under his breath, as if this isn’t bothering him at all.

“Look, Sydney is an angel. And Stef is inspired, and she’s an aussie too. You’re going to be fine, and I’m right here. Just listen to what they say, and you’ll be perfect.”

He feels like now is a good time to tell you he’s never really modelled anywhere other than the MTC, but he’s sure you know that. Instead, he imagines ripping up the stupid contract, both with you and IMG, and going back to his sim and racing.

Two women come up to you both, chattering excitedly, and he tries to discern who is who. The one to the left of you is dressed slightly bolder, with a large hat over her short hair and a ruffled top with sleek trousers.

The other is a little more casual, her hair pinned back and camera slung over her shoulder. When she speaks, he figures she’s Stef. Her accent isn’t dissimilar to his, evidently worn away by something European- sounding. He settles on French.

“I’ve been playing your job for a bit.” you joke, gesturing to Oscar with a jazz-hands like motion, and he stands stiffer. Sydney laughs gracefully, placing an approving hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve been following. It’s a visible impact, really. Clothes make such a difference.”

Oscar nods awkwardly, trying to look less like he's at gunpoint, but he can tell it’s not really working.

“Hey, Piastri. You look like you have a stick up your ass. Smile.”

You’d spent so much time together with constant flickering of cameras that he’d got complacent in your kindness. It’s almost a culture shock, hearing your unfiltered remarks. It’s that type of dread that only seems to come around when the corner of your mouth is upturned, and you’re looking at him like he’s something between an elaborate joke and not worth your time.

He’s not sure if he wants to kill you or kiss that look off your face, and that battle keeps him rather pre-occupied, until he’s being dragged into a dressing room and you’re giving him a sarcastic wave.

When he comes out, Sydney placing some sunglasses on his head, you pause.

“I feel like a balloon.” he admits, gesturing to the ski-pants and puffer coat, but you shake your head.

Sydney is pulling the zip of the fleece all the way up, stepping back, and then unzipping it again.

“What do you think?” she asks, giving you a pensive stare, and you frown.

“You’re the stylist. But personally, I’d go unzipped. I mean, the big necks are kind of a thing for the drivers, right?” you suggest, scrunching your face up a little, dodging his eyes.

Sydney nods in agreement, satisfied.

He gives you a final look that screams ‘help!’ but you just wave him off, to the brick wall of the warehouse. There’s blocks and lights set up, and a couch in the corner.

“Y’know, this isn’t very ski-apparel. They could’ve at least got Gasly in here, that would be funny.” he exclaims, to no-one in particular. Stef is setting up the camera, while Sydney is slicking his hair back with something that smells too woody to be gel, but he’s looking at you. Like your words can save him, even if it’s some mean quip.

“You’re an F1 driver, and you’re Australian, who lives in Monaco. Tell me you spend a lot of time in snow, and I’ll tell you you’re bullshitting.”

“Australia has snow.” he retorts, and you scoff.

“Melbourne doesn’t. Just focus.”

Once Stef starts giving him directions, he quickly realises he wishes you weren’t here. Everytime he blinks, he’s not sure if he wants you to be staring, smiling, or buried in your phone. It’s painfully awkward, leaning against the wall, pretending to tie his shoelaces, and knowing you’re watching. He doesn’t even know why he wanted you here in the first place- it’s not like you’d be any reassurance.

“Alright, pull at the collar of the jacket. Yeah, like that. Don’t move.” Stef demands calmly, much like how he imagines she would deal with toddlers. The twang of her accent sounds like she’s from Sydney, but he doesn’t dare to ask in case that somehow moving his mouth might ruin the shot.

That gets him to thinking about how interesting names that are cities are, and how funny it would be if Sydney moved with Stef to Sydney, and-

-”Oscar? You still with us?”

He’d zoned out so badly, you almost looked concerned when he meets your eyes.

“Yeah, shit. Sorry.”

He feels the embarrassment crawl up his neck, giving you an apologetic nod.

Once it’s over, and the sun has long since set, and he’s waiting for you to reprimand him. Instead, you drag him into the nearest McDonald’s, hurriedly adding some fries to your order.

“What do you want?” you ask, gesturing to the screen.

“Uh, nothing. I’m alright.”

You frown. “You skipped lunch, Oscar. You’ve got to be hungry.”

He shrugs. “Not in my diet. I’ll make something back at your place, if that’s okay?”

“And you think this is in my diet? Just have something.” you push, the statement bordering on a demand. When he hesitates, you add a burger and smile.

“You’re a bad influence.” he sighs, but he doesn’t stop you.

“You said you liked having me around yesterday. Don’t tell me one burger has changed your mind.”

He finds himself grinning, and he’s not quick enough to wipe the smile off his face.

Grabbing your receipt, you sit beside him on one of those sofa-benches, eyes on the screen with the order numbers.

“I don’t know, you’re on thin ice.”

You shoot him that look again, the half-smirk that drives him a little insane. He burns a little, a mix of infuriation and infatuation, and you raise an eyebrow, like you know. Like you’re waiting to see which one is going to win, which urge he’s going to act on.

“Stop looking at me like that.” you mutter, as he leans towards you a little. He would take you more seriously, but you haven’t shrunk away, and he watches your eyes flick all over his face, with something closer to curiosity than actual irritation.

“D’you mean that?” he replies, in one careful exhale.

It feels a little insane, that your fake formula-one boyfriend is about to kiss you for the first time while you’re waiting for some chicken nuggets, but you don’t tell him to back off. Instead, you tilt your head, as if to think, but he can see the way your breathing is a little shallow.

“Oh my god, hi! I’m sorry to bother you, but is there any chance we could get a photo?” comes an excited squeal, and you both turn forward. You hear Oscar grumble, and you bump his leg with yours, before smiling at the couple in-front of you.

Oscar begins to stand up, but the girl gives him an awkward smile.

“I think they meant me.” you smile gracefully, getting up and standing between them.

When you sit back down, Oscar’s clearly trying to hide his embarrassment.

“That’s never happened to me before.” he admits, and you laugh.

“You’ve never been with someone famous before. You better get used to it, Piastri.” you tease, but it feels a little strained. Then, your number is called, and you come back with a bag so full of grease he can imagine his PT screaming at him.

“I’m going to have to repent after this.” he groans dramatically, and you sigh.

You pull a chip from the bag, waving it at him enthusiastically.

“I’ll make an aeroplane sound if I really have to.” you scold, eyebrows furrowed, and he scoffs.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would. C’mon.”

Oscar opens his mouth with a determined eye-roll, trying to avoid making eye-contact as you feed him a fry. In theory, it shouldn’t be weird. Even Lando fed him a waffle for a challenge one time. But he simply cannot understand why his chest is practically imploding, so he just swallows, reaching for your coke.

“Oi, mate. You should’ve asked for one.”

He just shrugs, taking a sip from it, and you scowl.

“Get your own straw, next time. That’s nasty.”

Funny. He’d been so distracted he hadn’t even realised. He gets up, as if to grab you one, and you tug him back down.

“Don’t be a dork. I’m kidding.”

