Chapter Text
“Welcome to my office, Mr. Piastri. Please take a seat,” Lando announces solemnly, swooping his hand in a precise gesture towards the cushy seat on the other side of the desk.
Oscar frowns.
His eyes wander the unfamiliar room. Lando sits behind an organized desk where three highlighters are perfectly aligned. The computer screen shines a subtle bluish tint on the polished wood surface, and a plain white mug steams with coffee over a cork coaster. Oscar sniffs. Caramel macchiato with five pumps of vanilla.
The rug on the floor is beige, and the walls are a creamy tan colour. There’s a brown sofa in the back with a single ochre cushion. The curtains banish all natural light behind their olive fabric, and the harsh neons overhead blast the room with white.
Oscar hesitates, then takes his seat.
“Lando, what is th–” Oscar begins, squirming under Lando’s imperious gaze before being rudely interrupted.
“Agent Norris, if you would please.”
“Ugh—fine,” Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose. “I thought you said we had a strategy meeting?” He questions, distrustfully eyeing Lando’s pristine tuxedo and neatly arranged curls. This is not the outfit of a man about to endure three hours of tire data. And are those glasses?
Lando scolds the gleeful smile that was making its way onto his face into an expression of professional seriousness.
“Mr. Piastri, you have been summoned today by the fashion police for an investigation into your stylistic crimes, and I will be handling your case. You must have gotten your rendezvous twisted, but I thank you for showing up nonetheless. I expect your full cooperation, and would recommend total honesty,” Lando recites.
He pushes the glasses up to his forehead—accompanied with a sharp nod that makes them slide down his nose—and subtly flicks the mouse of his computer to close the note he was reading from.
Oscar stares at him.
He’s never heard of the fashion police. And he’s confused about what supposed couture crimes he could have committed. He feels like he always plays it pretty safe with his colourblocking and simple clothing cuts. He wonders what kind of investigation Lando could be leading…
SLAM!
Oscar startles out of his thoughts. On the desk between the two McLaren drivers—the three highlighters now scattered further away by the force of the impact—is a towering pile of folders and binders. Lando dusts the top cover in a smooth motion.
“I have a compilation of visuals I’d like to go through with you, Mr. Piastri,” he asserts, rearranging his highlighters. A notebook materializes in his hands out of nowhere.
Lando scribbles something in the top corner of a page. The notebook is placed down parallel to the pile of multicoloured folders—open, date-marked, divided into colour-coded categories—and Lando’s inquisitory gaze snaps back to Oscar’s owlish eyes.
“Everything you say from this point on can and will be considered as part of the investigation. This exchange will be recorded,” Lando takes a moment to tap proudly the microphone attached to his computer. “So may we begin?”
The Aussie blinks and nods mechanically at Lando’s words.
“Perfect! Let’s start with this file,” Lando says, pulling the top folder off the pile.
Oscar tilts his head, pondering how this is going to go. He watches as Lando swings the file open and hums pensively, his whole face hidden behind the yellow folder. He highlights something in yellow in his notebook. On the back of the folder, Oscar spies the label ‘hair and make-up’.
“I see, I see,” Lando mumbles to himself. “What are your thoughts on this set of images?” He exclaims, brandishing three Polaroids of Oscar in the paddock.
Oscar observes the pictures, not noticing anything particular. Lando must sense his lack of reaction, because he rapidly drops the pictures and types away at his keyboard. He swiftly spins the screen to show Oscar a split screen view of two videos of Oscar back in Prema.
Under Lando’s insistent gaze, Oscar feels at a loss of words. Those visuals all look normal.
A moment later, Lando springs into motion and scribbles something in the yellow section of his notebook. “The hair, Mr. Piastri.”
Oscar looks more closely at the images. “Ah, you mean the strand that,” he starts, not sure how to describe it, bringing his hand up to mimic the way his hair stands up like a little antenna on his head.
“Yes, precisely,” Lando confirms, writing away. “Repeated offense on hair structure and integrality standards.”
Oscar gapes, baffled.
