Work Text:
Oscar Piastri sat in a high-backed chair in McLaren's glossy PR office, his jaw set in a grim line. Across from him, Carlos Sainz leaned back in his chair, spinning a pen between his fingers with the kind of casual arrogance that made Oscar want to scream.
"This is a joke," Oscar said flatly, his Australian accent sharpening the edges of his words.
"It’s not," interjected his manager, who looked about as uncomfortable as Oscar felt. "It’s... a strategic move."
Carlos snorted, the pen falling from his hand onto the table with a soft clink. "Strategic. That’s a fancy word for ridiculous." He turned to Oscar, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "And they think we’re the problem."
Oscar refused to rise to the bait. He crossed his arms and fixed his gaze on the polished table, willing this entire conversation to disappear. It didn’t.
"We’re not saying you’re a problem," Carlos’s PR agent cut in smoothly, ignoring the tension in the room. "But both of you are under immense media scrutiny. Carlos, your recent breakup—"
"Don’t," Carlos interrupted sharply. His easy demeanor evaporated, replaced by something colder.
The agent cleared their throat awkwardly. "Right. And Oscar, you’re a rising star, but your public image needs softening. The fans see you as... too reserved. Distant."
Oscar stiffened. "I’m here to race, not to be their best friend."
"And yet," Carlos drawled, leaning forward, "here we are."
Oscar shot him a glare, but Carlos only smirked, clearly amused by the rookie’s frustration.
"The plan is simple," the PR agent continued, sensing the need to steer the conversation back on track. "We’ll stage a relationship. Public outings, candid photos, joint interviews. Fans love a good romance story, and the dynamic between you two is perfect—rookie meets seasoned driver, opposites attract, that sort of thing."
Oscar wanted to laugh. "You’ve got to be kidding me."
Carlos raised an eyebrow. "Oh, no, mate. This circus doesn’t joke."
Oscar turned to his manager. "I’m not doing this."
"You don’t have a choice," his manager said gently. "It’s already been cleared with McLaren and Ferrari. This is happening."
Oscar slumped back in his chair, a heavy sigh escaping him. Across the table, Carlos was watching him with an inscrutable expression. For a moment, neither of them said anything.
Finally, Carlos broke the silence. "Fine. But if we’re doing this, I have one condition."
The room stilled. All eyes turned to Carlos.
He leaned forward, his grin returning, this time sharper. "He has to smile at least once. You know, for the cameras."
Oscar’s glare could’ve melted steel.
Scene 2: The First Meeting
The following week, they were thrown into their first "date" like unwilling actors in a poorly written play. The PR team had chosen a trendy café in Monaco, ensuring the outdoor seating area was both picturesque and easily accessible to paparazzi.
Oscar arrived first, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. He scanned the café, already regretting his life choices.
"Relax," a voice drawled behind him.
He turned to find Carlos approaching, dressed in a casual button-down shirt that looked effortlessly expensive. The Spaniard’s smile was as disarming as ever, but there was a flicker of tension in his eyes.
"Don’t tell me to relax," Oscar muttered, sitting down.
Carlos joined him, ordering an espresso without looking at the menu. He glanced at Oscar. "This isn’t so bad. Free coffee, some staged photos, and we get to leave in an hour. Easy."
Oscar scowled. "You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?"
Carlos shrugged, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I enjoy watching you squirm. It’s endearing."
Before Oscar could retort, the first flash went off. He stiffened instinctively, and Carlos leaned closer, his expression softening just enough to look convincing. "Smile, Piastri," he murmured. "You’re supposed to be in love with me, remember?"
Oscar forced a smile through gritted teeth. "I hate you."
Carlos chuckled, his voice low enough that only Oscar could hear. "Keep telling yourself that."
Scene 3: The Public Performance
The café was bustling with energy, filled with laughter and clinking cutlery, but Oscar only felt the oppressive weight of the cameras. He could see the paparazzi lingering just out of earshot, their lenses trained on him and Carlos. Every time he moved, he was hyper-aware of the subtle choreography required to maintain the illusion.
Carlos, on the other hand, looked completely at ease, lounging in his chair as if he were having coffee with an old friend. He gestured animatedly as he spoke, a showman through and through, drawing attention to himself without even trying.
"Lean in a little," Carlos murmured under his breath, not breaking his cheerful expression. "We’re supposed to look close, not like you’re plotting my demise."
Oscar clenched his jaw. "This is ridiculous."
Carlos’s grin widened. "And yet, here we are. Come on, mate. Pretend you’re enjoying yourself. Think of it as a race—fake it till you make it."