He questions how you’re so unbothered, taking your own sip from it, but it’s not actually worth thinking about. Instead, he thinks about the last time he’d seen you somewhere that wasn’t an adjacent hotel room, and it was Nicole’s house back in Melbourne. Padding around his kitchen like you’d always lived there, pretending you didn’t love Basil with some ferocity. And then he thinks to tonight, if he’ll watch you under the fridge light, or the cooker hood, and it’ll feel as easy as breathing for a second.

“Alright, Piastri. Home time. Big day tomorrow.”

You’re in a closed off part of Central park, fake snow littered on the grass, and in the trees. Fairy lights are strung around the trunks, and Oscar's too busy analysing the scene to notice you hugging the photographer excitedly.

“Vandperre, this is Piastri.”

Willy extends his hand, and Oscar gives him a careful smile.

“Oscar. She has a thing against my name.” he explains, like that makes perfect sense, and the photographer nods.

“How long does the contract last for?”

“December.” you chirp, greeting the man appearing to your left. He introduces himself as Olivier, gesturing to two RV’s with your names on them.

“How’d you know we’re not-” Oscar questions, with a frown, and Olivier laughs.

“Been in this industry too long, and know her too well, kid. Also, I can’t imagine you two being the most functional couple. Still, you’re fooling everyone else, and that works for us.” he shrugs, and you grin, blowing Oscar a sarcastic kiss. He pretends to catch it, and crush it, and you give him a determined eye-roll before slinking into the trailer.

He’s ready before you are, which makes sense. Last he saw, you had a team assembled like a little army heading into your RV, bearing machines that looked more like saw traps than styling tools.

Oscar’s in beige-washed denim jeans, with jagged pockets, accompanying leather boots. On his top half, he’s wearing a green cashmere crewneck, with the collar of a white shirt poking out. The most familiar piece is the basketball cap sitting on his head, and for a second, he can imagine it’s got an 81 on the top.

When you step out, he has to remind himself how to inhale.

You’re in a slipdress that finishes just above your knees, and he can see the pattern of moles on your shoulders. He almost wants to trace them.

You’ve got pumps on, and you’re clutching a handbag with practiced ease.

“Um, are you not, like, cold?” Oscar asks clumsily, as you snake beside him, trailing your eyes over his outfit.

“A little. Good thing I’m borrowing your jacket.”

He gives you a confused glance, extending the arm with a leather jacket in.

You take it, slinging it over your shoulders.

“See. Adorable, right?”

The slight scrunch of your face and bored tone of your voice shatters him all over again, but he simply clenches his teeth.

“Truly.”

Vandperre calls some orders, asking you to laugh at a joke Oscar hasn’t made, and asking Oscar to take the handbag you haven’t complained about. Then you’re adjusting his cap, and he’s peeling his coat from your shoulder.

“Can you make it more, I don’t know. Deeper? Like you’re not acting. Do something romantic.” he calls, and Oscar looks up at you.

“You’re the expert. What do you suggest?”

You pause, thinking.

“Kiss my shoulder, but make sure you can see the label on the front of my dress, and the triangle stitched on the back of your neck. But make it look natural, yeah?” you mutter, and the coolness in your voice is almost admirable.

The way your expression doesn’t shift from your practiced smile, and your only thought is the brand. He realises now, how much he’d underestimated you.

All those moments he’d wondered if there was something deeper under the flicker of glances that lasted a second too long, if the way your breath seemed to shallow if he got too close, all of it. It feels like a deceit he hadn’t noticed, even if you’d literally owned up to it with ball-pen ink.

Still, he listens. He presses his lips to your shoulder, letting a small smile stretch across his face, and he waits. He feels you rest your head on his hair, and he tries to imagine if you’re smiling or not. He knows you’re weaponing whatever expression Vandperre wants, no questions asked. After some loud clicks, and a flash that catches the corner of his eye, he shifts upright.

“Okay, different look now.” Olivier calls, and you walk away, that stare of focus blocking any other light in your eyes. He wonders if that's how he looks before he gets in the car. He doesn’t want to know.

You’re out first this time. You’re in a turtle-neck cream sweater, with an argyle type pattern stretching across your chest. Then you’ve got dark-navy jeans, and sneakers, with a beanie half-covering your forehead.

Oscar gives you an awkward smile, coming beside you.

“We look… harmonious.”

You smile. “Yeah. Like we fit.”

He’s wearing wooly grey cardigan and darker pinstripe trousers, with plain boots and a cord bracelet that flashes the logo on his wrist.

“Alright, place a hand on her cheek, and smile.” Willy calls, and Oscar obeys, but his smile doesn’t sit right on his face.

“Piastri, it’s me. Stop looking like you’ve got a gun to your head.” you hiss, and sure enough, the corners of his lips curl, and you exhale gently.

The camera is angled to catch the bracelet and the cuff of his cardigan, plus the curve of his jaw and the hint of a grin.

Then you’ve got your hand on your chin, sitting on the curb, as he fiddles with the bottom of his trousers. It’s the boots and the stripes in the focus of that one, plus your hat and the patterned sleeve of your sweater.

The final collection of shots is a blur of fur coats and hands wrapped around your waist, and for a second his mind seems to switch off in the same way it does when he really just drives.

He lets himself understand why you love it. He lets himself consider if maybe there's a little thrill in it: watching the clothes cling to your body in a way that speaks volumes, noticing how a frown can make a piece say something different to how it looks with a smile. He wonders if in the slowness of it all, letting the click of the cameras and flashes of the lights being the fastest thing is good enough.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, but the words put salt in a wound that is far too fresh. He almost catches you wincing too.

“N’thing. Just think I understand you a little better now.”

You give him an easy grin, and he swears your eyes sparkle.

“Well, that’s good. You, um, you did well today. I know that was a lot. And for as uncomfortable as I’m assuming you were, it didn’t show too much. Prada and Gucci are big. In some ways, my work here is done.”

He swallows, shoulders brushing yours as you walk side by side back to your apartment.

“So, that’s it? I thought the contract said December.”

You shrug. “Yeah, it does. But if something goes wrong, or if both parties feel they’ve mutually benefited and are happy to end it, we can stop whenever.” you say carefully, the words rolling around your mouth.

“Do you want to?”

You inhale quietly, turning to look at him. His face is gentle, but not quite kind. Still, you know he’ll respect however you answer.

“I don’t mind. I mean, I’ve got what I wanted. You’ve noticed the impact, I’m sure. And you, I mean, you’re here. You’ll do a runway next, and you’ll forget all about me and our little scheme.” you tease, elbowing him, but it doesn’t sound like something he should laugh at.

“I’m not going to forget you.” he replies firmly, hoping the words will make you stick around longer.

“I’d sure hope not, Piastri. But seriously, it’s up to you. The races are fun to see anyway.”

He pauses, and lets the battle commence. One side of him tells him to let this go, and focus on the championship. To let you settle like dust in his memories, a gentle reminder of the side of the world he’s now got a foot in, but nothing more.

He thinks he can live with that.

