Chapter Text
Light presses in first—thin, merciless streaks that slip between the gaps of heavy curtains and settle across his eyelids like burning ribbons. Beneath it, a low hum — the distant pulse of Monaco outside, dulled by thick glass windows, vibrating faintly against the bones of the building. His head aches in a slow, tidal way, each throb cresting behind his eyes before pulling back, leaving a fizzing aftertaste of too much champagne and not enough water.
He inhales. The air tastes like stale bubbles and perfume. A shirt—his, from last night—sticks uncomfortably to his skin, wrinkled and half-unbuttoned, collar hanging loose and limp. Somewhere close by, sheets rustle. The weight beside him shifts. That’s when he notices the arm.
Flung casually across the expanse of white sheets, the hand curled near his hip. Long fingers, a faint constellation of freckles scattered across the back of the knuckles. And then the slow rise and fall of a stranger’s chest beneath the duvet—barely visible, but unmistakable.
Oscar goes very still. The world tilts.
He drags his gaze upward. Curled against the pillow is a boy—no, a man, maybe his age—face half-buried, curls a mess of dark tangles haloed by morning light. His lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. He’s wearing one of Oscar’s championship T-shirts, stretched loose across his shoulders as if it’s always belonged to him. There’s something infuriatingly peaceful about it.
Oscar Jack Piastri is a lot of things: fast, pragmatic, usually composed. But right now, his brain is cotton-stuffed and half on fire, and it takes a long, sluggish moment for the obvious to click into place.
The ring catches his eye first. It sits snug on his finger, plain gold, glinting faintly in the fractured light. He stares at it as if it might blink back.
Then the nightstand comes into focus. Two champagne flutes tipped on their sides, a crumpled sheet of official-looking paper, and a pen lying diagonally across it. He reaches for the paper with a numb kind of curiosity, fingers trembling against the edges.
The words hit him like cold water.
This certifies that
Oscar Jack Piastri and Lando Norris
Joined their hands and their hearts together and were united before God in marriage
on the 9th day of december 2025
at Chapelle de la Paix St. Honoré
by Valentin Bernard
in the presence of these witnesses
Logan Sargeant and Max Fewtrell
His stomach drops so hard it rattles his ribs. The phone goes off next, buzzing from somewhere tangled in the sheets, the vibration sharp and insistent like a trapped wasp. He fishes it out, blinking through the blur.
37 missed calls. 58 unread messages.
Mark. Mum. Dad. McLaren PR. Charles.
The top headline notification stares back at him in bold font:
WORLD CHAMPION OSCAR PIASTRI MARRIES MONACO STRANGER IN 3AM CEREMONY
Subheadline: Piastri celebrates WDC win with spontaneous wedding—sources confirm legal documentation filed.
The room tilts again, more violently this time. He stumbles out of bed, feet slapping cold against marble, one hand gripping the edge of the nightstand as though he might fall straight through the floor. His reflection in the mirror looks wrecked—eyes bloodshot, hair a bird’s nest, collar askew. The gold ring on his finger gleams mockingly.
He scrolls until Mark’s name blinks up at him. His thumb hesitates for the briefest moment, then he presses. It connects before the second ring.
“Oscar?” The sound of Mark’s voice cuts clean through the haze — steady, low, threaded with concern. It pulls something tight in his chest. “Yeah,” Oscar croaks, wincing at how rough he sounds. A beat of silence, and then softer, “How are you, mate?”
It’s almost his undoing. He swallows, throat sandpaper-dry. “Hungover,” he admits. “Confused. Possibly… married.” There’s the faintest rustle on the other end, like Mark dragging a hand down his face. “Right. I saw the headlines,” he says eventually.
“Listen—I’m with PR now. We’re pulling everything together for a meeting at ten. You’re not the first driver to do something bloody stupid after winning a championship, but you’ve definitely raised the bar.” Oscar sinks down onto the edge of the bed, fingers pressing into his temples. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know you didn’t,” Mark cuts in, not unkindly. “I’m not angry, Oscar. Just… not exactly thrilled to wake up to this, you know? It’s a mess, but it’s fixable.” The steadiness in his voice is grounding, even as shame prickles hot under Oscar’s skin.
“I just—” he starts, then falters. “There’s a guy. In my bed. And a ring. And paperwork.”
“I gathered as much,” Mark replies dryly. “Alright. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to stay put. Don’t talk to the press, don’t step outside, don’t make any statements. We’ll get someone to get you and the mistery man within the hour, and we’ll handle it from there. Understood?”
“Yeah,” Oscar whispers.
“And Oscar?” Mark’s voice softens again, that fatherly note creeping back in. “We’ll sort this out. One step at a time. Just… try not to give me another heart attack before lunch, yeah?” Despite everything, a tiny, shaky laugh escapes him. “No promises.”
Mark sighs, the kind that says you’re a pain in my ass, kid, but you’re mine to look after. Then the line clicks dead.
Oscar lets the phone slide from his hand, the thud of it against the duvet sounding louder than it should in the quiet. He drops onto the edge of the mattress with a heavy exhale, elbows braced on his knees, fingers dragging through his hair until it sticks up in unruly tufts. The weight of everything presses down—not just the pounding behind his eyes but the crawling awareness that the world outside has already shifted, permanently and publicly.
He unlocks his phone again, thumbing into his inbox with the mechanical detachment of someone watching himself from a distance.
From: McLaren Communications
Subject: URGENT — Legal & PR Briefing
Oscar,
We’re assembling legal and PR for an emergency meeting this morning. Please bring any relevant documents with you (marriage certificate, personal ID, etc.).
A driver will collect you and your… spouse shortly before the meeting.
Do not leave the hotel. Do not make any statements. Do not engage with press or social media.
