#its not landos fault its certainly not oscars fault

[chilling-seavey]

Ooooooooh i seriously need to get off tumblr until this anti-oscar agenda cools down or im about to go full protective mclaren mom mode on their asses and no one wants that

[maxlarens]

oscar and 31?

31) doing a pinky swear

random but i listened to this and this dj set while writing this

It’s difficult to resist the lure of the music, the dance floor that churns and pulses at your back. The DJ cycles through euro-pop, 2000s anthems and countless club classics that make you itch to get up and dance, something tugging in your gut when you don't.

Max and Lando have already gone into the thick of it, leaving you and Oscar at the booth. And you've decided that you're not leaving Oscar. If he's not getting on the dance floor then you aren't either. Even if your leg is about to fall off from how much you've been tapping it to the beat and you keep tipping your head back to say oh, dude, I love this song.

He'd made some offhand comment the other day, when you and Lando first made these plans, something about how he was boring, of all things. How he wouldn't be any fun at a club. It's been eating at you since. The way he'd said it, not like it was something he came to on his own, but rather, like it was something someone had told him.

The absolute last thing Oscar Piastri is is boring.

You hate that he thinks he is, you hate that he thinks he needs to be a certain way to make you happy. To make anyone happy. And you certainly don't care if he doesn't want to dance at a club— no one's going to die if he doesn't, and you'll survive a few hours in the booth until Max tires of Lando and his boundless energy.

Across from you, Oscar's taking sips of his vodka pineapple. His pale cheeks have been steadily turning more red the more alcohol that he drinks, it's cute. You're turning your drink in circles, watching it leave condensation rings on the linoleum table. The DJ is playing a remix of Murder on the Dancefloor and you're about to tip your head back and groan oh my god I love this song,

but Oscar is laughing before the words can even leave your mouth.

"You love this song too?", he raises his very nice eyebrows at you, smiling that closed mouth polite cat smile everyone likes so much.

You sigh, laugh, then roll your eyes at yourself, "Yeah. Love it."

He smiles into his drink, it turns into something a little bittersweet after a moment of you watching him. You think of the sad way he'd twitched his nose the other day, while he was telling you he was boring. Without thinking, spurred on by the alcohol, you lean across the table and swat his hand with yours. But you don't move after, you just slip your fingers into the grooves of his knuckles.

"What are you thinking?"

He bites the inside of his bottom lip, shrugs, "Nothing important."

You're not convinced.

"Is this about you thinking you're boring, Oscar?" —he raises an eyebrow at you, one that says maybe, one that says go on— "Because you are not fucking boring, Piastri."

He laughs, but its critical, disbelieving. More of a scoff than a laugh, but he doesn't want you to catch on. He's trying to act like it's all fine. That's how he is— it's fine it's fine he says and he doesn't let anyone see that things hurt him. He's so good, so nice, so unwilling to make anyone else feel bad.

Positive, optimistic to a fault.

"You're not," you insist, pressing your fingertips into his knuckles.

He shrugs again, "I'm keeping you here. I know you want to go dance. You should go.”

You’re shaking your head before he can finish, “Oscar. Please, I will live. Anyway, sometimes I want to spend time with you without Lando hanging around, y’know.”

Oscar snorts, sincerely this time, “Yeah, he’s—”

“Annoying,” you supply.

“I was going to say a pain.”

“Same thing.”

“Mm,” Oscar snickers, “S’pose so.”

Then,

“Are you sure you want to stay here with me?”

You slide your fingers down to his wrist, gently turning his arm around so it faces upward. His skin is smooth where you trace the lines in his palm. You're both quiet, looking down at your hands where they're intertwined. If you're honest, you've kind of forgotten why you did that— your thoughts feel loose, a bit disconnected. Oscar is warm and sweet and here. You just wanted to touch his hand you think. You trace a line up his ring finger without thinking.

"I'm sure," you say, a little breathless for no good reason.

"Promise."

"Huh?", you drift your gaze up to his.

Polite cat smile, he repeats, "Promise?", it's more of a question now.

You nod seriously, curling your fingers into a fist and sticking your pinky finger out, "I pinky promise, Oscar."

He does the same, lifting his hand up in offering. Your pinkies lock together, he squeezes tightly and you pull against him, like the tighter the promise is the more that you mean it.