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Chapter Text

It was one of those sticky, hot evenings, with the air thick and damp from the sea breeze.

All the drivers had gathered for their usual grid dinner at some tucked-away restaurant in Monaco, one last chill night before the second half of the season kicked off.

Laughter echoed in the private room, glasses of wine clinking, the chaos of twenty young rich men just trying to relax and reconnect before the pressure turned back on.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Lando and Oscar were deep in conversation with Carlos, Alex, and a few of the rookies.

Lando leaned forward, wine glass in hand. “Mate, you wouldn’t believe the PR meeting we had today. Absolute madness.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “Ay, cariño, you’re always so dramatic.”

Oscar shook his head. “He’s not exaggerating this time. They locked us in a room for two hours… for a presentation on yaoi.”

Alex blinked. “Wait, isn’t that, like, some kind of manga thing?”

The group instinctively turned toward the youngest drivers. Isack Hadjar jumped in, deadpan: “Yes. It’s a Japanese genre focused on romantic and sexual relationships between male characters,” he said, sounding like he was reading straight from Wikipedia, complete with exaggerated air quotes and an eye roll.

Lando raised his glass again. “Exactly. And they made us sit through a full-blown PowerPoint on fanfictions, ship names, tropes… the whole shebang.”

That earned a round of laughter from the table.

Carlos chuckled. “I remember getting lectured about that stuff when I first joined Ferrari.”

Alex nodded. “And again this year at Williams.”

“Same at VCARB,” Hadjar chimed in, raising his beer.

Carlos smirked wickedly. “At this point, it’s basically part of every team’s basic PR packet. I thought everyone knew.”

Oscar groaned. “We did. But apparently ‘Landoscar’ is climbing the ‘AO3 Top 100 Ships’ chart or something like that this year.” He shook his head in disbelief.

Lando grinned. “Can you believe they’re coaching us on how to act more ‘shippable’? All so we can dethrone those two.”

He nodded toward the far end of the table. Everyone turned to see Charles Leclerc and Max Verstappen talking animatedly, hands flying — in other words, Maxplaining and Leclarifying — completely oblivious to the conversation happening around them.

From across the table, Ollie and Kimi yelled in unison: “LESTAPPEN?”

The whole table erupted with laughter.

Alex practically choked on his drink. “Oh man. No one, and I mean no one, is beating that,” he said, raising his arms and gesturing wildly at the pair of drivers, who had just now started to notice the commotion.

Carlos wiped tears of laughter from his eyes and looked straight at Lando. “Trust me, it’s impossible! I mean, we flirted openly for two years as teammates, remember?”

Alex chimed in. “Ohhhh, I remember ‘Carlando’! I also remember that back then those two could barely look at each other without scowling and still one glare between them and boom… the internet went feral”, he added miming a giant explosion. “Look, they’re mocking us even now.”

Everyone looked again. Charles and Max were leaning closer, grinning like idiots.

Charles, noticing the stares, laughed. “Oh come on, we’re not even doing anything!”

Max joined in, sneaking an arm over the back of Charles’s chair. “Yeah, what do you want from us? It’s just the whole ‘rivals to lovers’ thing… the fans eat that up. We don’t even hang around each other that much in the paddock!”

From the other end of the table, Lewis Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “Kids,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Fernando Alonso leaned over and whispered, grinning, “Careful, old man, or I’ll give Britney a call.”

Lewis scowled. “Don’t even say the name. Ewww.”

That set off another wave of laughter.

Lando cleared his throat. “Anyyywaaay,” he said, reclaiming the floor, “McLaren’s PR team is very confident in Landoscar. They think that at this rate, we’re gonna overtake Lestappen by the end of the year.

He nodded proudly. “They showed us graphs, charts, some terrifying spreadsheets I didn’t fully grasp, but they looked impressive to me.”

He sipped his wine and smirked. “So, how about this: why don’t we make it a bet? The couple that gets more fanfics written over the next race weekend… has to lend the other pairing their favorite sports car for a month.” He leaned back. “What do you think, Verstappen? Ready to part with your precious Valkyrie?”

Ollie and Kimi shouted together: “Ooh, spicy!”

Charles and Max looked deeply into each other’s eyes. Then Max grinned. “Game on, Norris.”

From the side, Oscar dropped his face into his hands. “Oh god,” he muttered. “What have I gotten myself into…”

Chapter Text

It was Thursday, the first day back from summer break, just another media day before the chaos of the Dutch Grand Prix weekend.

Lando and Oscar, already suited up in their McLaren team kits, strolled through the paddock, casually flashing their best sides to every camera in range. They were joking, laughing, and generally acting like two young boys without a care in the world.