The other side is a little sharper though, and it squeezes his chest like it’s an easy target, and not something protected by walls that few people have even seen over the top of. Maybe it’s selfish of him to ask you for more, without asking for anything at all.

Maybe there is no winner, but the pain in a few weeks might be easier to face than the pain he hadn’t expected now.

“If it’s alright with you, do you mind hanging on until Abu Dhabi? I just don’t want to face any questions. I need to focus, y’know. And, I’d appreciate the company. You know how worked up I get.” he admits, and it hangs in the balance between a truth and a lie, but you just give him a look of relief that he knows is worth anything bad that comes from this.

“Alright then, Piastri. But you better start winning some races, or Lando’s got your ass. Starting with Las Vegas”

He’s dragging both suitcases as you make it to the room. You’d been so busy in the run up to Vegas that Oscar had assured you he’d take care of everything, and now, here you are. You had yet to say thank you, but you’d let it slip out soon.

You push the door open, scanning the room. It’s large, with a kitchenette and living room, and a painting above one of the beds that you’re drawn to instantly. You snatch your luggage and step forward.

“I claim this one.” you announce loudly, sitting down quickly. Oscar makes an effort to admire the artwork too, and not how you’re smiling at him, like you’ve just won a competition he didn’t know he was competing in.

“Sure.” he grunts, walking in. He turns the corner, and his face pales. It’s the bathroom.

He opens the door further anyway, like they might’ve done some unique interior-design, and placed a bed beside the shower. No luck.

“I think that’s the only bed to claim.” he mutters, turning to you with an ashen expression.

You falter.

“You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head.

“I requested two beds. Twice. I’ll just go to reception and get it sorted.” he decides, marching out of the room before you even have a chance to speak.

His determination is a rather good mask for the warmth creeping up his neck. He pulls at the bottom of his top as he stands in the elevator, waiting for the ding! of the ground floor.

When he comes back, you’re half unpacked and waiting on the edge of the bed, filing the edge of your nail.

He looks even more nervous than before.

“Let me guess. They’re fully booked for the Grand Prix weekend, you didn’t email them or fill out some form to specify you wanted two separate beds in a suite that famously is for couples, and you’re an idiot?” you bemuse, as he drops by your side, making the mattress dip.

“Yeah, yeah. Something like that.”

You pat his head patronisingly, but he leans into the touch anyway.

With a graceful step, you grab his hand and pull him up to his feet, leading him to the sofa. His breath hitches when you push him onto it. He looks up expectantly, and you swallow a giggle.

“Get comfortable. You can sleep here.” you state, your tone rigid, and he frowns, sitting up.

“Hey, that’s not fair.”

You shrug. “I claimed it. You said sure.”

He wishes he had some line to fire back, but it’s rather distracting, the way you’re staring down at him with that same victorious grin.

He’s tired on Thursday, and by Friday, his neck is hurting, but complaining is a shot to the ego. So he masks his yawns, shrugging off Lando when he jokingly tries to give him a massage, and just soldiers through. But he quite quickly realises he’ll need a serious night’s sleep for qualifying, or he might as well kiss the championship goodbye.

“I need the bed.” he demands, and you raise your head to glower at him.

“Right.”

Your fork scrapes aggressively on the side of your bowl, and he winces.

“For quali. C’mon, I know you care a little under that glare. Two days, and I’m not sure my neck works anymore. You can hate me forever, and I’ll deserve it.”

“That’s you assuming I don’t hate you already. But yeah, fine. Just beat Lando, alright?”

He laughs. “Since when do you dislike him so much?”

“Since he started beating you.” you reply quickly, and as snarky as you try to make it sound, it still seems raw. A little too kind. Far too genuine.

The next morning, you wake up pissed. Oscar’s a little scared from the way you grab a glass from the cupboard, thrusting it under the tap.

“Sleep okay?”

It’s meant to be funny. It isn’t.

“That. Cannot. Be classified as a sofa. It’s like a fuckin’ chunk of wood that someone has pretended to add padding to.” you complain, desperately hoping your leg gains some life back, and Oscar gives you a knowing nod.

“Tell me about it. Now, imagine driving.”

Then, quieter, “Thank you.”

You shrug it off, looking over to the badly-made bed.

“Be ready, ‘cause I’m not sleeping there again. We’ll have to make a pillow wall, and then you can choose between the floor or that abomination on Sunday.” you retort, and Oscar groans.

“Are you being serious?”

“Do I look like I’m being serious?”

You do, in fact, look deadly serious. He inhales, but it sounds more like a pained hiss.

“Fine.”

“I forgot to say it earlier, but nice jacket. Suits you.”

His voice is barely audible over the clamour of the paddock, even if your arm is intertwined in his.

“Red is not my colour.” you argue, but he can see the ghost of a smile by your lips.

You’re in his new racing jacket, and he should probably thank you for the product placement, but he can't help but admire the way his initials sit right over your heart.

“Wait, how’d you get that? It’s not even shipped yet.” he frowns, and you whack him on the arm.

“Your team sent me one. I mean, it was actually mentioned in the contract. Which I would still urge you to read, even if there’s only two weeks left of it.”

He stumbles a little, over uneven pavement, his ankles knocking into yours.

Two weeks flash in his mind like alarm bells, a blaring sound between a scream and a sigh. He tightens his grip on you, just a little, like that’ll do anything. He just feels like if he blinks, the time will pass, and you won’t be on his arm at all.

He looks at the rest of your outfit, because it’s muscle memory now. In some ways, it’s become part of his routine. Heeled ankle boots, then a black skirt that looks wrapped, the lack of symmetry slightly baffling. Next, a fairly simple vest top, with a small star and a label he can’t make out as you walk. Finally, a headband that’s the same rusty shade as his jacket.

“This is probably my favourite outfit you’ve worn.” he admits, and you shoot him a ridiculous look.

“You are completely self-centred. And, you’re wrong.” you reply instantly, and his laugh dies with a splutter of confusion in his throat.

“How can I be wrong?”

“Let me know when you figure it out.”

A frown settles on his face and refuses to budge, until you’ve disappeared to wave to someone he should probably recognise, and Lando’s warbling about something stupid that the media team is going to make them do before they get into the car.

Q1 is miserable. So miserable, he finds himself outside the top ten, waiting in the pits.

“Am I safe?” he asks carefully, waiting for the crackle of Tom’s reply.

“Yeah, mate. You’ll be fine.”

He hits the edge of the steering wheel, in something more bitter than frustration.

“Where’s Lando?”

“P1, mate. P1.”

Your voice fills his head, the slack of your jaw when you’d tell him to beat him. He imagines you now, the stare, the utter disappointment.

Max tops Q2. Lando follows him. Oscar snakes into fourth.

“Where is he finding this fucking time?” he asks, knuckles cramping.

“Turn 5. And then he gets around 6 better. He’s braking later.”

“If I brake later, I’m going into the barrier.” Oscar complains, but Tom just gives him a non-committal grunt.

“I’m telling you what I’ve got. Do what you want.”

As the clock begins for Q3, he knows he can’t afford another DNF. He knows he shouldn’t push it, and shouldn't change his line. If he just keeps it tidier, maybe push a little harder, maybe-

-he knows it won’t be enough.

