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The first mistake was the yacht photo.
The second mistake was letting Lando Norris see it before the internet did.
“Oh,” Lando said, zooming in with all the focus of a forensic investigator. “Oh, this is catastrophic.”
“It’s literally just a photo,” Oscar replied flatly.
“It is a photo,” Lando agreed. “But unfortunately for you, mate, it’s a romantic photo.”
Across the hospitality suite, Alex looked up from his coffee with immediate concern. “What’s romantic?”
Lando turned the phone around.
The image itself was harmless in theory. Oscar was sitting on the edge of a yacht during some sponsor event in Monaco, sunglasses on, expression neutral in the way that somehow still made teenage girls on TikTok write essays about him. Alex stood behind him, bent slightly to say something into his ear while one hand rested on Oscar’s shoulder.
That was all.
Except Alex was smiling.
Not his media smile. Not the polished, camera-aware grin.
It was soft.
Fond, even.
And Oscar--traitorous, disastrous Oscar--was tilting unconsciously toward him.
The comments online had already escalated from they’d be cute together to there is no heterosexual explanation for this.
Oscar handed the phone back. “People are insane.”
“You’re sat between Alex’s legs,” Lando pointed out.
“I was not.”
“You emotionally were.”
Alex snorted into his coffee.
That should have been the end of it.
Instead, twelve hours later, Alex walked into Oscar’s hotel room holding a bottle of wine and the expression of someone about to suggest something profoundly stupid.
“Oscar,” he said gravely, “what if we made it worse?”
Oscar looked up from his laptop. “No.”
“You haven’t heard the idea.”
“I know enough already.”
Alex ignored him and flopped sideways onto the bed. “What if we fake dated for Monaco weekend.”
Oscar stared.
Alex stared back with complete sincerity.
“You realize,” Oscar said carefully, “that people already think we’re sleeping together.”
“Exactly. Lean into it.”
“That is the opposite of solving the problem.”
“But it would be funny.”
Oscar hated that this was compelling.
Alex had a talent for making terrible ideas sound inevitable. He did it with media games, late-night karting, and once, memorably, with matching friendship bracelets that somehow became a six-month commitment because neither of them wanted to admit they liked wearing them.
“No,” Oscar said again, weaker this time.
Alex’s smile widened. “You’re considering it.”
“I’m considering murder.”
“Still counts as engagement.”
The real problem was that Oscar had been half in love with Alex for approximately eleven months and two weeks.
Not that he’d told anyone.
Certainly not Alex, who moved through the paddock like sunlight--easy smiles, easy warmth, touching people casually when he laughed. Oscar had watched mechanics, engineers, interviewers, random celebrities, all melt under the force of Alex paying attention to them.
Oscar had no intention of joining the list.
Unfortunately, his body had never received that memo.
Alex leaned over now, nudging Oscar’s knee with his socked foot. “Come on. We hold hands a bit, make the media explode, then dramatically ‘break up’ after Spain.”
“That’s your plan?”
“I’m workshopping.”
“It’s terrible.”
Alex beamed. “So you’re in.”
By Friday morning, the entire paddock was unbearable.
It started small.
Alex arrived at the track carrying Oscar’s coffee.
Then Oscar absentmindedly adjusted the collar of Alex’s team shirt during an interview.
Then Alex, apparently committed to psychological warfare, rested his hand on the small of Oscar’s back while walking through the paddock.
The cameras lost their minds.
George Russell cornered them near hospitality with the exhausted expression of a man witnessing stupidity in real time.
“You two are either actually dating,” George said, “or you’ve both suffered head injuries.”
Alex slung an arm around Oscar’s shoulders. “Can’t it be both?”
George narrowed his eyes. “Oscar looks like he’s trying not to combust.”
Oscar nearly choked.
Alex laughed, warm and oblivious, squeezing his shoulder once before letting go.
That tiny moment ruined Oscar’s entire afternoon.
Because the thing about fake dating, it turned out, was that Alex took it seriously.
He touched constantly.
Nothing excessive. Nothing overt.
Just enough.
A hand brushing Oscar’s waist in crowded spaces. Fingers catching briefly at his wrist. Leaning too close during interviews. Smiling at him like he was in on some wonderful secret.
Oscar was losing his mind quietly and with as much dignity as possible.
Which meant not much dignity at all.
By Saturday night, Monaco glittered outside the hotel balcony while Oscar sat on the edge of the bed trying to remember how breathing worked.
Alex emerged from the bathroom in gray sweatpants and no shirt.
That felt targeted.
“You okay?” Alex asked casually, toweling his hair dry.
“No.”
Alex blinked. “Oh.”
Oscar looked away immediately.
There was a pause.
Then the mattress dipped beside him.
“You know,” Alex said softly, “for fake dating, you’ve been weirdly tense all day.”
“I wonder why.”
“Mmm.”
Oscar finally looked over.
Alex was close.
Too close.
His hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends. There was a tiny scar near his collarbone Oscar had never noticed before. He wanted, with horrifying intensity, to lean over and put his mouth there.
Instead he said, “You’re very touchy.”
Alex’s eyebrows lifted. “You hate it?”
“No.”
Too fast.
Alex went still.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
“Oh,” Alex said quietly.
Oscar could survive media scrutiny. He could survive pressure. He could survive racing wheel-to-wheel at three hundred kilometers per hour.