The bright sunlight bounced off the gleaming surfaces, and camera flashes sparked like clockwork.

Carlos appeared out of nowhere, throwing an arm around Oscar’s shoulder.
“Mate, I still can’t believe you got roped into that bet last night.”

Oscar laughed. “I know, right? And now we’ve got to deal with that .” He gestured toward the small swarm of McLaren photographers tailing them, each with a tiny #TeamLandoscar sticker slapped on the lens.

Alex, loitering just outside the Williams garage, caught their attention: “You’ve got to be kidding me”, he said, snickering lightly.

Lando and Oscar turned to see what he was talking about. Then they froze .

“No way,” one of the photographers snorted, as a ripple of commotion spread through the paddock.

Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc were stepping out of the same car .

Max wore his trademark “I don’t care” expression, while Charles, as usual, looked like he’d wandered straight off the cover of a fashion magazine, even in a simple white shirt and his stupid baggy jeans.

Charles handed Max his backpack, calmly adjusting the straps across Max’s chest like it was just another Tuesday. They didn’t speak, barely even look at each other. Just walked side by side, close enough to brush shoulders but never touching, before disappearing into their separate team hospitality.

Lando blinked. His jaw nearly hit the asphalt.

“What the fuck !” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “He got Max to wear oversized jeans! Can you believe it?”

Alex burst out laughing. “Is Charles wearing a Franz Hermann shirt? Oh my gosh mate, you better prepare to hand over that precious car of yours.”

“No way that’s happening. They’re playing dirty! ” Lando snapped. Then, without missing a beat, he grabbed Oscar by the arm and dragged him toward the McLaren motorhome. “Come on. We’ve got serious work to do.”

Oscar followed, throwing a pleading look at the Williams duo even though he was secretly enjoying the drama.

———

Inside the McLaren hospitality, the day’s media obligations were already handled. The next item on the agenda? A team challenge video.

To Lando’s delight, it involved a lot of physical chaos. He took full advantage, launching himself into Oscar’s personal space like it was an Olympic sport and laughing like a schoolgirl with a crush.

Between goofy grins, exaggerated giggles, and “accidentally” falling into Oscar every few seconds, Lando was practically vibrating with PR adrenaline as he tried to one-up whatever Max and Charles had planned for the day.

“ We got this ,” he said high-fiving an unamused Oscar, “They’ll be tied up with their teams’ obligations all day anyway.”

The room roared with laughter as he flung himself into a “prank” involving a bucket and Oscar’s head while Oscar tried, in vain, to film a serious moment. It wasn’t the most dignified PR stunt McLaren had ever produced, but it was extremely watchable.

Oscar shook his head. “You’re a little insane, mate.”

Lando flashed a smug, cat-like grin to the camera: “That’s why you love me”.

———

Later that evening, Lando wandered toward the quieter end of the paddock, hoping for a moment of quiet before dinner. But as he passed the media lounge, a familiar voice from a TV screen stopped him dead in his tracks.

Max.

Of course, the Dutch GP meant the Dutch reigning world champion was everywhere, surrounded by journalists, fans, endless interviews. But it wasn’t the presence that got Lando. It was the tone .

“Of course, me and Charles have known each other basically all our lives,” Max was saying with a soft smile. “He did everything right during the last race weekends.”

Max paused, his smile turning almost fond, a faint blush up on his cheeks. “He’s had a lot of bad luck in recent years. He definitely deserves better.”

Lando’s fists clenched at his sides.

“Fucking fucker ,” he muttered.

Beside him, Lewis appeared out of nowhere, casually sipping from a water bottle. “You good?”

Lando didn’t answer. He was too busy watching Max Verstappen, fucking Mad Max Verstappen of all people, blushing on live television like a main character in a teen rom-com.

“Oh, give me a break ,” he muttered. “Did you see that? Now he’s acting like the sweet, supportive boyfriend? What’s next, joint piano recitals ?”

Lewis snorted. “To be fair, it’s kind of impressive. Coordinated outfits and tragic soulmate narrative? Their PR team deserves a raise.”

Lando spun around, finger pointed with dramatic fury. “Don’t say that! Landoscar is not losing to this ‘oversized-jeans unlucky lovers’ propaganda. Not on my watch!”

Lewis raised an eyebrow. “So... what’s the plan, Norris?”

Lando cracked his knuckles like a man possessed. “Simple: more flirting, less subtlety. I’m talking cinematic! I want a gazillion new fan edits by tomorrow’s sundown.”

Lewis gave him a look. “You’re unwell.”