He tries anyway, and he’s only P3.

“One more lap, mate. Good luck. Just do that again, tyres are warmer. More grip, careful around 9, though. Risk of oversteer.”

As he gets to 5, he tries it. He waits until it seems the only option left for him is to go headfirst into the barriers, his foot easing on the brake. Then he slams down on it, twisting the wheel and turning through the bend. He feels almost like a slingshot, the way he throws himself around, but he keeps his head down, pushing through the straight after 10. Then, when he reaches the DRS zone, he feels his heart thrum in time with the engine. When the line is crossed, it feels almost unholy to pull into the pits.

“Mega lap. Mega. You’re P1. And a new record.”

“Lando?”

“P5. Locked up around 13.”

He shouldn’t smile, but he does. He smiles for the win, he smiles for the championship, he smiles for you.

“Congrats on pole.” you beam, as you both make it back to the hotel room. He collapses onto the bed, arms outstretched, grin plastered on his face.

“Fuck off.” he mumbles, revelling in the way a laugh slips from your lips.

“You know you have to win tomorrow, right? It’s embarrassing if you don’t. Plus, I’ve never seen you win. Give me something that I don’t have to pretend to be proud of.”

He pouts, twisting his head to look at you as you take off your boots.

“P5 isn’t good enough for you?”

“Not really, no. I mean, I ended up with the dorky one, but at least you were winning. I’d like to see you win again. Maybe then I’d get the appeal.”

He crumples slightly, rolling around as if you’d shot him.

“Harsh. So harsh.”

You drop down beside him, with a sigh that sounds half-content, half-wistful.

You don’t move when his hand brushes yours. You both just lie like that for a while, with the edges of your fingers touching.

He tries to keep calm on the radio. He thanks the team, compliments the car, and says he’s missed winning. He wipes his eyes as he lifts his visor, running over to the clamour of papaya; running over to you.

You place both hands on the sides of his helmet, pressing your forehead against the carbon-fiber, and he lets himself breathe in what feels like the first time in fifty laps.

“Well done.” you whisper, and he smiles slowly, blinking hard. “Cry later. Don't cry now. Don’t let them see how much this means to you, not yet.” you murmur, and he nods, swallowing carefully.

“I’ll see you in a bit, okay?” he says gently, and you realise you’ve never split from him like this before. He’s never gone to the cooldown room, never stood on the podium, never looked down at you with a trophy.

“You’ll see me.” you promise, as he slips out of your grip.

The Australian national anthem is fairly new to you, but it catches you none the less. Oscar’s careful blinks, the twitch of his mouth as he quietly mumbles the lyrics, the smile that itches to spread across his face.

As he lifts the trophy, he meets your ears, and you smile. There’s no stare, no raise of an eyebrow. Just a pure grin, one that says things neither of you have dared to say out loud.

The champagne shower is chaotic, and yet you can’t tear your eyes away from it, trying to stop yourself from laughing at the absurdity of it all.

People gently clap you on the back, as if you’ve done something worth celebrating too. Or they smile, like the slightly awe-struck look on your face makes sense. Like the gentle shake of your hands is easily explained.

You don’t tell them that they’re wrong. You don’t tell them this is all some elaborate act, because you’d be lying in more ways than one.

When you find him again, you can’t help but throw your arms around him.

He stumbles back a little, clearly surprised.

“Hi. You okay?” he asks carefully, his lips on your hair, and you nod into his neck.

“You need to do that again next week, okay?” you murmur, and he chuckles.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s the plan. Gap is nine points now, by the way.”

You look up at him with an expression he doesn’t really recognise.

“You could win it.”

He shrugs. “I could.”

You go out to dinner to celebrate. Oscar considers inviting Lando, but it seems a bit like a slap to the face, so you suggest he doesn’t. He listens.

“Are you sure you want to go, just us? I mean, we don’t have to. Or we can do something else.” he says quickly, and you give him a confused glance.

“No, come on. Unless you’d rather go with someone else, that’s fine.”

“What does that mean?”

You sigh, exasperated. “I mean, I don’t know. You might be friends with someone on the grid, or something. I’m happy to go back to the room. I have some stuff to do anyway.” you say calmly, but he just shoves you.

“Shut up. But I’m ordering for you. I know this place.”

“You know, I got scared Max was going to get you at the end there. Like, I was having palpitations.” you chatter excitedly, pushing the door open. He scoffs, following you in.

“Nah, no way he was making a move in time. The gap was barely under a second.”

“Mmm, I don’t know. He looked really close from where I was.”

“Well, objectively, yeah. One second is close. But in F1 terms-” he begins, but he falls quiet.

You’re hanging up your jacket, and he realises he hadn’t been paying attention to the dress you’d had on underneath.

It’s the same one you wore to that first McLaren dinner, but it’s styled differently this time, with more compact shoes and bigger jewellery.

He figured that rewearing a piece was a criminal offense, but it seemed like you’d made it completely change.

You turn to him, waiting for him to finish his sentence. He’s too focused on the slight flush of your cheeks that he can barely make out under the low lamp lighting, the way your shoulder strap looks dangerously close to falling off, the way the bow is perfectly tied this time.

“I’ve figured it out.” he mutters, his voice catching.

“Huh?”

“I was wrong. This is my favourite.” he admits, and you give him a half-smile.

“I know.”

Then you’re kissing him, and he forgets the reply he’d begun to string along in his head.

It’s ridiculously dramatic, the way teeth clash, and you’re convinced you’ve nipped the corner of his mouth, but his hands are wrapped around your hips, and you’re undoing the top of his shirt, and that’s the only thing you’re focused on.

“Hang on. What do you mean you knew?” he asks, pulling away from you to breathe.

“Oscar. Are you kidding me?”

He begins to argue, about to ask you if you’d worn it on purpose, or when you’d realised, but he pauses.

“Say that again.”

“Are you kidding me?” you repeat, confused, but he shakes his head.

“My name. You’ve never said my name before.”

“Oscar.” you whisper, like it’s an oath. He snaps.

“I’m not sleeping on the fucking sofa.”

The bed is half empty when Oscar wakes up the next morning.

“Mpmh, come back. We have nowhere to be.” he mutters, face still squashed on the pillow.

“We’re flying to Qatar this evening, Piastri. We have somewhere to be.”

He sits up at the slight coldness in your tone, and the way you practically spit out his name.

“Am I not Oscar anymore?”

“That was a one time thing.” you state, the finality ringing in your tone. He hesitates. He doesn’t dare to ask if you mean more than just his name.

“Fine. Piastri’s okay.” he says, but you can hear he’s hurt. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, but he doesn’t quite get up. He just waits, for something. He’s not sure what.

“I’m sorry.” you whisper, kneeling beside him. Your arms stretch out around him, hugging him towards you.

You plant a kiss to the crown of his head, but it feels like more of an apology than your words.

“Sorry for what?”

“For last night. That was unprofessional. Amongst other things. I shouldn’t have.”

He turns to you, serious now.