This, apparently, was where he died.
“I just mean,” he said, attempting damage control and failing instantly, “you’re attractive. Statistically.”
Alex stared at him for one long second.
Then he laughed.
Not mocking.
Something softer.
“Statistically?” he repeated.
Oscar wanted the earth to open beneath him.
“I don’t know,” he muttered. “Forget it.”
But Alex was still looking at him in that impossible focused way, all warmth and attention directed fully at one person.
“You think I’m attractive.”
“This conversation feels unnecessary.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m Australian. It’s heat-related.”
Alex grinned slowly. “Oscar Piastri flirting is maybe the most painful thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
“I’m not flirting.”
“You just called me statistically attractive.”
“That’s objective fact.”
“Oh my god.”
Oscar covered his face with one hand.
And then Alex touched his wrist gently.
Not joking now.
“Oscar,” he said softly, “are we still pretending?”
The question settled between them.
Oscar lowered his hand.
Alex was close enough now that Oscar could feel the warmth coming off his skin. Close enough to count freckles. Close enough that one small movement forward would--
Alex’s expression softened slightly.
“I genuinely couldn’t tell if you wanted me to stop.”
Something inside Oscar cracked open at that.
Because Alex sounded nervous.
Alex Albon, who talked to anyone, charmed everyone, laughed through interviews and pressure and chaos alike--
nervous.
“For the record,” Alex said, quieter now, “this would be a really elaborate commitment to a joke.”
Oscar’s heart stumbled.
“You like me.”
Alex huffed a laugh. “Yeah, a bit.”
“A bit.”
“Shut up.”
Oscar smiled before he could stop himself.
Alex’s expression softened instantly at the sight of it, like he’d won something.
That feeling in Oscar’s chest became almost unbearable.
“So,” Alex said carefully, “what now?”
Oscar looked at his mouth.
That was probably answer enough.
Alex kissed him like he’d been waiting a long time for permission.
Slow at first.
Careful.
Then Oscar made a small involuntary sound against his lips and something in Alex visibly unraveled.
The second kiss was hotter.
Messier.
Alex’s hand slid into Oscar’s hair while Oscar grabbed instinctively at his waist, pulling him closer until they were half sprawled across the bed.
“Christ,” Alex murmured against his mouth. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
Oscar kissed him harder in response.
That earned him a breathless laugh.
“You’re competitive even here,” Alex said.
“Yes.”
“Kind of obsessed with that.”
Oscar rolled them suddenly, pinning Alex beneath him.
Alex’s eyes widened.
“Oh,” he said, sounding delighted.
Oscar leaned down slowly, watching Alex carefully the entire time, giving him every chance to stop this.
Instead Alex spread his legs slightly without even realizing he’d done it.
That nearly killed Oscar outright.
“Still think this is fake dating?” Alex whispered.
Oscar kissed him again instead of answering.
They learned each other quickly after that.
Alex was responsive in a way that drove Oscar insane--every touch pulling another sound from him, every kiss making him arch closer. He talked constantly too, flushed and breathless beneath Oscar.
“There you go--fuck, like that--”
“Oscar, wait, oh my god--”
“You’re ridiculously pretty, has anyone told you that?”
Oscar nearly short-circuited at the last one.
“You can’t say things like that.”
Alex laughed weakly as Oscar kissed down his throat. “Why? You’ll implode?”
“Yes.”
“Cute.”
Oscar bit his shoulder lightly in retaliation.
Alex made a noise that changed the atmosphere of the room instantly.
Both of them froze.
“Oh,” Oscar said.
Alex looked wrecked already, pupils blown wide. “Don’t sound so pleased about it.”
Oscar absolutely was pleased about it.
The smugness must have shown on his face because Alex shoved at his shoulder halfheartedly. “You’re awful.”
“You started this.”
“I started fake dating. You escalated.”
“That seems inaccurate.”
Alex hauled him down into another kiss before Oscar could continue the argument.
After that, things deteriorated rapidly.
Clothes ended up scattered across the hotel floor. Alex beneath him, flushed pink and gorgeous and laughing one second before moaning helplessly the next. Oscar discovering with immense satisfaction that Alex liked praise far more than he admitted.
“There,” Oscar murmured against his throat. “Good?”
Alex shivered violently.
“Oh, you absolute nightmare,” he breathed.
Oscar smiled against his skin.
Later, much later, Monaco glittered beyond the windows while they lay tangled together beneath expensive hotel sheets.
Alex traced lazy patterns against Oscar’s bare arm.
“So,” he said eventually, “awkward question.”
Oscar hummed sleepily.
“Are we still fake dating?”
Oscar opened one eye.
Alex looked unfairly soft in the low light, hair messy, mouth kiss-swollen.
Something warm settled deep in Oscar’s chest.
“No,” he said quietly.
Alex smiled.
Then, because he apparently couldn’t help himself, he added, “Good. Because George owes me fifty euros.”
Oscar groaned into the pillow.
“You made bets?”
“The entire grid made bets.”
“I hate all of you.”
Alex kissed his shoulder lazily. “You like me, though.”
Oscar considered this.
Then pulled Alex closer and kissed him until he stopped sounding smug about it.
Outside, Monaco glittered endlessly awake.
Inside, Oscar finally stopped pretending.