“Could you explain or comment on this fashion infringement to further our understanding of your situation?” Lando adds, tapping his fingers in a ‘tap-tap-tap’ rhythm on the desk.
Oscar stares at his determined eyes.
“Um, okay,” Oscar hesitantly agrees. “Well, my hair is pretty stiff, yeah? And I don’t have a comb, so I never really brush it. It kind of lives a life of its own,” he admits.
Lando nods minutely, pen flying over his notebook.
“And it’s very stubborn! Look at Angelina in the left-most video, Mr. Norris, even after she patted it down it still sprung back up on its own,” Oscar clarifies, stressed out by Lando’s non-stop scribbling.
He forces himself to breathe and wait for Lando’s verdict.
A few seconds later, Lando’s hand stills.
“Mr. Piastri claims lack of adequate tools for proper maintenance of his hair, is that correct?” Lando asks—Oscar already nodding his agreement.
“And invokes special conditions through unusual obstinacy of hair follicles,” the Brit continues, taking a moment to reread his notes. “Well, I don’t think this is much to concern ourselves about. Normally this would warrant corrective measures, but we all have our little unruly gremlins, don’t we?” He laughs complicitly, tugging a stiff curl free from behind his ear.
“We’ll keep this one between us,” Lando winks, stamping a big red ‘DROPPED CHARGES’ onto the file.
“Next, I’d like us to address this hairstyle,” Lando says abruptly, pulling a new picture from the yellow folder.
Oscar recognizes that one. Monaco 2024. Cooldown room. Just after he’d pulled his balaclava off. He sighs.
“The mad scientist look,” Lando admonishes, putting emphasis on each word and letting them land heavy.
Oscar gulps.
“For my defence, sir, this was just after a race,” he begins, half-rushed words tumbling out of his mouth. “And it was hot and the hardest race in the calendar, and I’d just pulled off my balaclava…”
The clic-clac of Lando typing on his keyboard fills the room once Oscar stops rambling. “Ah yes, I see. Monaco is pretty demanding,” Lando agrees dutifully, squinting at the screen.
He notes something down.
“I’m willing to let this one slide due to extreme circumstances,” The Brit concludes.
“Thank you, Mr. Norris, I’m ver—”
“Hey, don’t fret so much,” Lando interrupts. “I’m not here to get you in trouble, sir. I believe it is primordial for this kind of job to be understanding of the accused’s situation,” he adds sagely.
The big stamp is pressed pointedly onto the picture.
“Let’s leave the hair department, shall we?” Lando asks—to which Oscar agrees easily—thankful the subject of his hairline wasn’t brought up. Lando slides the photos away.
“This charge is against the variety of manicures you’ve worn over the years,” Lando says, spreading onto the desk a dozen Polaroids of Oscar’s hands.
He points out the various lengths of his nails, using a pen and a ruler to determine their exact measure. “Don’t be too worried about this one, Mr. Piastri, it is just a formality. I only need your comments on these pronounced inconsistencies,” Lando reassures.
As Lando makes a chart in his notebook of the varied nail lengths by date of photography, Oscar lets himself take in the absurdity of this investigation. It is wholly ridiculous, but Lando is obviously having a lot of fun and taking this very seriously. Oscar shakes his head, resigning himself to just roll with it.
“I plead professional policies, Mr. Norris. My long lengths have to get filed before races due to interference with the mandated equipment,” he explains.
Lando nods, scrambling back to his computers to cross reference the dates of photography with motor racing schedules. Red ink is swiftly stamped onto the pictures.
“That is perfectly reasonable, sir, no need to linger here,” Lando acknowledges. “Although there is one more thing from this folder I’d like to bring up.”
The Aussie inhales sharply, preparing himself for the next charge. He’s not sure what to expect. He doesn’t have a beard—never has—and there aren’t any other things he has to maintain that he can think of which would fit the ‘hair and make-up’ theme.
Lando places a file on the desk, adorned with a single QR code. He swiftly scans it. A folder of hundreds of picture charges onto his computer screen, each displaying Oscar’s under-eyes tinted a rosy pink.
“Blush placement,” the Brit declares with finality.