“I’m not apologising. Do you know how long I’d wanted to just, I don’t know. Too long.”

You give him a sad nod.

“I know. I knew. I really shouldn’t have.”

He thinks he understands what you mean now. He knows why you’re apologising. He only just now realises now that this was never going to be enough to make you stay, and that Abu Dhabi is going to come and go, and you’re going to go with it. And you’re saying sorry, because it’s the only thing you can say that you actually mean, without ripping his heart out unkindly. You knew how he felt, and you did it anyway, and now all that you can do is hope he forgives you. He wonders if you know he will.

“‘S’fine. We can pretend it never happened.” he promises, hoping you don’t see the way his chest struggles to rise and fall.

“I don’t have to come-”

He turns to you, slightly stern.

“Let’s not do this again, yeah? It’s two weeks. Look, I know you want to get this over with, but can you just hang on, alright?” Oscar mutters, and you’re a little taken aback by his tone.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that. You’re the only one who's got pressure on you. I don’t want to be the reason you lose.”

He pauses. “You think I'm going to lose?”

“What? No. No, I’ve never thought that, for a second.”

Oscar wants to believe you, but he can’t.

“Okay. Okay.”

“Okay.” you repeat, and the silence is far from quiet.

That silence stretches, wanes thin, but never quite snaps. You barely talk as you leave America, and you barely talk as you land in Qatar. When you brush his hand grabbing a suitcase, he visibly winces.

Oscar has a strange sense of panic for race day in Qatar. Going from a sprint win to sitting on pole, he should feel calm. He doesn’t. He figures it might be because you being beside him is making it harder to breathe, when it used to be easier. He does realise he needs to start listening to you more, because you’re almost always right when you suggest something. He should’ve told you to go, and maybe now he wouldn’t be all too aware of how the ghost of your hand is beside his, and how every click of a camera feels like an interrogation.

“Piastri, you look worried. Think about where we are, yeah? Holding hands right now would be bad anyway. I swear they said this in a briefing somewhere.”

He nods, and inhales, and accepts the truth of it. Even if you were actually together, it’s a matter of respect. So he marches forward, eyes front, hoping you’re still somewhere to the left of him.

That explains your outfit, too. You’re wearing a long striped skirt that balloons just above your ankles, with a matching shirt that drapes in a way that makes it being oversized seem both accidental and intentional.

When you both step into his driver's room, he sinks onto the sofa, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re more nervous than usual. What’s up?” you ask quietly, resting on the wall. He looks up at you, like he’s not sure what to say.

“I don’t know. Big race, I guess. If I win, I’m leading again.”

You give him a half-smile, but don’t move towards him. Instead, you stay plastered to the wall, like getting any closer might take the chances of him winning away. Maybe it will.

“By one point, if he comes second.” you bemuse, and he laughs, but the sound is more similar to a cough.

“Yeah. One point.”

“Still, that’s enough. I think you’re going to do it.” you murmur confidently, and he gives you a skeptical glance.

“What, win today, or the championship?”

“Both. But you really should aim to win today, because it’ll be a hell of a lot harder for you next week if you don’t.”

Next week. The season, the championship, you. All of it ending, in one brutal succession, and he’s not sure how he’s supposed to be so cool about it.

“They’re coming, next week. My parents, my sisters. They told me yesterday, after the sprint.” he admits, and you can’t help but beam at him.

“That’s nice. If you don’t mind me saying hello, I’d love to catch up with them again.”

It feels like the worst kind of deceit, when he thinks about it. But he nods anyway, bouncing his leg in an attempt to calm himself.

“Oscar. Breathe, you’re going to be fine.”

He pricks his head up again at his name, and the way you say it, like it's both new and the first word you ever learnt.

“I know. Thank you.”

“You’re going to win.”

He lets that replay in his head as he gets in the car, as he keeps the lead, as he pits, and as he crosses the line.He waits to see you at the barriers, and he grins as it changes to a gentle “You won.”

Abu Dhabi is like a knife in the gut and a kiss on the forehead simultaneously. Lando beats him in qualifying, and he thinks this must be it. In some ways, his fate seems sealed by more than the stars, but giving up was never an option, and it certainly isn’t one now. When his helmet visor clicks over his eyes, he breathes, and waits for the lights to go out.

He’s not sure when Lando is pushed off track by Max, but it happens, and his heart soars.

He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from making a comment that might come back to haunt him later.

He doesn’t actually win the race. Charles pulls ahead, and the top step of the podium is going to be red. But that doesn’t matter at all, because he waits as he watches the flag wave.

“And that’s P2. That’s the championship. You’re the world champion, mate.”

He pauses, like Tom might take it back. When Nicole’s voice takes over, he feels himself smile so wide he’s worried his face might snap.

He hears clamours from his siblings, and then your voice. He hadn’t expected it, and it seems neither had you.

“Um, hi, Oscar. Well done, I’m so proud of you. I love you, see you in a bit. Congratulations.”

The sound is a little crackly, and his brain is swirling, but he’s sure he heard you. He almost wants to remind you that you’re live on national television, and maybe you could’ve picked a better time to admit that, but then it hits him. Maybe that was the intention of it all. Maybe, until the very last second, you’re as committed to the act as he’s committed to the rush of it all.

“Thank you. I love you too. We did it.” he replies, and it’s slow, deliberate. Then he whoops, and you laugh, and he pulls into P2.

You’re drowning in the Piastri family when the podium ceremony begins. Hattie is clinging to your arm like she’ll tip over without it, and Mae has your other hand, while Nicole squeezes your shoulder gently.

When he lifts the trophy, you realise you’re crying. Tears, carefully sliding down your cheeks. Oscar Piastri is the world champion, and to anyone watching, it really would seem like your heart is exploding for him. Maybe it is, you’re not sure. You don’t know.

There is an unholy roar in the McLaren hospitality when he walks in. Everyone runs to him with a clamour, and it's a sea of orange that you manage to slink away from. But he catches sight of you slipping through the doors, and he doesn’t really want to let you out of his sight.

He finds you again, hidden at the back of the paddock, searching through your purse.

“You’ve gone soft.” he accuses, watching you dab at your eyes, and you laugh with an undignified sniff.

“So it seems. Good job, Piastri. You’ve won it.”

He gives you a proud grin, and your stomach aches.

There is no thought, no hesitation. He kisses you, hands pressed to your cheeks, and it feels like he’s determined to make your faces merge into one, like you imagine your souls might be.

“Do you get the appeal now?” he whispers, his forehead resting on yours, and he swallows your gentle chuckle with his lips.

“Oscar-” you begin, but he just sighs, and you pause.

“At least celebrate with me. With my family. They love you.”

The sentence makes you both stop. The radio message felt so long ago, like it had popped out of existence in the way these things never quite do.

“I can’t.”

He shakes his head, hands sliding to the tops of your shoulders, almost like he’s keeping you in place.

“You can. Not even as, whatever. As you. As my friend.”

His voice breaks, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to give yourself some new pain to get distracted by.

“No, I really can’t. I’m flying back to New York tonight.”

You might as well have shot him, from the way he staggers back a little.