“I’m dedicated ,” Lando corrected, already heading back toward the cameras.

Lewis sighed. “This is gonna get weird, isn’t it?”

Lando tossed him a grin over his shoulder.
“Oh, mate, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

Chapter Text

On Saturday morning, Lando stormed into Oscar’s hotel room, already mid-rant.

“Alright, we need to coordinate: you, me, Instagram stories and breakfast shots. Fans love domestic stuff.”

Oscar, still brushing his teeth, stared at him blankly.

“Maybe we could do a little coffee run, I could I hold your mug. Or feed you a croissant.” Lando paused. “Too much?”

Oscar spat into the sink. “You’re insane.”

“ Insanely committed to the bit , yes.”

———

Meanwhile, Max and Charles were at the track early, phones in hand, deep in conversation.

“They posted a sunrise picture with a shared plate of croissants and matching mugs,” Charles muttered, scrolling down the screen. “Caption: ‘Fueling up with the best.’” He scrunched up his nose. “So tasteless.”

Max snorted.

Charles gave him a look: “They’re just trying too hard”, he smirked. “Time to remind them that you can’t fake chemistry.”

Max tilted his head. “You mean?”

The Ferrari driver stared straight ahead. “I don’t know, maybe we play it subtle…Longing stares, strategic arm touches. Let the fandom do the rest.”

Max grinned. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Charles shrugged. “Well, we are number 34 out of all the ships on AO3. I checked that Top 100 chart.”

Max blinked. “You what.”

———

It was almost 11 am.

Carlos was walking through the paddock, minding his own business, eyes glued to a PR email that was clearly way too long. He was halfway through typing a reply when  he felt a sudden rush of air beside him.

Lando stormed over, practically vibrating with uncontrollable energy. “Unbelievable! Can you believe this shit?!”

The mechanics around them immediately backed away, sensing that something dramatic was about to go down.

Carlos blinked, visibly confused. “What’s up with you, cariño?”

Lando’s face was a mix of disbelief and frustration, his voice reaching a near-unrealistic pitch.
“Lestappen gained 37 new fanfictions last night alone! Don’t people have jobs anymore?!” He threw his hands up dramatically, eyes wide, like the world had just ended.

“They weren’t even near each other all day! They shared a car and did one interview! That’s it!”, Lando continued, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe the injustice of it all.

“Oscar and I do stuff like that all the time !” He raised his hands to the air. “We’ve been laughing on camera, sharing croissants, vibing! I woke up at six a.m. for golden hour content, Carlos! At six! And all for nothing!”

He pulled out his phone and waved it in front of the other driver’s face. “Twenty-three. That’s all we got. Just twenty-three stories! Look at this! Pathetic.”

Oscar appeared at his side, pinching the bridge of his nose: “You’re really dramatic sometimes, has anyone ever told you that?”

Lando’s pitch went up an octave., practically squealing: “Yes, of course! People tell me all the time! But that’s beside the point!”

He left Carlos side to plaster himself all over his teammate: “Landoscar is losing! We are losing, Oscar! I can’t be losing to Max Verstappen again!”

Carlos chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh mate, come on. It’s just a stupid bet. Don’t forget that you’re running the show on track this year.”

He smirked. “Besides, they won’t even have time to be seen together between free practices.”

Oscar put an arm around the British driver. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with Sainz. We’ve got this. Let’s go for a Papaya 1-2, and then we’ll destroy them in fanfiction too.”

Lando’s eyes lit up. “Yes! YES! Papaya 1-2, and then we can drop another Landoscar challenge video. Something... iconic.”

Oscar shook his head, lips twitching into a smile. “Come on, mate, it’s almost time. Let’s get in the cars.”

———

In fact, they were mostly right: total papaya domination in both free practice sessions, with Lestappen alternating in 3rd place.

FP1 Results:

1. Oscar Piastri
2. Lando Norris
3. Max Verstappen

FP2 Results:

1. Lando Norris
2. Oscar Piastri
3. Charles Leclerc

At the end of the day, Lando was glowing. He’d topped the FP2 classification, the car was a rocketship, and the paddock buzzed with papaya energy.

Even better? He and Oscar even managed to squeeze in another challenge video: Oscar guiding Lando through a blindfolded lap of the Zandvoort circuit. Classic, funny, s hip-bait gold.

Lando felt like he was walking on a cloud.

Best of all? Their rivals barely had any chance to be seen together all day.

Surely this was the moment Landoscar overtook Lestappen on AO3.

Just perfect, really!

Grinning, Lando pulled out his phone, eager to check Twitter (yes, he still refuses to call it X, thank you very much). He clicked on the app, his fingers already typing in the search bar #Landoscar .