Reluctantly, Oscar leaned forward, propping his elbow on the table. He tried to mirror Carlos’s ease, but it felt like he was putting on a suit two sizes too small. "I don’t get how you’re so good at this," he muttered.
"Years of practice," Carlos said, his voice low but playful. "Charm comes naturally to me, unlike some people."
Oscar glared at him, but before he could retort, Carlos’s hand landed lightly on his forearm. The gesture startled him—not because it was unexpected, but because of how casual and natural it felt. Carlos tilted his head, his eyes glinting with mischief.
"Smile for the cameras," he said, his tone teasing but firm.
Oscar forced a stiff smile, feeling utterly ridiculous. But as the flashes went off in rapid succession, Carlos leaned back and laughed—a genuine, carefree sound that caught Oscar off guard.
"See? Was that so hard?" Carlos said, his grin contagious.
Oscar’s lips twitched despite himself. "You’re insufferable."
"And you’re terrible at faking chemistry," Carlos shot back. "Good thing I’m carrying this performance."
Scene 4: Behind Closed Doors
Later that evening, back in the privacy of their respective hotel rooms, Oscar flopped onto his bed, exhaustion creeping into his bones. He stared at the ceiling, replaying the day’s events in his mind. The staged outing had gone viral within hours, the photos splashed across social media. Fans were ecstatic, dissecting every touch, every glance, every forced smile.
He groaned, reaching for his phone. A message from his manager blinked on the screen:
Great job today! The response has been overwhelmingly positive. Keep it up!
Oscar tossed the phone aside. Positive for whom? He’d spent the entire day feeling like a puppet, his every move scrutinized and analyzed. And Carlos... Carlos had made it look so easy, like he wasn’t suffocating under the weight of it all.
His phone buzzed again. This time, it was from Carlos.
Carlos: Stop overthinking. You survived. Congrats.
Oscar: Barely.
Carlos: Welcome to the big leagues, rookie.
Oscar stared at the screen, unsure how to respond. Finally, he typed back:
Oscar: I still hate you, you know.
Carlos: Sure you do. Sweet dreams. 😘
Oscar rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the faint smile tugging at his lips.
Scene 5: Cracks in the Facade
Over the next few weeks, the staged relationship became a well-oiled machine. Joint interviews, orchestrated "candid" moments, and coordinated social media posts kept the fans hooked. But behind the scenes, tensions were brewing.
One evening, during a staged "date" at a charity gala, Oscar finally snapped. The constant pressure to play a role, combined with Carlos’s relentless teasing, pushed him over the edge.
"Do you ever take anything seriously?" Oscar hissed, pulling Carlos aside during a quiet moment. "This might be a game to you, but I’m sick of pretending."
Carlos’s easy smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of irritation. "You think this is fun for me? Playing pretend for the cameras, letting everyone dissect my life like it’s a soap opera?"
"Well, you’re damn good at it," Oscar shot back. "Maybe because you’ve been doing it your whole career."
Carlos’s jaw tightened. "Careful, Piastri. You don’t know a thing about me."
"Then maybe you should stop acting like you know everything about me," Oscar retorted.
The air between them crackled with tension. For a moment, neither spoke. Then, Carlos sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"Look," he said, his tone softer now. "I get it. This whole thing sucks. But we’re in it together, whether we like it or not. So maybe stop treating me like the enemy."
Oscar hesitated, guilt creeping in around the edges of his frustration. "Fine," he muttered. "But stop calling me rookie."
Carlos smirked. "Not a chance."
Scene 6: A Forced Getaway
The PR team’s next big idea was as ambitious as it was intrusive: a weekend getaway. Carlos and Oscar were sent to the French Riviera, complete with a luxurious villa and a carefully planned itinerary of romantic activities—long walks on the beach, cozy dinners, and staged "candid" moments for the paparazzi.
From the moment they arrived, Oscar’s irritation was palpable. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, standing stiffly on the terrace overlooking the sparkling Mediterranean. "It’s like we’re contestants on a dating show."
Carlos, lounging on a sunbed with a glass of wine, smirked. "Relax, mate. At least they picked a nice place. Could’ve been worse—we could’ve ended up in some freezing cabin in the Alps."
Oscar shot him a glare. "I’d take the Alps over this any day."
Carlos chuckled, swirling his wine. "You’re so dramatic. It’s just a weekend. Smile for the cameras, hold my hand a few times, and we’re out of here."
