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Oscar had never liked the modern world's obsession with broadcasting huge chunks of your life online—posting stories, dumping endless photos on social media. He preferred the occasional drop-in, maybe once every few months, with a random selection of unrelated shots. Ideally with some ephemerally simple caption, just to maintain the general aura of mystery he'd stubbornly cultivated.
Lately, though—the past six months or so—he'd been forced to embrace all the so‑called joys of modern technology. Not of his own volition, of course, but under the terrible coercion of one Lando Norris. Lando was a true connoisseur of online culture, diving in headfirst, constantly feeding his millions of followers little slices of his life, brightly illuminated across Instagram. And, apparently, about ten other platforms.
It just so happened that Oscar had become part of this hit parade of embarrassment—as he mentally dubbed the process—when his relationship with Lando took a leap to the next level. After all, the transition from "friend-with-benefits(?)" to overly sweet and succinct "boyfriend" had taken them a few months, not counting the year of simple attraction before that.
But now, heading home—their home, their shared apartment in Monaco—Oscar couldn't have imagined he'd become the star of a questionable sitcom. Or another one of Lando's streams.
Live streams, as a way to connect with his audience, were Lando's favorite. But after Oscar moved in, things got more complicated.
The thing was, they didn't want to go public with their relationship—even though rumors and speculation had been flying for a while. Especially Oscar, who was overly protective of his battered aura of mystery, which always drew quiet snickers from Lando.
Lando's streaming schedule seemed to coincide with every time Oscar left the house, eating up their rare alone time with media activity, chatting with subscribers, and testing popular games. Probably the best solution for their situation.
The apartment door clicked shut softly, but Oscar, already wearing his headphones, heard nothing except his favorite playlist. Pulling off his jacket, he called out a few words to announce his return.
"Lando, I'm back."
He hung his coat on the hook, lowering the volume slightly. The apartment was quiet—just Lando's muffled voice coming from somewhere deeper inside their spacious place—so Oscar, without a second thought, kept talking as he walked toward the living room, scrolling through his phone.
"The taxi driver was insane. We don't even go that fast on track, the way he was speeding," he said, still met with unusual silence. He peered into the living room, not finding Lando there. "Relative of Max's, or something?"
The last bit came out quieter than intended. Because Lando had been located—in the room set up as his tiny streaming studio. Oscar paused at the door, listening, sincerely hoping the live stream had already ended.
"Why do you guys keep sending me links to fanfics about me and Oscar? That's not cool of you, you know?" Lando was saying loudly into his mic, listening to something in his headphones while reading donation messages.
Oscar missed a breath. The stream was still live—which meant his words from a minute ago were now public property.
"Alright, let's have a look. Promise I won't laugh too hard if it's something inappropriate," Lando whispered conspiratorially, not looking at the chat—which, by the way, was already exploding with messages asking whose voice that was.
Lando was enthusiastically scrolling through links to these infamous fanfics, sent by subscribers purely for the lulz.
Clicking on the first one that caught his eye, he read the description aloud, a barely suppressed goofy grin already spreading across his face. Oscar caught himself getting curious to see where this would go.
"Why does he keep lists of his funny quotes and take unnecessary risks on track, just to hear a quiet sigh in his earpiece? Lando didn't know, but he had his suspicions," Norris read, trying not to sound too giggly.
"So Oscar's a race engineer in this one?" Lando scrolled down a bit to confirm. "People really come up with anything."
Having said that, he glanced at the chat, where messages were rapidly replacing each other. He skimmed a few recent ones, and not seeing anything unusual in how often Oscar's name appeared, continued reading.
"Finally found you. They told me you're mine today," Lando drawled, clearly enjoying the phrasing, stepping further into the room. Oscar looked up from his phone—screen already dark. His temples immediately started that familiar, expectant thrum—the one that always came before a conversation with this Lando. What exactly did he mean by that? He couldn't quite pin it down, but after years working together, he'd learned to read Lando's moods far too well.
Lando was grinning broadly, reading the juiciest excerpts with over‑the‑top drama, throwing in comments and critiques about certain moments.
"Already lying. Oscar can't read my moods—though I wish he could. He's like a big kid, I swear," Lando shook his head, glancing at the chat again, noticing the unusual activity.
@Dyyality: Did you notice he ignored the questions about who that was?
@User67148852228: That was Oscar's voice, I'm sure.
@Lestappencanon: Maybe it was just some video playing in the background?
Reply to @Lestappencanon: Don't be ridiculous. There's no video of Piastri joking about taxi drivers and Max. A video of him joking at all is a rarity.
@Pro_game_master: Play Silent Hill F on the next stream.
Lando scrolled up through the chat, seeing more and more messages about some voice—specifically, they said, Oscar's voice.
He shot a quick glance at the clock. Too early for Piastri to be back from one of his events—still almost an hour to go. But his phone was already in his hand as he typed out a message.
"Which voice are you talking about? Did I miss something?"
Landonat:
Osc, where are you right now?