“Tonight?”

You nod, trying to ignore how his eyes begin to glisten again.

“So, that’s it? You just fuck off, and I never see you again?”

“Oscar-” you try again, but he cuts you off once more.

“No, don’t do that. Don’t say my name like that. Don’t say it at all.” he cries, but it’s all too quiet for the anger dripping in his tone, and you nearly flinch.

You just give him a sad stare, one that tells him you didn’t want it to end this way, and you begin to walk.

He grabs your arm, like he’s torn between pulling you back to him or being the one that lets you go.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, barely whispering, searching your eyes for an inkling of truth.

You can be honest. You could say yes, and watch as you both shatter. Or you could be cruel, and lie. Say no, convince both you and him it was for appearances, and then you actually do hope you never see him again. You choose neither.

“If you wanted me to. Goodbye, Piastri. If you have any notes, you can forward them to my manager.” you reply, and it settles as harsher than a joke and rawer than a truth.

You give him a careful wave, and he watches you leave, just as sure-on-your feet as when you’d first arrived.

Oscar gets over it faster than he’d expected to. Well, as over it as he can be. Sometimes, it haunts him a little, seeing the odd post about the two of you, or an interview of you popping up on his feed. But the time passes, and it seems his heart gets stitched up with each drag of the moon, and soon he can breathe again, or he stops seeing you when he dares to blink again.

The worst bit is your laugh, though. He hears it everywhere. But December is only dark and cold in one half of the world, and he has the chance to step into the sun.

Going home for Christmas should be his annual routine, but sometimes there’s some peace about the bitter wind in Monaco, and the loneliness soothes him in the way solitude so often does. This year, though, that doesn’t feel like it’ll help.

He doesn’t tell his sisters that you two ‘broke up’. They see it in the way his smiles feel a little forced, in the way he only takes two slices of pavlova, and how he winces when they make fun of his latest shoot for McLaren.

“So, what actually happened between you guys?” Hattie asks, scraping her fork obnoxiously around the side of the plate.

Oscar shrugs.

“Just didn’t work out. Happens all the time.”

Mae looks up now, frowning.

“No, not like that. You’re secretly dating a supermodel for two months, you then hard-launch out of nowhere, and she disappears on the day you win the championship. It doesn’t add up.”

Edie nods. “That’s not normal. And we were with her the whole day. She was actually sobbing when you won. Are you guys, like, hiding something?”

Oscar almost wishes he could pretend you were up to something, but he genuinely hasn’t heard from you since you commented a simple orange heart on his victory post. You hadn’t unfollowed each other, and the small ‘friend’ by your name was all he seemed to have left of you now, which was utterly pathetic.

He shoots Nicole a desperate look of help, and she claps her hands, trying to distract them.

Still, it doesn’t work. It’s a temporary solution to a seemingly more permanent issue. The questions keep coming, until he begins to think he’s losing his mind.

“It wasn’t real, okay?” he admits, suddenly sitting up straight on the sofa as Edie opens her mouth to say something accusatory again.

All three of them turn, carrying expressions of varying confusion.

“What do you mean?”

He inhales, tapping his legs awkwardly.

“Um, it was like, a fake relationship? IMG wasn’t happy that brands are still going for Lando over me, even though I’m the one technically signed as a model. And I’m assuming she used to be with them, because they called her in for a favour. The favour being me.” He can visibly see the cogs turning in their heads, and then there are shouts.

“You didn’t tell us?” “That’s fucking insane, Oscar.” “I knew you would never have bagged her!”

He takes the hollers, and the insults, and the looks of betrayal, until they quieten down.

“I didn’t want you to think of me like that. Or look at me like you’re looking at me now.”

They all desperately try to rearrange their faces, and Mae gives him a firm hug.

“Don’t be stupid, Oscar. We would’ve been there. And then we could’ve shit-talked you more. Being on our best behaviour was hard.” she jokes, and he gives her a weak laugh.

He tries to act like the slight looks of pity don’t hurt more than the outrage.

“So, all of it was fake? Because I’m telling you, those tears were real. And the radio, oh my god. It was adorable.” Hattie argues, and they nod.

“Um, I don’t know. Probably, yeah.”

Edie scoffs. “You’re both idiots. Have you tried reaching out? You could at least wish her a Merry Christmas. Maybe she’s thinking about you, too.”

Oscar shakes his head. “I’m not going to do that. It was professional, and mutual. And I’m not thinking about her.” he states adamantly, dropping his eyes back to the TV to avoid their looks of disbelief.

Mid-February hits like a slap, and a wake-up call you’re not quite ready for.

“Alright, ladies. We have London and Milan to tackle, and I’m expecting these looks to be strong. I know you know what you’re doing by now, but we’re going for cold looks, if you excuse my pun. No smiling, no frowning, I want perfectly neutral. I want people to feel cooled by you, but warmed by the clothes. Do you understand?” Milla says loudly, and you nod, trying to mask a yawn. It’s far too early and far too chilly for this, but you don’t dare to complain.

“I just hope my pieces have some shape.” Anok grumbles under her breath, and you laugh quietly.

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Doing something ‘new’ just means making silhouettes that might as well be illegal.” you reply, giving her a grin.

“Who are we even wearing?” she hisses, and you give her an outraged glare.

“Westwood. You really should know that by now.”

She raises her arms in innocence. “I’ve been dramatically busy. And they’re so determined to keep us in the dark after last fashion week.”

She’s right, and you feel that little rush when they drag in a team of stylists, bearing cloaked hangers.

You’re wearing something that resembles a half-dress half-suit, which is mind boggling to take in. It’s a deep, autumnal marron, with light chequered patterns on (what you assume) is meant to make up the dress portion. The shoes are large, almost comical heels, but you’re just glad you don’t have any headwear. Anok is sporting something a lot simpler, and you have to hide your envy. She smirks, like she’s reading your mind, and you flip her off discreetly.

Rehearsals are fine, like they always are. No one comments if you wobble, because the stylist's eyes do it for them. They run smoothly, and no one so much as breathes out of time if they can help it.

Oscar doesn’t quite know why he’s flying out to London, with some up-and-coming half model, Jules, and Mark beside him, but all he’s certain of is that IMG would not let him not attend London Fashion Week. He’s never actually been to a runway before, unless you count him parading down the stage with Lando in his race suit. He isn’t counting it.

“Why are they dragging us here?” Oscar hisses, and Mark gives him a look of pure disappointment he’s got rather accustomed to.

“Do you know how to read?” Jules snaps, and he retreats, closing his mouth.

“I emailed you back in January about this. You’re walking in Milan for Prada. They liked you the first time, so you’re back. Making it to Milan is a massive deal. You have ‘you know who’ to thank.”

He doesn’t thank you. If anything, he curses you, for condemning him to this fate.

“I’m not doing that.” he complains, and all three heads stare directly at him.

The girl, Rachel (he thinks) shoots him an incredulous glare.

“You don’t say no to Prada in Milan, Oscar.” Jules says calmly, but he folds his arms.

“Well, I can, and I am. I’m not walking.”

Mark laughs quietly, but it’s a little ominous.