As if on cue, the team’s photographer called them over for a photo shoot by the infinity pool. Carlos sauntered over easily, slipping his arm around Oscar’s shoulders with practiced ease.
Oscar stiffened but forced himself to relax, leaning into the touch just enough to sell the moment. The photographer clicked away, cooing about their "natural chemistry." Carlos leaned closer, his voice low and teasing. "Careful, Piastri. You almost look like you’re enjoying yourself."
Oscar elbowed him lightly in the ribs, earning a laugh that sounded genuine. Despite himself, he found the corners of his mouth twitching upward.
Scene 7: Cracks in the Ice
That night, after the cameras were packed away and the staff had left them alone, they sat on the villa’s terrace, nursing drinks under the stars. For once, the silence between them wasn’t heavy with tension.
Carlos broke it first. "You know, you surprise me sometimes."
Oscar glanced at him, startled. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
Carlos shrugged, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "When this started, I thought you’d be impossible to deal with. Too serious, too stiff. But you’ve got a sense of humor buried under all that stoicism."
Oscar rolled his eyes. "Don’t let it go to your head."
Carlos chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "It’s already there."
They fell silent again, but this time it felt companionable. Oscar found himself watching Carlos, noticing things he hadn’t before—the way his smile lingered even when he wasn’t talking, the way he fiddled with his watch when he was deep in thought.
"Why do you do it?" Oscar asked suddenly.
Carlos looked at him, his brow furrowing. "Do what?"
"All of this." Oscar gestured vaguely. "The charm, the constant smiling, the... I don’t know, performance."
Carlos’s expression darkened slightly. He leaned back, resting his elbows on the chair. "Because it’s easier than letting people see the cracks. They don’t want real—they want a version of you that’s easy to love."
Oscar frowned. "That sounds exhausting."
"It is," Carlos admitted, his voice quieter now. "But it’s the price you pay in this business. People don’t root for drivers. They root for stories."
Oscar didn’t know how to respond. For the first time, he saw Carlos not as the cocky veteran with a thousand-watt smile but as someone carrying a weight he couldn’t put down.
Scene 8: An Unplanned Moment
The next day, they were walking along the beach, the photographer trailing a discreet distance behind. Carlos, ever the professional, was talking animatedly, gesturing with his hands as if the conversation was fascinating. Oscar, on the other hand, was struggling to keep up the façade.
They reached a rocky outcrop, and the photographer signaled for a break. Carlos sat down on the sand, kicking off his shoes. "Finally," he said with a grin. "Thought they’d never stop clicking."
Oscar hesitated, then joined him. The sun was beginning to set, casting the water in shades of gold and pink. For a moment, it was easy to forget why they were there.
"You know," Carlos said, his tone uncharacteristically thoughtful, "this is the longest I’ve gone without thinking about racing."
Oscar glanced at him. "Really?"
Carlos nodded. "Usually, it’s always in the back of my mind. The next race, the next lap, the next fight. But here..." He trailed off, his gaze on the horizon. "It’s different."
Oscar didn’t know what to say. Instead, he leaned back on his hands, letting the quiet stretch between them.
Without thinking, Carlos reached out and brushed a stray curl out of Oscar’s face. The gesture was so unexpected, so intimate, that Oscar froze.
Carlos seemed to realize what he’d done and pulled his hand back quickly, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "Sorry. Habit."
Oscar’s heart was racing, and he didn’t know why. He cleared his throat, looking away. "It’s fine."
But the moment lingered, hanging between them like a question neither of them was ready to answer.
Scene 9: The Turning Point
By the final evening of their "getaway," something had undeniably shifted. The staged photos, the orchestrated moments, the shared silences—they had all chipped away at the walls they’d built around themselves.
Dinner was another PR arrangement: a candlelit table for two on the terrace, complete with soft music and a perfectly styled meal. Oscar poked at his plate, aware of the cameras stationed in the shadows but too tired to care.
Carlos, ever the showman, raised his glass in a mock toast. "To us," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "The world’s favorite fake couple."
Oscar rolled his eyes but clinked glasses with him anyway. "Can’t wait for this to be over."
Carlos leaned back in his chair, studying him. "You say that, but you’re not as miserable as you pretend to be."
Oscar bristled. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Carlos said, a teasing smile playing on his lips, "you’re warming up to me, Piastri. Admit it."
Oscar opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat. Because, annoyingly, Carlos wasn’t entirely wrong. Somewhere between the staged outings and shared conversations, he’d started to see the man behind the façade—the one who hid his cracks with charm but wasn’t as invincible as he pretended to be.