18:12
Lando assured everyone he hadn't heard anything, suggesting maybe the TV had been left on in the living room. Weak excuse, and he knew it immediately. But he decided not to dwell on it, shifting the chat's focus by continuing to read.
"Osc, I've got fucking Leclerc right up my ass. You want me to let him past?" Piastri rolled his eyes, feeling the corners of his mouth betray him. Stupid, ridiculous question—but somehow, it steadied him, gave him confidence that Lando would hold on to the lead.
"Oh my God, that was George's line, and it wasn't even about Charles. Minus one for factual inaccuracy, plus one for giving me a race win I didn't actually get," Lando goofed around, noticing the glow of an incoming message notification. It was from Oscar.
Mr. Piastri:
Standing in the doorway.
18:15
Lando's head snapped around, catching Oscar's silhouette, softly smiling at him. So the chat had been right. And that meant the mythical TV excuse wasn't going to fly.
"Guys, give me a couple of minutes," Lando muted his mic and got up from the chair, stepping out of frame.
He darted to the door, pulling Oscar aside by the sleeve, away from the camera's view, just in case. The chat was left with no audio, just a blank screen—and a furious stream of messages full of theories.
@Lestappencanon: Maybe it was a delivery guy?
Reply to @Lestappencanon: Or maybe it was Oscar Piastri.
@Dyyality: What's so important that he had to pause the stream?
@User67148852228: Lol, why did he pick such a lame fanfic?
@kasino000: Send him the omegaverse link. I wanna see his face.
Reply to @kasino000: We'll never recover him after that.
@pro_game_master: He should just go race in the simulator instead.
"Why didn't you tell me you'd be back early? I would've wrapped up," Lando whispered, though he knew no one could hear them.
"The speaker got sick, everything wrapped an hour early," Oscar sprawled on the sofa, completely unbothered by the panic on Lando's face. "And I see you don't miss me much. Fanfics? Seriously?"
"Just boosting the stream numbers. You didn't say anything when you came in, did you?" Lando shifted nervously, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve.
Oscar made a noncommittal sound, pulling him down onto the sofa and wrapping him in a familiar hug. Lando stopped abusing the thread, letting all the air out of his lungs in one big exhale.
"Something about a taxi and Max, I think," Oscar said, looking as if nothing had happened—as if tens of thousands of people weren't waiting in real time.
"I was live," Lando hissed, tensing up again.
"I didn't know. Usually your yelling carries to the next street. It was quiet tonight," Oscar shrugged, running a hand along Lando's jaw and leaving a chaste kiss on his temple.
"The whole internet is going to be screaming that we live together. And sleep together. And just... together."
Oscar squeezed his cold hand, a small smile playing on his lips at the panic on Lando's face. They could have laughed about it together—if Lando hadn't treated it like a global catastrophe.
"Don't we live together?"
"Yes, but..."
"And don't you cling to me every night?"
"I don't cling, Oscа! But you get the point," Lando said, pressing closer in defiance of his own words.
"Then what's the problem?"
"That you didn't want our relationship to be all over the internet, I don't know," Norris shot back sarcastically, watching Oscar get up from the sofa and head toward the doorway.
"Where are you going?!"
"The show must go on, remember? We need to do damage control—or everyone will fill in the blanks for us," Oscar tossed over his shoulder, stepping over the threshold into the streaming room. "Unmute the mic."
Lando had no choice but to follow, trying to regain his composure. The chat exploded with messages when they both appeared on screen. Oscar pulled a chair close to Lando's seat, sat down, and smiled lazily.
@Dyyality: If I'm dreaming, don't wake me.
@Lestappencanon: ALERT, PIASTRI IN FRAME OMG!!!
@User67148852228: They live together?!
@F1_gossip: Is this a coming‑out on live stream???
Lando dropped back into his chair, fiddling with the mute button. Oscar, as if nothing was out of the ordinary, leaned in to read the monitor, frowning slightly.
"I'm back. Oscar just popped by," Lando said evenly once the mic light turned green again.
"Hi everyone. I heard you've been reading some amateur literature without me. And, by the looks of it, just as amateurishly."
"What?! I read it with expression," Lando shot back, his panic momentarily forgotten.
"With too much expression. And factual errors," Oscar countered, scanning the text.
"What errors?"
Oscar leaned forward slightly, pressing his shoulder against Lando's. Neither paid it much mind, though the chat was once again flooded with orange hearts and knowing comments.
"First, you missed the part where I rolled my eyes—multiple times. In this excerpt alone, I roll my eyes four times in three paragraphs. The author clearly thinks I have a nervous tic."
Lando, at a loss for words, just stared at Oscar's relaxed demeanor. He was way too confident, as if appearing on streams was his daily hobby. It was both impressive and irritating.
"Second, you don't curse like that during a race. That's another significant factual error."
"You're seriously defending my vocabulary right now? I'm flattered, honestly," Lando laughed, hiding his face in his hands.