First thing that hit him? A post from the official F1 account:

Max 🆚 Charles. Consistently close 🤏

Flabbergasted, he kept scrolling down the screen and there they were: hundreds of posts flooding his timeline.

Max and Charles driving side by side around the track during both FP sessions.

An endless stream of screenshots, fan cams and blurry stills.

Clips of Charles giggling over team radio:
“Oh man, what the hell is Max doing there?”

Max replying a beat later:

“He almost rammed into me!” said with a laugh.

Hordes of fans were going absolutely feral,  totally losing their shit.

Hashtags were exploding, edits already trending.

Lando let out an exasperated sigh, throwing one hand over his face:

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Chapter Text

By Saturday morning, the paddock was buzzing with unhinged enthusiasm.
Lando and Oscar had uploaded a shared Spotify playlist called “Race Week Love”, featuring tracks like “Kiss Me”, “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You”, and a curated selection of the sappiest Taylor Swift songs.

Lando commented: “Papaya rulez 🧡”, Oscar liked it immediately and Twitter collectively lost its head.

FP3 was already over: another McLaren 1–2, with a surprising Kimi Antonelli joining the papaya duo at the top of the classification.

Max was yapping with GP just outside the Red Bull garage, waving his hands wildly, miming corners of the track and the snappy movements of his car.
He didn’t even stop talking when Charles biked right past him, just glanced over and smiled a little when the Ferrari driver winked. Or tried to. It looked more like a malfunctioning robot attempting to flirt, but the intention was there.

“Hi Charlie.”
“Hello Max.”

Max continued his conversation with the engineer while the monegasque continued through the paddock with his bike, until he reached the Ferrari garage.
Lewis was there, seemingly distracted, but as soon as Charles approached, he glanced at him, smirked, and asked quietly: “You and Verstappen plotting against the papaya kids?”

Charles got off the bike and parked it beside the garage. He smiled lightly and shook his head, “Not today. We’re just focusing on qualifying. But we usually just… click,” Charles said with a shrug, then walked inside without adding anything else.

Lewis thought he caught the faintest blush on his teammate’s cheeks. He watched him go, then shook his head and murmured to himself: “Ahhh, to be young again…”

He turned his head, and right at that moment, he spotted none other than Nico Rosberg walking in his direction with the full Sky Sports camera crew.
“Shit,” Lewis muttered, yanking his cap low over his face, grabbing his scooter, and making a beeline for the farthest corner of the paddock.

Thank God for quick reflexes.

———

In the afternoon, the mood in the paddock was electric as qualifying kicked off.
The McLarens, Ferraris, and Max’s Red Bull kept exchanging the fastest times like they were trading Pokémon cards.

By the time Q3 came around, it was clear it was going to be a close call for pole position.

The McLarens had already set their times, with Lando on provisional pole, locking in an all-papaya front row for the moment.
Max and Charles were still out. They finished their out-laps one after the other.

Then it was game on.

Martin Brundle (onboard with Verstappen) :
“Here we go — Max Verstappen, through the middle sector now, hold your breath through the kerb. Absolutely stunning! Oh, that’s a tiny correction mid-corner, but he’s dragging this car way beyond its comfort zone.”
“Now into the stadium section… orange army absolutely on their feet! Flat through the last corner… and listen to the roar: it’s provisional pole for Max Verstappen!”

Crofty :
“What a lap! What a lap! But it’s not over yet… Leclerc is still out there, two tenths up in sector two!”

Brundle :
“Right to the wire! Leclerc coming through the final corner now… looks clean…”

Crofty :
“Here comes Charles Leclerc… and it’s… it’s the same time as Verstappen! 1:10.567! They’ve set identical lap times!”

Brundle (laughing in disbelief) :
“Unbelievable! Same time to the thousandth of a second! Verstappen is going to take pole because he set the time first, but that was extraordinary from both drivers!”
“Verstappen–Leclerc front row at Zandvoort… and I tell you what: this Dutch crowd is going absolutely ballistic! That, ladies and gentlemen, is what Formula 1 qualifying is all about.”

The cars rolled into Parc Fermé.
Flares lit up the sky in a chaotic mess of orange. The entire circuit seemed to tremble under the thunderous chanting:
“ Dudududu Max Verstappen! Dudududu Max Verstappen !”

Max climbed out of his car with a look that was equal parts smug and stunned.
He pulled off his helmet, wiped his face with a towel, blond hair damp with sweat and flushed cheeks.