Instead of answering, Oscar deflected. "Don’t let it go to your head."
Carlos smirked. "Too late."
The rest of the dinner passed in relative peace, their banter light and easy. But when the cameras finally packed up and left, leaving them alone under the stars, the mood shifted.
Carlos leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Can I ask you something?"
Oscar hesitated. "Depends on the question."
Carlos grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Why did you agree to this? The fake relationship, I mean."
Oscar shrugged, tracing the edge of his glass with his finger. "Didn’t really have a choice. PR pressure, team politics... you know how it is."
"But you could’ve pushed back harder," Carlos said, his voice quiet. "You don’t strike me as someone who does anything he doesn’t want to."
Oscar looked up, meeting Carlos’s gaze. There was something disarming about the way Carlos looked at him—like he genuinely wanted to understand. For once, it wasn’t a performance.
"I guess..." Oscar started, then sighed. "I thought it might be easier. To let them paint the picture they want instead of fighting it. But now..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
"Now what?" Carlos prompted gently.
"Now it feels like I’ve lost control of my own story," Oscar admitted. The words felt heavier than he expected, but also freeing.
Carlos was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You haven’t lost it. You’re just letting someone else write the headlines. But you can change that."
Oscar stared at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. For once, Carlos wasn’t teasing or smug. He was just... Carlos.
And it was the first time Oscar didn’t hate being in his company.
Scene 10: The Slip-Up
The morning after their return from the getaway, chaos erupted. During a casual interview at the paddock, Carlos let something slip that wasn’t part of the carefully crafted narrative.
"I mean, yeah, the relationship didn’t exactly start naturally," Carlos said with a laugh, responding to a question about how they met. "It was... what’s the word? Coordinated."
Oscar, sitting beside him, froze. His heart sank as the interviewer’s eyes lit up, sensing a potential story. "Coordinated? Could you elaborate?"
Carlos hesitated, realizing his mistake. "Uh, well, you know, our teams—"
"We met through work," Oscar cut in quickly, his voice sharper than intended. "And we’ve gotten closer since then. That’s all."
The damage, however, was already done. Within hours, headlines were flying: "Carlos Sainz Hints at Fake Relationship with Oscar Piastri?" Social media exploded with speculation. Fans dissected the interview, debating whether their romance was real or just a PR stunt.
Oscar felt the weight of it all bearing down on him as he paced his hotel room. His phone buzzed incessantly with messages from his manager, his PR team, and even his family.
But it was Carlos’s name on the screen that made him pause.
Carlos: I screwed up. I’m sorry.
Oscar: No kidding.
Carlos: Let me fix it. I’ll handle the press.
Oscar: Don’t bother. It’s done.
Oscar tossed the phone onto the bed, frustration simmering beneath his skin. But the truth was, he wasn’t just angry at Carlos—he was angry at himself. For letting this whole charade spiral out of control. For letting Carlos get under his skin in ways he hadn’t expected.
Scene 11: A Moment of Truth
Carlos showed up at his hotel room later that night, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself. "Can I come in?"
Oscar hesitated, then stepped aside to let him in. Carlos didn’t sit, instead pacing the small room like a caged animal.
"I’m sorry," he said again, running a hand through his hair. "I didn’t mean to mess things up. I wasn’t thinking."
Oscar crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "No, you weren’t."
Carlos stopped pacing, turning to face him. "But you’re angry about more than just the interview, aren’t you?"
Oscar tensed. "What are you talking about?"
"You’re angry because this isn’t just a PR stunt anymore," Carlos said, his voice quiet but steady. "At least not for me."
The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken for far too long. Oscar stared at him, his pulse hammering in his ears.
"What are you saying?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Carlos took a step closer, his expression raw and open in a way Oscar had never seen before. "I’m saying that somewhere along the way, I stopped pretending. And I think you did too."
Oscar’s heart raced, a thousand emotions warring inside him. He wanted to argue, to deny it, but the truth was staring him in the face. He didn’t hate Carlos—not anymore. And that terrified him.
Scene 12: Confessions in the Quiet
Oscar stood frozen, Carlos’s words hanging in the air like a challenge. The room felt smaller somehow, the silence stretching taut between them. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He didn’t know how to answer—he didn’t even know what he felt.
Carlos watched him, his usually confident demeanor stripped away. For once, there was no teasing grin, no bravado. Just quiet honesty. "You don’t have to say anything," he said finally, his voice softer now. "But don’t act like I’m the only one who feels it."