"Come on," Oscar waved dismissively, moving on to the next excerpt.
"By the way, that line about 'He ran his eyes over the most recent entries. The last one was marked with some silly orange heart emoji, and that warmed him by a fraction of a degree'—also unrealistic. Body temperature doesn't spike in a second just from words."
"That's called artistic license!"
"That's called factual inaccuracy. If I were the author, I'd rewrite it—and maybe not skip eighth‑grade biology."
"Chat, do you see this?! I live with an absolute cynic," Lando threw his hands up dramatically—and only after the words left his mouth did he realize what he'd just said.
Oscar didn't even flinch, just squeezed Lando's hand under the table in warning. And yeah, that last bit was definitely too revealing. The chat confirmed it, lagging under the flood of messages.
@Dyyality: HE SAID "WHO I LIVE WITH." THAT'S NOT EVEN A HINT.
@Lestappencanon: They're just roommates, right?
Reply to @Lestappencanon: You're so gullible. Their vibes scream more.
@F1_gossip: This is the most chaotic stream ever.
@kasino000: Read the omegaverse and you'll be happy (No).
Oscar skimmed the flying messages, completely unfazed, and continued reading aloud, simply ignoring the questions about cohabitation. Lando looked like he was either turning white or red—hard to tell.
Under the table, Oscar squeezed his hand again, trying to calm him down. It wasn't working great. But Lando still turned back to the monitor and scrolled down, picking a new excerpt to bury the awkwardness.
"Oh, here's the good part. Listen up: They sat on this same sofa, in this same nook, after another podium. Lando laughed, his head trembling on Oscar's shoulder as he read out the most ridiculous quotes. He smelled like victory—sweet, bright, intoxicating. The smell of victory—that was his smell. And Oscar definitely liked it. The smell—or Lando Norris? He still couldn't tell."
Lando read it with excessive drama, shifting tones, then burst out laughing, leaning back in his chair. Oscar paused for a beat, then finally commented.
"That one's actually pretty accurate, if I'm honest," Oscar smiled, just enough to make viewers doubt whether he was serious. "Though I'm not that poetic, for sure."
"You know what actually bothers me?" Piastri suddenly continued, something almost sincere creeping into his voice.
"What?" Lando shifted impatiently, catching that rare note of honesty.
"You said I can't read your moods. That's not true," Oscar shrugged, looking away.
"It is true, Osc. You think everyone's as unreadable as you," Lando smiled, steering the conversation into safer waters.
"Jealous much? I know your ears go red when you're stressed, and your left eye squints just a little when you're about to do something stupid. Like right now."
Oscar leaned back in his chair, lazily scanning the chat—nothing new there—so he looked at Lando, who was grinning widely. With very red ears.
"Oscar..." Lando started, but couldn't find the words.
"So, minus one for lack of observation," Piastri finished for him, with a completely deadpan face. "The text is so‑so in terms of technical details, but the concept is interesting."
Lando blinked, snapped out of his stupor, and snorted with laughter, poking Oscar in the ribs a little too hard.
"You're impossible! Alright, folks, I think it's time to wrap up. Oscar's about to start dissecting syntax, and even that's too much for me."
"I'd also tackle punctuation, but I have a date with the fridge," Piastri stood up, stretching. "Bye everyone. If you're going to write stuff like this, remember: details matter. Realism is important even in romance."
"Realism is important even in romance," Lando mimicked in an exaggerated squeaky voice, impersonating Oscar. "Put that on my tombstone, I beg you."
He reached for the end stream button, but Oscar suddenly leaned back toward the mic, as if remembering something important.
"And yeah, everything you write is fiction. Reality is far more boring. Or more interesting."
Lando quickly ended the stream, cutting Oscar off before he could say anything else ambiguous. At the next press conference, the shadier journalists would definitely be asking about this.
"Did you decide to kill me today? You realize half the internet is going to be making clips of your words now," Lando held onto Oscar's outstretched hand as they both headed toward the kitchen.
Oscar turned, that rare smile playing on his face—the one Lando secretly collected in his memory, soaking up moments like these.
"Let them. Until we officially confirm anything, everyone will think we're just messing around. And maybe it'll cut down on the low‑quality literature."
"You're impossible," Lando bumped his forehead against Oscar's shoulder, feeling Oscar's hand tracing circles on his back.
The next day, fan forums were exploding with theories. Contrary to Oscar's hopes, the number of questionable fanfics only increased—and now links were being sent to him too, begging for another public review.
Some claimed it was all part of McLaren's promotion strategy before the upcoming Miami Grand Prix; others insisted there was definitely something between the drivers.
But when, during the race weekend press conference, journalists asked Oscar about that stream, he answered without missing a beat, as effortlessly as ever.
"Literary criticism. Lando needs to work on his taste."
And Lando, standing beside him, tried not to blurt out that Oscar had just set himself up with that line—even if no one else knew it. His left eye was just slightly squinted, and only Oscar knew what that meant. Well, and millions of fans now.