Behind him, Charles emerged from the Ferrari, still processing the chaos.
Somehow, even with sweat dripping down his face, he looked like he’d stepped straight out of a photoshoot.

They caught each other’s eye for a moment.

Charles smirked: “You couldn’t let me have just one, huh?”
“You’ll have to be faster than that, Charlie,” Max replied, tilting his head, completely unapologetic.

Charles laughed, but before the moment could go anywhere, their PR teams hurried them both toward the interview pen.

Lando, already at the back of the stage, caught a glimpse of the two of them.
They were vibing. Basking in glory.
And he was back in P3.

He was fuming.

———

The post-quali interview started. A cheeky Nico Rosberg stood in the middle of the small media area, the pole sitter right in front of him.

Lando didn’t listen to a word of what was being said, too busy muttering to himself.
“It just had to be him, didn’t it?” he groaned to no one in particular, earning an eye-roll from Charles, who was standing beside him waiting for his turn in front of the camera.

When Max closed his interview with something really original like “We’ll keep pushing”, Nico moved on, turning to Charles next.

Nico: “Charles, same time as Max to the thousandth of a second. That’s gotta sting, right?”

Charles shot him a look, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Yeah, it’s frustrating, sure. But honestly, Max is amazing. He did an insane lap. I mean, if I had to lose pole to someone today… I’m glad it was him.”

Lando threw his head back in frustration.
“If I had to lose pole to anyone, I’d pick Oscar,” he muttered bitterly.

“You are losing the championship plot there, mate,” Max said, before taking a long sip from his water bottle as his eyes drifted, predictably, toward Charles.

Finally, Lando’s turn came up, and he lined up for the interview.

Nico, ever the cheeky interviewer, stepped right in front of him with a knowing smirk.
“P3 today, Lando. You were looking solid for pole for a second there. What happened?”

Lando’s PR smile snapped into place, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was bouncing from foot to foot, adrenaline still coursing through him, mixed with a healthy dose of irritation.

He thought for a second, then answered:
“Yeah, look… not what we wanted today, but still a good result, right? The car’s been awesome all weekend, and Oscar and I will be starting on the second row. Could’ve been better, but we’ll fight tomorrow. No worries.”

Nico kept pressing: “You seem a bit deflated, though. Something on your mind?”

Lando forced out a laugh, his voice a touch too high.
“Nah, nah… just… would’ve been nice to take pole, you know? Or if not me, at least Oscar…”

Nico gave him an eyebrow raise. “You do remember you and Oscar are fighting for the championship, right?”

Lando turned as red as a Ferrari. “Yes, yes, of course. I just meant… for the team! It would’ve been nice for the team!”

Nico laughed and threw an arm around his shoulder. “Alright, I think that’s enough for you right now, kid.”
He smirked, turned around, and winked straight at the camera: “Looks like something simply lovely is in the air today.”

———

Back in the McLaren hospitality, Lando stared at his phone, furiously scrolling through Twitter.
The #Lestappen hashtag had just exploded again, with new fan edits and slow-motion videos of Max and Charles driving alongside on the track.

Lando’s frown deepened.
His phone buzzed with notification after notification, all for new pictures of Max and Charles standing side by side, doing literally nothing.

And yet, #Lestappen was everywhere.

That’s when the reality hit: Lando had lost the battle today.

Oscar plopped down next to him, holding up a can of soda like it was the most important thing in the world.
“It’s okay, mate. It’s not a tragedy.”

Lando looked at him like he’d grown another head, but Oscar continued:
“We’ve got the race tomorrow. Let them have their cute little thousandth of a second. We’ll have the top steps of the podium, and I promise you, we’ll get the fans too.”

Lando groaned, leaning back in his chair.
“I hate the thousandth of a second.”

Oscar laughed, nudging him.
“Yeah, well, you hate losing too. So… let’s go out there tomorrow and actually win this thing. Forget about today’s battle, we’re going to win the war.”

Lando chuckled softly.
“Deal?”
“Deal.”

Chapter Text

Race day at Zandvoort looked quite sunny and obnoxiously orange.

Fans had packed the venue since sunrise and the air was already thick with smoke flares and EDM remixes of the Dutch anthem.
An alarming number of #Lestappen signs had shown up on the grandstands, ranging from innocent (Max and Charles high-fiving) to unhinged (badly Photoshopped wedding invitations).

Sky Sports had even dedicated an entire pre-race segment to “The Lion and The Phoenix,” and at this point, Lando was convinced the entire world had gone mad.

In the McLaren hospitality, Lando was pacing like a man possessed. “This is just unfair,” he snapped, gesturing at the TV screen where Max and Charles were once again being shown side by side, wearing matching “inchident” bracelets.