We’ll handle the rest.
The words are cool and clinical, crisis language dressed in polite fonts. He can almost hear the comms team typing it—half panic, half calculation.
Oscar drops the phone onto the bed and scrubs a hand over his face. He lets his gaze drift back to the other side of the mattress, to the stranger—Lando Norris, the certificate had declared—still tangled loosely in the sheets.
In the soft spill of morning light, he looks impossibly young. The curls are the first thing Oscar really notices—dark and messy, framing a face still relaxed in sleep. A faint tan stretches across his cheekbones, freckles scattered like careless brushstrokes. His lashes are ridiculous—long, curling, shadows flickering against skin with every slow breath. The borrowed championship T-shirt swallows him, slipping down one shoulder; beneath the duvet, a bare calf is hooked lazily around the sheet, foot twitching as though chasing some dream.
It’s absurd, Oscar thinks distantly. A stranger in his bed, wearing his shirt, ring on his finger, and half the internet already aware.
The city hums beyond the windows, camera shutters ticking faintly from below like the distant click of a metronome. He takes another breath—steadying, bracing. This is happening whether he’s ready or not.
Carefully, he leans forward and reaches out, fingers hovering for a moment above Lando’s shoulder before making contact. His touch is tentative, almost apologetic. “Hey,” he says quietly, voice still frayed at the edges. “Wake up.”
Lando stirs, a low noise caught in his throat. He blinks against the light, disoriented, curls sticking to his forehead. Oscar watches the confusion bloom slow and unguarded across his face—the furrow between his brows, the parted lips, the scrunch of his nose.
Oscar sits back slightly, pulse ticking under his skin. In a few seconds, he’s going to have to explain everything: the papers, the ring, the headlines, the meeting. The disaster they’ve somehow managed to orchestrate overnight. For now, he just watches the exact moment Lando Norris wakes to the world they’ve upended.
Lando wakes like someone surfacing too quickly. First a slow groan, muffled against the pillow. Then the lazy stretch of limbs beneath the duvet, a soft rustle of fabric. His lashes flutter against the light, squinting at the ceiling as if trying to piece together the shape of the room. He turns toward Oscar, and for a heartbeat there’s that slack, dreamy look people wear when they haven’t quite caught up with reality.
Then it hits him. His eyes widen—greenish-blue catching in the light—and confusion cracks through like a stone through glass. He bolts upright too fast, nearly tangling himself in the sheets, one hand dragging through his curls, the other clutching at the duvet like armor.
“Where—what—who are you?” His voice is hoarse, accent laced with sleep and panic. Oscar raises both hands in a small, placating gesture. “Okay. Yeah. I get that this is weird. I’m Oscar.”
Lando blinks. Once. Twice. Recognition flares belatedly. “Oscar Jack Piastri,” he says, almost accusingly. “You— you won the—” He gestures vaguely, eyes flicking to the discarded champagne flutes and then to the ring on Oscar’s finger. His voice climbs. “Oh my god.” Oscar exhales through his nose, a little helpless. “Yeah. That bit’s not… in question.”
Lando scrambles out of the sheets, feet hitting the floor. He’s still wearing the oversized championship T-shirt, the hem skimming the tops of his thighs. “This can’t be real,” he mutters, pacing toward the window like he might find an escape hatch in the glass. “I didn’t— we didn’t—” He spins back toward Oscar. “Did we sleep together?”
Oscar opens his mouth, then closes it. He rubs a hand over his face, grimacing. “I don’t—honestly? I don’t remember much after the afterparty. It’s all a bit… gone.” He gestures vaguely at his head. “But, uh, judging by the lack of clothing and the fact you’re in my shirt, I’d say… probably.” Lando flushes scarlet, cheeks blotchy under the morning light. He looks down at himself, then back up, mortified. “Brilliant,” he mutters.
Oscar reaches for the crumpled paper on the nightstand and smooths it over his knee. “That’s not the part I’m worried about.” He holds up the marriage certificate like a peace offering.
Lando leans forward, squinting. His eyes skate over the names—Oscar Jack Piastri, Lando Norris—the date, the signatures. He goes very still. “No,” he whispers, shaking his head slowly. “No, no, no. This is a prank. It has to be. Some kind of—like—fake prop—”
“It’s not,” Oscar says gently. “McLaren just emailed. There’s a meeting with legal and PR in a couple of hours. They want the documents. They’re sending someone to pick us up.” Lando stares at him like he’s spoken another language. “Us?”
“Yeah.” Oscar gestures between them. “Apparently this involves both of us.” For a moment, there’s just silence—the hum of the city, the faint tap of shutters outside, the soft rustle of sheets as Lando shifts his weight from foot to foot. He looks both ready to bolt and completely rooted to the spot.
“This is insane,” Lando finally says, voice cracking a little around the edges. “I don’t even remember the wedding.” Oscar huffs a humorless laugh. “Me neither.”
They stand there, two strangers in rumpled clothes, rings glinting in the sunlight, caught somewhere between panic and the absurdity of it all. Oscar watches Lando drag his hands down his face, fingers disappearing into his curls, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like bloody hell.
“Look,” Oscar says after a beat, softer now. “I know this is… a lot. But we should probably get ready. PR will have both our heads if we’re late.” Lando drops his hands slowly, meeting Oscar’s gaze for the first time since waking. There’s still confusion there, and fear, but also a flicker of something resigned. “Right,” he says faintly. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll just… get ready for the emergency wedding fallout meeting. Totally normal.” Oscar almost smiles, despite himself. “Welcome to F1, I guess.”
The silence that follows isn’t comfortable, but it isn’t hostile either—an awkward truce forged out of shared bewilderment. Two strangers, standing at the edge of a story neither of them meant to start.