Oscar exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "This... this was never supposed to happen."
"I know," Carlos said, his gaze steady. "But it did."
Oscar shook his head, pacing the room. "You don’t get it. This whole thing—it’s not real. None of it is. It’s just a story they’re selling, and we’re playing our parts."
"Then why does it feel real?" Carlos asked, stepping closer. "Why does it feel like something more?"
Oscar turned to him, his heart pounding. "Because you’re too damn good at this, Carlos. The charm, the smiles, the way you make people feel like they matter. It’s... it’s infuriating. I don’t know what’s real with you."
Carlos’s expression softened. "This," he said quietly, gesturing between them. "This is real. I might’ve been acting in front of the cameras, but not with you. Not when it’s just us."
Oscar stared at him, his defenses cracking under the weight of Carlos’s words. He wanted to believe him—desperately—but years of guarding himself made it hard to let the walls down.
Finally, he sighed, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "This is a mess."
Carlos sat beside him, careful not to get too close. "Yeah," he said with a small smile. "But maybe it doesn’t have to be."
Oscar looked at him, searching his face for any trace of insincerity. He didn’t find any. And for the first time, he allowed himself to wonder if maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to keep fighting this.
Scene 13: A New Dynamic
The next day, things felt different. Subtly, but undeniably. They still bickered, still traded sharp remarks during interviews and photoshoots, but there was a new undercurrent to their interactions. Something unspoken but impossible to ignore.
During a joint press conference, a reporter asked about the viral "coordinated" comment. Carlos handled it with his usual charm, spinning the narrative back in their favor with a disarming grin. "What can I say? Oscar and I work well together—on and off the track."
Oscar played along, giving a small, almost shy smile that set the internet alight. But beneath the polished surface, his mind was racing. Every glance, every brush of their hands, felt charged in a way it hadn’t before. Or maybe it always had, and he was only noticing now.
Afterward, as they walked back to the paddock, Oscar nudged Carlos lightly. "Nice save."
Carlos glanced at him, his smile soft. "I meant it, you know. We do work well together."
Oscar didn’t respond, but the faint blush creeping up his neck didn’t go unnoticed.
Scene 14: Breaking Point
It wasn’t all smooth sailing. The pressure of their situation, combined with their growing feelings, created cracks that couldn’t be ignored. One evening, during a PR event in London, those cracks finally burst open.
Carlos was in his element, charming the crowd with effortless ease. Oscar, however, felt like he was suffocating. The constant scrutiny, the endless pretending—it was too much.
After the event, he stormed out, leaving Carlos to field questions about his abrupt departure. Carlos found him outside, pacing the sidewalk.
"Want to tell me what that was about?" Carlos asked, his tone sharp.
Oscar whirled around, his frustration spilling over. "I can’t do this anymore, Carlos! The cameras, the lies, pretending like everything’s fine—it’s exhausting."
Carlos frowned, stepping closer. "I know it’s hard, but—"
"No, you don’t," Oscar snapped. "You thrive in this. You love being the center of attention, playing the perfect partner. But I can’t keep up. I’m not you."
Carlos’s expression softened, and he reached out, resting a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. "You’re right. I do thrive in it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t get tired too."
Oscar looked at him, his anger fading into something closer to resignation. "Then why do you keep doing it?"
Carlos hesitated, then said, "Because you’re worth it."
The words hit Oscar like a punch to the gut. He searched Carlos’s face, trying to find some sign of insincerity, but there was none. Just quiet, unflinching truth.
Oscar swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Carlos, I..."
Carlos stepped back, giving him space. "You don’t have to say anything. Just... think about it."
And with that, he walked away, leaving Oscar standing alone under the dim streetlights.
Scene 15: Choosing Each Other
The turning point came a week later, during a race weekend. Oscar had spent days replaying their conversation, turning Carlos’s words over and over in his mind. The truth was, he wasn’t sure what scared him more—Carlos’s feelings, or the fact that he might feel the same.
After qualifying, Oscar found Carlos sitting alone in the McLaren motorhome, staring out at the track. He hesitated for a moment, then sat down beside him.
"You’re right," Oscar said quietly.
Carlos looked at him, surprised. "About what?"
"About us," Oscar said, his voice steadier than he expected. "About this being more than just a PR stunt."
Carlos’s expression softened, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Took you long enough to admit it."
Oscar huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "You’re insufferable."
"And you like me anyway," Carlos said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin.
Oscar rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. Because, for the first time, he didn’t want to.