Lando Norris is the campus celebrity-streamer, showman, always surrounded by laughter and admirers. Yet, no matter how many fans orbit him, his gaze fixes on one boy. He sneaks into classes he doesn't belong in, always with chocolate milk just for excuses, and blurts it out without shame. "I want you." Oscar Piastri isn't like the others. He's quiet, focused, an archer on scholarship who builds his life out of discipline. Where Lando is loud, Oscar is steady. Where Lando craves attention, Oscar avoids it. And every time Lando appears at his side, Oscar pushes him back. "What do you want from me this time?" Oscar demands, arms crossed. But things shift when Lando hits a breaking point-his manuscript thrown away, his heart cracked open in front of George and Max. Rumors flood the internet after a livestream slip, whispers of "Landoscar" spreading faster than either can stop. Oscar watches from the shadows, jealousy gnawing at him when Paul or even Kimi hover too close. He does things he swore he wouldn't. Saves the manuscript, copies notes for Charles just to get Lando's address. "I want-Lando's home address." Charles blinked in disbelief. "No. Nope. Not you. You'd never pull a stunt like this. You. Hate. Lando." But hate was never the truth. Jealousy was. Fear was. And when Oscar showed up at Lando's apartment, the walls finally broke. "O-Oscar...?" Lando whispered, clinging to the doorframe. And in the quiet of that moment, he admits the words he's hidden for too long. Oscar confesses, his voice trembling. Oscar wants Lando to choose him. Still. Always. And then-raw, unfiltered, aching- "I've lost. I've fallen for you. Again and again. I can't fight it anymore." Reality was messy, though. Promises whispered with hooked pinkies, nights tangled on the sofa in pajamas. "You're sure, none of this is from some stupid dare?"

Max Verstappen has everything-money, confidence, and a trail of headlines that never seem to stop following him. Owner of V Square, adored and hated in equal measure, he lives loud. Too loud. And then there's George Russell-calm, composed, a fashion designer whose brand Maison Joré defines quiet luxury. Where Max is chaos, George is order. Where Max flirts, George builds. And somehow, they collide in the middle of it all. "Morning, darling." Max teases, leaning on George's desk. "Don't call me that." They don't make sense. They argue in showrooms and fall asleep on opposite sides of the couch, always meeting again somewhere in between. But when George finds out that Max's past isn't as buried as he thought, the chaos breaks loose. "If you want me to trust you," George says, voice trembling, "then clean it up. All of it." So Max does-chasing ghosts, making amends, trying to prove that change isn't just a word he throws around. Somewhere along the way, his laughter gets softer. His touch steadier. His eyes only on George. When he returns, it isn't with grand gestures or expensive gifts-just quiet honesty. "I'm not perfect," Max admits. "But I'm done running." George exhales, half-smiling. "You're insane." "And you love it." sometimes, the heart doesn't untie. it learns to stay tangled.

Max Verstappen isn't a hero. At least, that's what he keeps telling himself. He's just-trying. Too trying. The kind of trying that makes your palms sweat when you lift a grocery box, that makes your chest tighten as the world moves too fast around you. When he steps outside, the streets should've just been another blur, another student hustling, another afternoon slipping by. But then he sees him-someone balancing paper bags with careful hands, oversized hoodie sleeves dragging past his wrists, eyes darting nervously at the crowd. George doesn't mean to stand out. But he does. They collide in the simplest of ways, a spilled bag, a shared glance, a wordless chaos that somehow feels like it could settle into something steady. Max doesn't know why he keeps reaching for the fallen groceries, why he can't look away. George tilts a small smile in his direction, awkward, hesitant, but entirely his own. And for the first time that day, Max pauses-not because he has to, but because he wants to. He shouldn't feel anything. Not this flutter of surprise when George hands him a neatly folded note. Not this quiet curiosity that tugs him toward someone who barely says a word but says everything anyway. "Thank you," the note says one day. And somehow, Max reads it, and it echoes louder than any noise around them. George fidgets with a small board, scribbles something, spins it toward Max. The words are careful, deliberate, tiny moments of trust wrapped in marker ink. Max grins. And George grins back. Between hurried errands, scattered groceries, and moments that teeter on awkwardly sweet, Max begins to see patterns-of care, of thoughtfulness, of someone who notices him just as much as he notices them. And maybe-just maybe-he's learning how to pay attention, how to stay present, how to see someone fully for the first time. Because this time, when George stretches out a hand, Max doesn't hesitate.

Oscar Piastri was never supposed to matter. Quiet. Precise. Sharp. He moved through the world like a straight line-disciplined, steady, predictable. He didn't chase anyone. He didn't flirt. He didn't smile unless necessary. And yet, he kept finding Lando. A chocolate bar left on a desk. A sticky note in looping handwriting. A soft voice beside Lando's ear. "This is for you. Eat, please." Lando hated it. Hated the way Oscar seemed to anticipate his next move. Hated the hand that appeared just to shield him from bumping into corners. Hated the look in Oscar's eyes-slow, deliberate, almost gentle. One afternoon, under a sunlit tree, Oscar said, "Your star hairclip suits you. You look cute today." No one had ever watched Lando that closely. No one had seen past the showmanship, past the bravado. He pulled away. Snapped. Ran. Heart pounding, throat tight. And Oscar? He stayed. Patient. Quiet. Collecting the pieces of Lando's chaos like it was natural. The strangest thing, when others got too close to Oscar, Lando stiffened. His tone sharpened. "Why him? He doesn't even look at you properly." Oscar's voice was soft, patient. "Lando, why do you care?" "I... I don't. Just forget it," Lando muttered, looking away. He didn't care. But Oscar kept choosing him. In small ways, unnoticed ways, the kind that made Lando's chest tighten. If Oscar was pretending, Lando's heart might not survive. But if he wasn't, then maybe Lando was already falling. Hard. And he wasn't sure he wanted to stop.

They're teammates, ex-somethings, and way too good at pretending it never happened. Fast cars, hot tempers, and a whole lot of unresolved tension. This is Burnout. And they're both already running on fumes. Or short: Another landoscar story

A collection of Frerard one shots. Mostly from Deviantart/ AO3. Enjoy!