“We’ll see.”

Oscar’s sitting in the second row back, behind everyone taking it seriously, trying to ignore the quiet chatter of Rachel and Jules on his left and the stoic silence from Mark on his right.

His eyes flick up to the runway occasionally, watching how effortlessly they walk, shoulders slightly raised, faces deadpan.

He tries to analyse the clothing, but it feels different doing it for fun, and not trying to figure someone out. He doesn’t care what the designers have to say. He just cared for you.

Still, some of the shapes are interesting. He even likes some of the pieces.

When he looks up again, trying to match who’s heels he can hear beside the drum beat, his eyes meet the side of your face. You’re walking on the far side from him, and he wonders if you’ve noticed him.

Everything else blurs. He leans forward shamelessly, watching the shift of your legs, the stretch of your arms, the slight tilt in your hips. The way your face is so severe, yet still teasing the audience, like maybe you’’ll flash them something a little more human. Obviously, you don’t.

You’re effortless. You’re perfect, and he decides that’s an objective opinion, looking at the nods from the critics and reporters.

He cannot even begin to wrap his head around the actual garment you’ve got on. Baffling is the only logical word. Still, the way it wraps around your waist and makes you look taller than you are is rather impressive. He doesn’t like it, but it’s keeping him watching. Maybe that’s the point.

As you pause at the end, he almost doesn’t want you to walk so close.

Obviously, you do.

Still, he sees the moment you notice him. Your face doesn’t change, not even a slight flicker of recognition, but you blink off rhythm, and that’s how he knows.

He’s not sure how or why Jules has forced him to come with her to the event after the show, but he’s here. He’s silently hoping he might run into you, but that’s a thought that stays locked in somewhere safer than a vault.

“Hi, stranger.”

It takes some strength to turn around, and it takes even more strength to keep his eyes on you. It damn hurts to see you again, and he’s sure you know it. It was cruel of you, to even come up to him. He’s still glad you did.

“Hey. Nice, uh, walking. Can’t say I was taken by what you had on, but. Y’know. The actual walking element was solid.” he says awkwardly, and he’s surprised by how funny you seem to find the blunder.

“I missed you.” you say earnestly, giving him a smile that’s almost oddly warm, and ridiculously genuine. He determines you’re telling the truth, and he exhales quietly.

“Yeah, I missed you too. Weird, not having you around.” he replies, almost too instantly.

“I know, right? It’s been so strange, not constantly having someone to be mean to.”

He realises that this is what being friends looks like. Your laughter, easier to get to, easier to keep a hold of. Jokes that land like jokes, and don’t make him nervous. Maybe this is right. Maybe this is good.

“So, what are you doing here? Aside from wanting to see me, naturally.”

No, no. This isn’t good. This is far too mean, far too cruel, far too evil. He almost wants to rip his own hair out with how effortlessly you’re joking, as if these words don’t feel like blades.

If he’d known you’d be here, he’d probably never have gotten on the fucking plane. You’re breaking his heart all over again, with that same half-smirk you’d taken it with the first time.

“I, um, I’m modelling in Milan? For Prada, apparently. This is work experience, I suppose.” he says gravely, like he’s announcing his death sentence, and you give him a look that suggests you’re both impressed and surprised.

“Well, Piastri, you’ve made it. I mean, you have me to thank. I carried that Prada shoot. But cool, I’ll see you out there. I’m doing Prada too.” you reply, letting a wicked smile of curiosity wipe across your face.

“Jules said that too. I guess I do owe you, but it’s not like I want to do it.” he complains, and you punch his arm gently.

“It’ll be fun. Trust me. Just walk, and look unbothered. You’ll be a pro.” you assure him, and he gives you a grave nod.

“I trust you.”

He’s late. He’s late to the first and possibly only rehearsal for his first catwalk, and he might as well hope some angry Italian runs him over so he has a somewhat plausible excuse. Although, he imagines you’d get run over and still be early.

He slams himself through the double doors, running into the room, an apology hanging from his lips, but the room is nearly empty.

There are a couple of models scattered in groups, but there’s no sense of hustle, no commands, no urgency.

“Piastri! You’re early.”

He shakes his head. “No, I was told to come at 8:00-”

“Rehearsals start at 8:30. Jules is a clever woman.”

He exhales in relief, slouching slightly, and you give him a stern glare.

“Stand up straight. You need to always look at it, even if rehearsal hasn’t started. If they think you might mess up, they will break you. Imperfections can’t exist here. There’s no room.”

He straightens instantly, somewhat alarmed, and then the door swings open, and everyone falls silent.

He convinces fate is a cruel thing, when the directors (that’s what he’s calling the scary looking-lady and the smaller man beside her) announces they’ll be cat-walking in pairs, and your names are beside each other.

He doesn’t know if he’s damned, or if he should be relieved.

“Huh. Should’ve seen that one coming.”

You nod absent-mindedly. “You really should’ve. I figured it out once you told me Prada had you.”

The rehearsal is simple. Walk, look forward (that is really crucial. He tries to sneak his head sideways at you, and he literally gets snapped at), and don’t trip when you turn. You do that a mind-numbing amount of times, until the matching outfits you have on begin to feel like skin, and he can walk in sync with you without even thinking about it.

The hardest bit is definitely trying to act like having you so close to him again isn’t slowly making his soul re-arrange itself. Still, as the evening comes, he’s feeling as close to confident as he can be.

You’re both waiting in a corner in the wings, listening. You’re in the middle of the schedule, after Gucci.

“Okay, don’t let the cameras phase you. That’s the one thing that sometimes catches first-timers off guard. The fact that your first-time is in Milano is like, fuckin’ insane. Do you even understand-” you begin, giving him an incredulous look, and a rather greedy urge hits him. He knows he probably shouldn’t act on it, but he had been telling himself not to act on it for the better part of two months back in December, and he’s run out of patience.

He crushes his lips to yours, with such a lack of grace that borders on impressive, hands reaching for your arms, your neck, your face. Anything.

You kiss him back instinctively, swallowing a strangled laugh, pulling him closer by his hair.

When he starts tugging at your sweater, you frown, pushing your head away.

“Oscar.”

It’s music to his ears, and he dives back towards your neck, but you fend him off.

“No, I’m serious. Bad idea. If you so much as crease these clothes-”

His expression is not dissimilar to one of a wounded dog, but it doesn’t work on you.

“Also, we’re both going to have to go back to makeup. And they’re going to hate us. Lucky, this isn’t the first time this has happened.”

His eyebrows shoot up dramatically.

“What, this happens with everyone you model with?” he asks, half-serious, and you cackle.

“I don’t kiss and tell.” you tease, grabbing his hands and dragging him back to the stylist studio.

When you’re called, he meets your eyes across the runway, shooting you a half-hearted thumbs up. You throw one back, before your face relaxes, and you walk on.

He knows both your legs are moving in sync. He knows you look good together. He knows the pieces work, stretched chunky sweaters with jeans that somehow aren’t jeans. He knows they’ll pick out the differences, like the way your arms stay closer to your sides, because you have nothing on them, but your head is tilted forward a little, to show off the hairband. He knows that, even though his eyes are watering from the sharp flashes and his ears are ringing from the clicks, he can practically still feel your lips on his, and that is enough.