Oscar, completely unbothered, sipped his iced coffee. “You’re still mad about the playlist not trending?”

“No, I’m mad because we got beat by two men who wink at each other like malfunctioning robots and somehow that’s peak romance!”

Oscar tilted his head. “We could stage a public romantic gesture. Maybe you could serenade me?”

“Oh god, no. Have you heard me sing live?” Lando looked genuinely traumatized.
“Besides, this isn’t about a single fake gesture. It’s about strategy. We have the better car, the better playlist. We baked muffins this morning, for fuck’s sake!”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Lando leaned in, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Okay. We need a new plan… need to hit them where it hurts.”

Oscar blinked. “Emotionally?”

“No,” Lando said, far too quickly. “Aesthetically.”

———

By noon, the drivers had started to gather for the parade.
Apparently, everyone had gotten the PR team memo, because soon they began dividing into familiar pairings: Lestappen, Bearnelli, Galex, Yukierre… even the controversial duos Gabico and Strollonso.

“They got to you too, old man, eh?” asked a baffled Nico Hülkenberg.

“Don’t ask,” Fernando Alonso muttered. “Lawrence said if I didn’t play along, he’d keep Newey away from my car next year.”

Lewis, half-hidden in a corner, snorted loudly.

“Hey cabrón, I wouldn’t laugh if I were you, I heard Britney’s doing the interviews on the truck today.”

Fernando smirked. Lewis tripped on the carpet.

Meanwhile, chatter about “The Bet” was everywhere.

“I just wish we could’ve been included in the game,” George was telling an entirely uninterested Kimi Antonelli. “I genuinely think Galex could have pulled the numbers if we really committed. I mean, I checked my spreadsheet…”

“Oh, please,” Carlos interrupted with a grin. “As if you could beat those guys with PowerPoint slides, nerdy grey cardigans and British bias.”

“You’re one to talk,” George snapped. “You’ve been in so many ships you’re basically a rental. Charlos, Carbono, Carlando, Versainz… you’ve tried every teammate and still never made main pairing.”

“Ehi, ehi, ehi, calm down you two,” Alex cut in, half-joking. “I can’t choose between ship pairings right now. We’ve got a race in a few hours!”

“Pfft,” Ollie scoffed from Kimi’s side. “Like any of you can beat Lestappen anyway.”

“Piss off, Bearnelli,” said Isack, suddenly appearing. “Everyone knows you’re just Lestappen knock-offs.”

“Oh my god! I can see that!” Alex burst out laughing. “Mini wanna-be Max Verstappen!” he said, pointing at Kimi. “And aspiring new Charles Leclerc!” he added, motioning to Ollie. “How have I never seen this before?”

“Please,” Max said, appearing behind the couple of young drivers, with Charles practically joined at the hip. “It’s basic knowledge that they’re our fictional sons.”

“Speaking of our fictional sons…” Charles added, scanning the room. “Where is Oscar? Him and Lando are going to be late for the Parade.”

Right on cue, the door swung open.

The entire grid exploded into cheers and whistles.

Lando and Oscar had entered wearing matching papaya crop tops complete with glittery seams, tiny orange hearts stitched on the back and just enough shimmer to temporarily blind a camera lens.

Charles audibly choked on his water.

“What are they doing?” Max muttered as they lined up to board the parade truck.

“I think… they’re trying to steal our fans?” Charles replied, squinting at the sparkle, “Or impair our vision to win the race. Possibly both.”

Before Max could respond, Lando strutted over, Oscar trailing with the calm menace of someone who definitely knew how to set a PR trap.

“Lovely day for a race, boys,” Lando chirped. “Ready to get your matching thousandth of a second handed back to you?”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Are you wearing body glitter?”

Lando didn’t blink. “I had Daniel send it overnight. He’s still not over you betraying Maxiel.”

Max buried his face in his hands. “He’s never going to let that go, is he?”

“Never!” Lando grinned. “Looks like Lestappen has a real enemy now.”

Charles turned to Max. “Should I be worried?”

“Nah,” Max said, deadpan. “Only if you see Daniel approaching with a glitter gun.”

Chapter Text

The cars were already lined up on the grid. Mechanics swarmed like bees around each one with final checks and last-minute tweaks.

The McLaren drivers were standing nearby, hovering beside their cars as the crew added a final touch: freshly printed stickers reading “I 🧡 Landoscar” slapped boldly onto the sidepods.

Charles, walking past with his helmet tucked under one arm, slowed to a halt. “Really?”

Oscar shrugged, “It improves downforce.”