Oscar stops breathing for a second.
“Why apply the blush so high on your cheeks,” Lando inquires, pushing himself up the desk and leaning into Oscar’s space.
A warm puff of air tickles Oscar’s nose and he feels himself start to flush at the proximity. “It’s not make-up, Mr. Norris,” he hesitates, fiddling with a stray string on his seat. “Um, this is my natural—my natural blush,” he stutters.
Lando sits back down—shocked.
His eyes roam Oscar’s face, now flushed a deep red under the attention, and promptly shakes his head, then notes a few things in his notebook.
“Visual evidence provided to dismount the accusation,” he announces. “This is a no-brainer.”
The stamp pops onto the QR code, and Lando stuffs back all the files into the yellow folder. He stamps the folder as well. “I reckon there’s nothing to see here, Mr. Piastri,” he giggles, covering his eyes with a hand. Oscar exhales.
“Hair and make-up done!” Lando says, stuffing the folder away. He grabs the one sitting at the top of the pile—a green folder. “Let’s move on to a more serious matter,” he says, turning it towards Oscar.
”Posing.”
“Oh.”
“Ah,” Lando teases back, highlighting a new section of his notebook in blue, then in yellow, covering the text in a streaky green mixture. He hums the Pokémon theme song as he goes.
Oscar lets the tune float in from one ear through the other and presses a hand to his thigh. Quiet settles back a few seconds later, awkwardly filling the room. He blinks at Lando. Lando blinks back.
“This is a matter I take to heart, Mr. Piastri, so I’m afraid I’ll have to be intransigent this time around,” Lando says.
“But—“
“Especially since you have full control over your fashion expression in this subsection of our investigation,” Lando interrupts, tutting to himself.
He grabs the folder and meticulously checks its content, leaving Oscar hanging from his threatening words. Posing is not a force of his. Definitely not. Oscar feels himself get more and more nervous as time ticks by and Lando is still moving things around, hidden behind the green folder.
A panoply of pictures are slammed onto the desk suddenly. Lando fans them out nicely, singing aggressively. “Gotta catch ‘em a-all!”
Oscar groans. He has the dumbest boyfriend.
“Eyes on the evidence, sir,” Lando scolds him.
When Oscar looks down, he is unsurprised to find an array of photos depicting him with his classic thumbs-up pose. Most are taken with fans, others come from McLaren debrief videos, some on the press conference couch, and there’s even one of him completing a fan’s heart with a thumbs-up.
It’s all thumbs-up.
He pulls his gaze away in indignation, coming to a stop at the hand on his thigh. Fingers curled inwards. Thumb pointed towards his middle. It kinda looks like a thumbs-up. “Fuck,” he whispers.
“Fuck indeed,” Lando agrees sagely.
There’s no denying this one. Oscar knows he’s guilty of abusing that pose.
“This is just a sample of the infraction,” Lando says. “Or else we wouldn’t have been able to fit evidence for your other stylistic deviations into the folder,” he adds.
Oscar nods. “I understand, Agent Norris.”
“Good, but I still need your testimony.”
“Ok,” Oscar answers, collecting his thoughts. This one will be hard to defend. First and foremost, because it is a continuously repeated offense, but also, because he has just been caught in the act. Hand pressed to his thigh, undeniably in the shape of a thumbs-up.
For safety he tucks both his hands under his thighs—thumbs included. He takes a deep breath, and Lando fiddles with a pen, looking at him contemplatively.
“Sir, the thumbs-up is a communication tool. Universally understood, it is a symbol of positivity that transcends language—which is particularly useful given the international nature of Formula 1. It is therefore a logical format of interaction with individuals of unknown origins,” Oscar argues, peeking at what Lando is writing in his notebook.
Premeditated.
Oscar’s eyes bulge out at the word.
“However it is not only a universal symbol of positivity, but also of well-being,” he corrects his first attempt. “Drivers are even told by FIA officials that they should do thumbs-up as a reassuring signal for the fans, efficiently indicating being safe and alive.”
Lando adds two more notes.
Blame shifting.