The afterparty is too much, too bright, too pretentious, but he stays. It’s no secret why. You’re introducing him to people he’s already forgotten, patting him on the shoulder with the pride of an Auntie who doesn’t quite understand the extent of his achievements as you talk about his championship, but he adores it.

He passes you drinks before you can ask for them, and you force him to try something polenta-based, even though he doesn’t like it, and has to swallow it with the courage of a soldier with no other way out but through.

You do not cling to each other- there is no contact, no hands or arms intertwined, but it is instead gravity that places you together, like an orbit neither of you know that you got pulled into.

It’s between another flute of champagne and some polite laughter when he turns to you, rather suddenly.

“Do you want to come to Melbourne?”

“Sorry?” you splutter a little, giving him a confused glare, but he doesn’t recoil.

“It’s my home race. First of the season. Do you want to come watch it?”

You give him a pained glance. “It's the first week of March, right?”

He doesn’t ask why you know, but he nods.

“I can’t.” you mutter, with a slight wince, but the deja-vu doesn’t hit him yet.

“I, um, told my sisters. So you wouldn’t have to pretend, or anything. Just be you. Just friends, y’know.”

That’s when it comes back to him, like a cruel reminder.

“No, I actually can’t. It’s Paris fashion week.” you explain, and the air in his lungs leaves with a heavy sigh.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, sorry. I, um, I would’ve loved to though. Thank you.” you say sincerely, and he nods, waving it off like it was a stupid idea in the first place.

When you head off, he wishes you goodnight, but he makes an effort not to say goodbye, so the universe might take pity on him. But somewhere deeper, he accepts that this is it, and it’s easier to deal with than it was before. This doesn’t feel like you leaving with his heart in your bag, like a thief in the night. Instead, it feels more like two people from other worlds realising the inevitability of it all, the art of not quite meaning to be. It’s something he’ll learn to live with, and he’ll remember your half-smile in every snap of a camera for what he’s sure to be forevermore.

epilogue ✃ :

You stay in Paris for the next few weeks, letting yourself learn how to fall in love with a city again, nursing your heart back to health. You consider messaging him about his win in China, but you think that might be mean. You’d realised, looking at his careful grin in Australia, that maybe it was better this way. You let yourself belong fully to the scratch of fabrics and the flash of photographers for plastered smiles, you’ll let him race, and wonder if he thinks of you sometimes.

People don’t bring him up very often, and soon the world forgets that the two of you ever existed. Still, you notice it. The way his collar is always unbuttoned, the variation in his shirts, the slight dare to mix colours that aren’t maroon and navy. There’s a piece of you hanging off his skin, and you’ll take it, because it’s more than you expected to leave with him.

It’s embarrassing really, the way you live in Oscar’s head. Everytime someone says his last name, he almost expects your folded arms and bent hips. He expects cold eyes to pick him apart, and then put him back together, with a care he never managed to work out. He expects you there, and the paddock feels emptier without you in it. Still, he doesn’t mind. He wonders if you’re watching, if you know every wave, every smile, every nod at the camera is a nod to you.

The wanting settles in in the first week gap between China and Japan, but he stuffs it down with a determination, and he tries to pack his blues away as he packs his suitcase. Still, when he lands in Japan, it seems Tokyo has other ideas for him.

He’s not sure why he chose to visit the capital, but it felt right. That is, until he sees you. Your slight smile, flashing on a billboard, feels like a personal attack. He leaves for Suzuka the next day.

Paris settles in your lungs as easily as the spring air, and the showers feel like gifts, even when your socks are wet. There’s something in knowing you’ve fallen for a trap, and falling for it anyway. You almost consider flying back home, packing up your stuff, and coming right back. Still, you don’t. You stay a little longer. You stay with the friends you have, you stick with the new ones you make, and time passes with fondness. That is until you see Stef, and she in turn brings up Oscar, and the world seems a little greyer again.

Oscar isn’t sure when he’s started looking at direct flights to NYC, but they’re his recent search history, and then he’s trying to work out if he can get there and back in time. He concludes he can, if he moves fast. Good for him, that’s a skill of his.

Lando tries to talk him out of it, calling him a various list of names, until he settles on insane. Oscar should listen, Oscar should be logical, Oscar should be able to let you go.

Suzuka is in a week. Maybe it would be insane of you to fly over, and just hope he’d have you, whatever form of you that meant. You seriously consider it. You let it roll in your mind, like one of those infuriating mazes with the small metal ball you’d have to tilt endlessly to land in the centre. And just like those toys, your thoughts never land, never quite stick. Constantly slipping into the sides, in the barriers of dead-ends and uncertainty. You stay in France, and try to keep breathing.

Oscar wonders if messaging you is a good idea. Maybe he should check that you’re even around. Maybe calling you, hearing your voice, seeing the slant of your lips, maybe that would be enough. He wouldn’t have to fly back to America, and give half his team a heart-attack.

You dream about him, but it seems a little more like a nightmare. You want to go home, but home seems skewed to you anyway. The next option is going, and just keeping on going, until you run out of land. So that’s what you do- you bundle your things into a suitcase that has felt Oscar’s palms, and you leave the city of love, feeling both emptier and fulfilled.

Oscar isn’t totally sure what he’s going to say to you, but he thinks the 14-hour flight will give him enough time to rehearse. He’s not sure if opening with telling you he knows he loves you is too strong. But he won’t have long, and he’ll have to say something that’ll make you choose to stay with him this time.

You’re a little disappointed in yourself when you land. So close, yet so far. You’re not sure what you think you’re doing, or if you’re thinking at all. Still, the bustle of the airport offers you no room to stop and think, so you keep pushing forward, towards the exits. The left wheel on your suitcase is a little stiff, and you’re desperately trying to ignore how it slides from your grip, keeping it tucked away from the fast-paced strides of the travellers beside you.

When Oscar ends up back in Tokyo airport, you’re not outside anymore, and that feels almost like a bad omen. He’s in that gap between on-time and pushing it, like he’s daring himself to back down. He knows he should. He loiters by the exit, mind swirling, mouth drying. People shove past him, shoulders pushing him over, but he barely even flinches.

You’ve been somewhat carried by the crowd when the doors come into sight, and you can feel your suitcase fighting you with a determination you’re almost impressed by. Everyone seems to have surprisingly good awareness of the width of your path, giving you enough room to weave about desperately, except for someone coming your way. They have their hood over their head, buried in their phone, and you realise what’s going to happen pretty quickly.

Oscar feels something ram into his leg as he walks, and then a wheel over his foot, and he realises someone has just ran him over with their suitcase. He turns to his assailant, expecting a hurried apology, but his stomach flips when he meets your eyes.

“Oscar.”

“Hi, stranger.”

Neither of you dare to say anything else for a second. Instead, you stare at each other with the dedication that comes with wanting to learn every crevice of a person, every inch of their skin, and something that once was fake becomes nothing but true.

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