Charles blinked. “Did you two even sleep last night?”

“No time,” Lando said brightly. “Too busy strategizing.”

“And baking muffins,” Oscar added with a straight face.

Charles sighed. “You’re not okay.”

Lando shot him finger guns. “See you at Turn 1, loverboy.”

——--

Lights went out and away they went.

The race start was a chaotic mess: Lando launched like a man possessed, diving between Max and Charles with the kind of reckless confidence that only comes from sleep deprivation and delusional optimism. Oscar slipped through behind him with surgical precision.

By Lap 10, it was a McLaren 1–2.
Papaya dominance and two enraged Ferrari and Red Bull drivers behind them.

Max was livid.

“Lando has his engineer playing Taylor Swift on the radio,” GP reported calmly over the comms.

“Mid-race? That can’t possibly be legal,” Max practically screamed.

“Focus, Max.”

“I am focused. Focused on the fact that Oscar just winked at me going into Turn 3.”

GP didn’t miss a beat. “You wink at Charles all the time.”

Silence.

“That’s different,” Max mumbled.

Further back, Charles was weirdly calm, eyes narrowed, tracking the cars’ pace, adjusting his strategy with cold precision.

“Okay Charles,” his engineer said. “You’re within DRS. You can push.”

“I know, just leave me alone” Charles replied.

And then he sailed past Max into P3 like it was nothing. He waved at Max as he overtook.

Max nearly swerved off the track.

By Lap 38, it was an all-out war for the win.

Lando and Oscar defended like their lives depended on it, while Max and Charles kept attacking like it was personal . Because it was.

On the pit wall, Zak Brown was sweating through his shirt, while the newly appointed Red Bull TP Laurent Mekies clutched a bull shaped stress ball.
Fred Vasseur had cracked open an ice cream bucket.

With twenty laps to go, chaos peaked.

Lestappen coordinated an offensive maneuver that looked disturbingly telepathic: Charles feinted down the inside of Oscar at Turn 7, forcing a defensive line.
Max capitalized instantly, slingshotting past Lando with DRS into Turn 8. At the same time Charles slipped into P3.

The McLaren garage collectively groaned, the Verstappen Grandstand roared with a crazy amount of screams and painted the sky with orange smoke flares.
Fred Vasseur smirked through his gelato spoon.

It all came down to the final lap.

Max and Lando, side by side out of the final corner, throttle pinned, wheels nearly touching.

The photo finish was too close to call. Everyone held their breath.

It went to the thousandths. Again.

Final Race Classification:

1 — Max Verstappen
2 — Lando Norris
3 — Charles Leclerc

Lando collapsed onto his steering wheel: “Another thousandth? Really?” he shouted on the radio. “I’m gonna lose my mind!”

In Parc Fermé, Max looked like a man who had just survived and won a small war. Charles clapped him on the back. “Nice job,” he said. “Next time I’ll leave you behind.”

Max grinned. “You would miss seeing me on top too much.”

Charles giggled. A cameraman tripped over himself.

Oscar wandered up to Lando, handing him his water bottle.
“Well, we lost,” he said, shrugging. “But at least we sparkled .”

Chapter Text

The Dutch anthem echoed across the grandstands, engulfed by flares, cheers, and the shimmering chaos of basically an entire country losing its mind.

Max Verstappen stood tall at the center of the podium, arms behind his back, sunbeams catching his face like he was some kind of Nordic god descended from Valhalla to grace mere mortals.
A wide grin stretched across his face.

Lando, standing on the second step to his right, looked like he wanted to eat drywall.

Charles stood in P3 with a perfectly polite smile, but his eyes already gleamed with pure mischief.

Then came the champagne.

It was like watching some kind of weirdly coordinated mating ritual: Max turned without warning and blasted Charles directly in the face. The monegasque retaliated, flinging his bottle open and spraying Max’s all over his back.

They chased each other across the podium, laughing maniacally like kids playing with water guns.
Max ducked behind Lando for cover, then soaked him, too, just for fun.

“You two done?” Lando snapped, soaked and blinking through bubbles.
“Nope,” Charles said sweetly, pouring the rest of his bottle onto Max’s head.

Oscar stood below them, watching the celebration with the flat expression of someone internally screaming. “So this is what we were up against.”

Victoria Verstappen, leaning casually against the fence, shrugged. “Yep. They’ve been doing whatever this is since they were fourteen.” She said nonchalantly. “Actually, this is giving me flashbacks to Austria 2022.”

Oscar nodded solemnly. “Peak Lestappen.”

Max and Charles were now both giggling uncontrollably: Charles with foam in his hair, Max looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Lando stood between them, blinking through the chaos like a man who regretted every life choice.