FIA weaponization.
“And it is also muscle memory!” Oscar adds, frenzied. “A habit, an instinct, an evolutionary response to years of expectations and camera monitoring by the media into delivering a consistent uplifting message to the fans!”
Lando’s hand stops moving and he stares him down. Static.
Oscar laughs nervously. “I don’t even realize that I’m doing it so often, it just happens.”
Lando’s gaze shifts lower, and he rolls his chair around the desk to Oscar’s side. There, where he had stuffed his hands under his thighs, a thumb has slipped from its position. Upright.
Oscar flings his hand away as if burned, the image of a thumbs-up branded onto his thigh flashing through his mind.
Lando shakes his head and pulls himself back to behind the desk, swiftly grabbing his notebook and adding another line of text.
“I must ask that you refrain from criminal posing while inside my office, Mr. Piastri.”
Oscar closes his eyes in shame.
“Contraband thumbs during an investigation may be counted as penalties further down the judiciary process,” he points out, plucking a red sparkly gel pen from one of his drawers and underlining a sentence.
Oscar nods slowly. “I’m sorry, it wasn’t my intention.”
“It’s fine, but understand I won’t be able to discharge this accusation as easily, sir,” Lando concludes, pulling a ziploc bag out of the green folder and slipping the pictures into it.
A disappointed sigh makes its way out of Oscar’s mouth. The big stamp doesn’t move from its ink platter throne.
“What about these?” Lando asks, pulling two pictures from the folder. They come from photoshoots Oscar had done with his model agency. In both he stands tall, shoulders squared, arms stiff at his sides, and the clothes he’d worn sticking rigidly to his limbs.
“You mean the—” Oscar begins, pushing himself up and replicating the pose.
Lando holds up both pictures and shifts his gaze from real life Oscar to the paper evidence. Perfect orthostasis. “Oh!” A smile spreads across his face. “They’re identical.”
“They are,” Oscar confirms. “It is me.”
“It is you,” Lando agrees, gesturing for Oscar to sit back down. “Demonstration noted. But in the context of a fashion shoot?” he inquires.
“Yes, it was the director’s orders. Official events with strict schedules and very specific demands for an inexperienced model.”
Lando tilts his head pensively.
“Alright, I’ll let this one slide.”
The stamp is pressed onto the two pictures. Lando pulls out three more and stamps those as well. Other photoshoot pictures, by the look of it. Oscar grins to himself.
“Last item for this folder,” he says, turning to the computer. “It’s a recorded visual,” he explains, pulling up a very familiar video.
Oscar smiles as himself from Austria 2023 grimaces at the jet pack racer falling from the sky, a deep frown pulling his face down morphing into a taut line that he taps with the straw of his plastic bottle. A classic.
“That one was for the fans. A humorous bit through facial expressions. I’m sure you’ve done one of those before, Agent Norris.”
“Noooo,” Lando is quick to refute, but his grimace tells a different story. The video is abruptly stopped and the green folder closed. Oscar watches the stamp intently, but Lando doesn’t pick it up. He shakes his head apologetically.
“I fear we’ll need to come back onto the posing situation later, but I suggest we move onto something else for now,” Lando offers.
Oscar silently gives his approval.
Lando places the green folder into a different drawer and grabs the blue binder on top of the pile.
“Clothes,” he announces.
Oscar lets himself melt into the back of his chair, hoping to mold himself into its cushion and disappear forever. Visions of himself standing awkwardly in front of the mirror in various hotel rooms flash in quick succession: maroon shirt, black shorts, McLaren cap, McLaren polo, McLaren shoes, navy quarter zip—all his most recent outfits pop into his mind.
He wonders what Lando’s judgement on his outfit for today would be. He reckons his white t-shirt and beige shorts aren’t particularly tasteful, although not investigation-worthy. Well, Oscar hopes the fashion police doesn’t consider this investigation-worthy, because otherwise he’d have a lot of fashion crimes to respond to.
The insistent clicking of a pen brings his attention back to Lando’s waiting figure, poised to continue his interrogation.
“Focus, Mr. Piastri.”