———

A few hours later, after media duties and debriefs, the drivers reunited at a nearby beachside restaurant.

The sun, possibly in on the theme, was setting in streaks of red, orange, and blue.

The drivers drifted into their usual chaotic clusters: Carlos and Fernando were yelling in Spanish in a corner, Yuki and Pierre were locked in a heated debate about the best pizza in Milan, Lewis was giving an half-asleep Isack an impassioned lecture about carbon offsets and sustainability in fashion.

The long table was cluttered with empty wine bottles and half-finished plates of pasta.

George had apparently taken it upon himself to organize the “Official Result Reveal of The Bet” , having spent most of his free time secretly compiling fanfiction stats from AO3, Tumblr, TikTok, and something he ominously referred to as “the dark fandom web.”

Climbing onto a stool, clipboard in hand, he cleared his throat. “Alright, everyone! Shut up, sit down, or at least stop drinking for five minutes. The results of The Bet are in.”

Alex hollered, Ollie tripped over a chair. Lando reached for Oscar’s hand.

George raised his voice: “I had a PowerPoint presentation ready, but someone forgot to bring the projector.” He glared at Alex, who mimed an innocent “Sorry.”

“However,” George continued, “we move forward. After careful analysis of ship tags, engagement stats, edit virality and general fan hysteria, I declare that the winner of this Grand Prix’s Ship War is... LESTAPPEN!”

The table erupted: cheers, groans, a dramatic “OF COURSE” from Bearnelli.
Max and Charles clinked their glasses in perfectly synchronized smugness.

“Outrageous,” Lando muttered, slumping in his seat. “We had glitter and crop tops .”

George pressed on. “That said, Landoscar is officially the highest-trending ship debut of the season. You’re a strong number two—”

“Story of my life,” Lando sighed into his wine.

“—and if you keep this up,” George added, “you might surpass Lestappen by the end of the season.”

Oscar gave Lando a hopeful nudge. “Not bad for a couple of muppets.”

Lando shrugged. “At least we sparkled with dignity.”

“We still have the rest of the season,” Oscar said with mock gravity, reaching for his teammate’s knee under the table.

Lando smirked. “Guess we’ll just have to win the other championship.”

Oscar’s grin lingered a little too long before he looked away.

———

By midnight, the party had moved to a waterfront club where Martin Garrix was performing and Max had reserved the entire VIP section.

Inside, the club was packed and the music deafening. No press, no photographers, not even social media allowed.
Just good vibes, strong drinks and several people in deeply questionable outfits.

Daniel Ricciardo had actually flown in from Monaco, armed with a glitter gun and a vendetta.
He ambushed Max at the bar, firing gold sparkles into his hair. “ CHEATER! ” he yelled, grinning like a man unhinged.
“Daniel!” Charles beamed. “We’ve missed you!”
“Don’t talk to me, you homewrecker! YOU STOLE MY FICTIONAL BOYFRIEND!” Daniel shouted, aiming the glitter gun at the monegasque.

Several gin tonics later, the entire grid had descended onto the dance floor.
Within thirty minutes, Pierre had started a dance-off with Yuki, Alex had somehow ended up behind the DJ booth, Ollie and Kimi were filming everything for posterity.

At a certain point, Daniel had disappeared behind the bar and then reappeared with three bottles of something probably illegal in most countries.

Soon after, Max and Charles showed up on the dance floor, like a vision designed to haunt Lando’s dreams forever.

They walked right in the middle of the floor like they owned it, Max in a white fitted shirt, Charles in something with far too many undone buttons.
Then, they started dancing like they were in some kind of French music video: close, closer, barely touching, and then very much touching.

Max plastered to Charles’ back, Charles’s fingers in Max’s hair. A smirk here, a breath there, definitely too much hips swaying.

Carlos, sipping from a glowing cocktail near the bar, whistled. “If anyone had a camera right now, Lestappen would hit number one on AO3 by sunrise.”

“There are no cameras,” Lewis said. “We checked.”

“Good,” muttered George. “If this went public, Tumblr would never recover.”

Max twirled Charles under his arm and pulled him back by the wrist. Charles spun, giggled, and landed against Max’s chest, their faces just inches apart.

Lando just stared. Somewhere in the room, a fan probably fainted.

Max pulled Charles even closer, whispering something low against his ear that made the other man threw his head back in a fit of laughter.

Oscar turned to Lando slowly.

“How did we ever think we could win against that?”

Lando didn’t answer.

He just finished his drink, set the glass down, and whispered:

“We never stood a chance.”