Oscar braces himself and gives Lando a knowing nod.
Lando ceremoniously places the folder in the middle of the desk and opens it carefully, aligning it with the edge of the desk—perfectly parallel. He takes a sip of his macchiato and instantly jerks it away from his burning tongue, spilling a drop of coffee on its way to the coaster.
Lando grimaces, visibly mourning the mistake.
He stares sadly at the spill darkening the title page of the folder, written in blue glittery gel with silly koala illustrations floating around. The one hiding behind a cap is already blurring away.
Oscar passes him a tissue to blot the stain.
“I’m sorry,” Oscar offers quietly.
“It’s fine, thanks, sir,” Lando keeps wiping at the brown spot. “At least it’s just the title page.”
Resigned, Lando opens a drawer and delicately drops the paper there. He takes a deep breath and nudges his stationery back in position. Oscar watches, powerless.
“As I was saying,” Lando begins, tone sharp. “We’re moving on to clothes.”
The Aussie’s fingers lace over his thighs, patiently awaiting the next part. He notices how thick the binder looks.
“This is the core subject of our investigation. The accumulation of significant and continued misconduct in the clothing domain majorly led to a deeper search in your stylistic history. I will ask you to understand the gravity of your acts. I will also ask you to apply the utmost attention to your response today.”
Oscar listens to Lando recite his speech, dread gradually filling him. That sounds serious.
“I understand,” he agrees meekly.
“Very well,” Lando says, turning a paper around so Oscar can read it. “Please begin by observing this table.”
Oscar reads the table title, confusion etching its way across his face at ‘Patterns in Repeated Offences; Individual Pieces’. There are five columns in total, the first one called Item, then Colour, Date, Temperature, and Event.
Underneath is rows after rows of rectangles colour-coded based on the corresponding item of clothing. It has a verso too.
Silently, Lando slides another paper over the first one, displaying a different table titled ‘Statistical Trends; Individual Pieces’. Oscar’s eyes widen at the mean averages and medians, the modes, the correlation coefficients, and at the starred numbers.
Oscar learns from the legend that stars mean corresponding graphs are available.
Lando coughs, and Oscar watches in shock as he pulls up an Excel spreadsheet covered in graphs.
“You may want to follow along with the data files to your disposition,” Lando specifies, zooming in on the uppermost left corner graph. “Items by frequency,” he announces.
Oscar scrambles to find the related data, his breath hitching at the dozens of relevant rows.
“As you can see, variety is severely lacking here,” Lando explains, moving the mouse pointer from bar graph peaks to circling labels underneath. “Especially in terms of pants, with 65% shorts, 28% skinny jeans, 4% trousers, and 2% joggers.”
Lando moves his pointer to the large empty zone of the graph, marked by several labels with non-existent bars above. “The remaining percent is distributed between other cuts of pants, here: straight, baggy, etcetera, different lengths, cargos, skirts, har—“
“I don’t wear th—“ Oscar tries to protest, only to be interrupted by Lando.
“I know you don’t, this is the point of this charge. This distribution graph’s uniformity of leg coverage is indicative of severe creativity numbness. And backed by negative event and temperature correlation.”
Oscar takes in the numbers.
It is true—he’s not the most adventurous when it comes to clothes. But he didn’t realize the extent.
“You’re right, Mr. Norris, I haven’t tried much to vary my style,” Oscar begins, taking his time to find the right words. “But also, I’d like to bring to your attention that races imply unpredictable weather throughout multiple unfamiliar countries. The safe option has always been my go-to.”
Lando notes it down in his notebook, then scrolls down the Excel page to a different graph. He clicks on a dot highlighted in red.
“Indeed, the climate of countries can be unpredictable. To your defence, we can see that the 6th of July, during the driver’s parade of the British Grand Prix, you were seen wearing shorts despite the rain, wind, and…” Lando squints at the screen. “Temperature of 16 degrees.”
Oscar nods appreciatively.
“But,” Lando says, gazing coldly at Oscar’s hopeful eyes. “You have access to specialized weather radars due to your field of work. And Mr. Hamilton, one of your colleagues, can still be seen wearing a variety of garments despite sharing your profession,” he argues.
Oscar’s hope extinguishes immediately. He realizes Lando has spent way too much time on this. Or whatever poor intern he’s enrolled in analyzing Oscar’s clothing habits as if it was tire wear.
Oscar glances at the graph.
“If I may, sir, fashion is part of Lewis’s brand. My brand identity as a McLaren driver is supposed to be very relatable,” he refutes. “Approachability is important,” Oscar says, but then hesitates.
He wants to keep arguing—he feels the fire, the desire to win. But also, there’s this tiny part of him that pleads to be understood. To be honest and let himself be seen.
He loves his shorts. His skinny jeans. They’re comfortable, both physically and mentally.
But he’s also found himself loving skirts. Shorter shorts that let his thighs breathe. And he’s terrified of breaking his brand and disappointing his fans. Scared of forcing more work onto Sophie, to reshape everything he’s built. More than that, he’s scared to admit what those preferences imply for his own identity.
“Approachability is important…” Lando repeats, letting the tension in the room build a little. He stares back, waiting for Oscar to continue.
Oscar sighs.
“Approachability is important, just like comfort. Not just physical, but mental as well,” Oscar concludes softly.
Lando stops moving for the first time since he’s started playing investigator. No notes, pointing or typing. He sits still, rolling the words around in his head. Oscar looks at the way Lando considers deeply what he said, like it matters to him.
Lando doesn’t touch his pens nor his notebook.
“Comfort is central to style, indeed. It’s about self expression and perception from others. You know, I found this section of the investigation particularly harsh, because it singles out personal habits. And humans are creatures of habits,” Lando monologues, pensively.
“These style investigations aren’t about punishment, they’re about understanding. I’ll have a talk with the higher-ups, because holding this charge against you is nonsensical. Yes, originality is praised by the fashion police, but there’s nothing wrong with comfort,” Lando continues.
“And discovery of one’s self is encouraged to take place at the person’s pace,” Lando finishes.
He looks at Oscar gently, discreetly closing the Excel file and taking the data pages away from him. He doesn’t stamp the papers or the stack of pictures still in the file, instead discarding them in the trash bin. “No point in further reviewing this,” he says thoughtfully.
Oscar blinks a few times in quick succession, letting the emotion roll over him. He feels as if he’d taken a weight off his chest. He can still see a few files in the binder, but nothing about frequencies and habits.
His eyes fall onto a picture of the ridiculous Alpinestar crewneck McLaren had made him wear last year for the Qatar media day. It’s hideously colourful—waves and spirals of ugly gradients mixing together, with thick white bands at the edges—and a small laugh escapes him.
Lando perks up at the sound. He picks up the picture and smiles, content to see Oscar brighten up after the charged moment they’d shared. He looks at Oscar, a little curious, a little relieved.
“God, that might be the ugliest crewneck I’ve ever seen,” Oscar giggles hesitantly, making eye contact with Lando.
Lando meets his eyes and his shoulders relax. “It is definitely a statement,” he chuckles.
“That’s not on me, though,” Oscar adds, lifting a shoulder. “Mandated outfit. Crucial sponsor.”
“You’re right, this can be excused,” Lando smiles easily, stamping the photo with quiet satisfaction. “I’ll also let the drawstring jeans slide, but only because everyone has their ugly pair of comfort pants,” he adds, stamping away.
Oscar giggles. Thankfully he hasn’t worn the drawstring jeans in a while.
“Let’s conclude our session here, Mr. Piastri.”
Oscar opens his mouth to comment on the three folders left on the table, but Lando quickly continues.
“We’ll cover the last folders, come back onto the posing file, and take care of your mug shots next Friday, if this works for you,” he says, questioning eyes meeting Oscar’s.
“Yeah, that’s good,” Oscar agrees.
Oscar’s eyes flick to the three remaining folders: Colour Coordination, Public Indecency and Private Pictures. He raises an eyebrow, unsure whether he should laugh or flee.
“See you next Friday,” Lando smiles knowingly.