footie and f1 fan

oscar piastri was many things. a world-class driver. a quiet genius. a terrible liar. and, apparently, a man who had decided to pick up a new hobby without telling a soul, not even the person he loved most. you.

not that he meant to hide it. at first, he hadn't even planned on learning guitar seriously. it had been one offhand sentence from you, something soft, said at night when you were half asleep and your voice had been muffled by his chest.

"i wish i could play guitar," you had murmured. "i love acoustic songs. they always sound like...i don't know. like home."

you probably didn't even remember saying it.

but oscar had remembered, because it was something you said that he was remembering, it was always you. and because you had said it with that dreamy tone that made his heart fold in half.

and that was how he found himself secretly practicing guitar in the spare room of your apartment, quietly googling "basic chords no sound videos" and whispering apologies to his aching fingers as he tried to press the strings hard enough to get the right tone.

he didn't tell you. not because he didn't want to, but rather he wanted it to be perfect, wanted to be good enough one day to sit you down and say, "here, i learned this for you." he wanted to someday play while you sang, like you had once shyly joked you wanted to do "if i could ever learn."

he wanted to give that moment.

he just had no idea the moment was going to arrive a few weeks too early.

you had first noticed something was stranger than normal when oscar started disappearing. not in an alarming way. not in a "where on earth is my boyfriend going at nine in the morning on a sunday" way. more in a "why does he look like he's hiding a government secret every time i walk into the spare room" way.

it started subtly. you would wake up to an empty bed, which inherently wasn't uncommon, oscar woke up early all the time. but then you would hear muffled sounds from down the hall. thuds sometimes. a strange twang here and there. low curses.

once, you walked past the closed door of the spare room and heard him whisper, "ow. bloody hell."

"oscar?" you had called.

the sounds stopped instantly after that.

"yeah?" he had replied, far too fast to not sound suspicious.

"...what are you doing?'

"cleaning."

you blinked. "since when do you clean at seven in the morning?"

he paused for far too long.

"since today?" he attempted.

it was weird. suspicious. and yet, you let it go. because oscar wasn't a liar by nature, he was terrible at it. but the weirdness didn't stop.

he started hiding his hands. constantly shoving them into pockets or under pillows or sitting on them. he was acting like a toddler guarding stolen candy. and then there was his newest habit of shutting the spare room door instantly whenever he even sensed you approaching.

"oscar," you said one afternoon, arms crossed as he flinched and shut a door behind him like he had something to hide, "are you building a bomb in there?"

he broke.

"WHAT? NO! why would i- who builds bombs- what- no- what-?"

it was chaotic. he was flustered, and panicked.

you squinted at him. "so you're definitely hiding something."

he stood up straighter, stiff like a man at a police lineup. "i don't know what hiding is."

you laughed at him. "you're such a terrible liar."

"thank you," he said automatically.

but he still didn't tell you.

the universe had chosen a random wednesday night to expose everything. oscar had gone home early from sim work, and you had assumed he was napping. the apartment was quiet, soft, warm from the lamps you had left on. you walked down the hall to put laundry away, humming to yourself. that's when you heard it.

gentle strumming.

not good strumming, not bad either though, but it was definitely strumming. real, honest, unmistakable guitar strumming. and it had been paired with the softest hum of oscar's voice trying to match a tune.

you froze.

slowly, you moved closer to the door until you were standing outside the slightly cracked door of the spare room.

inside, oscar was sat with his legs crossed on the floor, an acoustic guitar in his lap, his brows furrowed, bottom lip pulled between his teeth. he was concentrating so hard he didn't even notice you.

he played the same progression again and again, stopping to shake out his sore fingers.

you covered your mouth, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. you knocked gently.

oscar jolted so violently the guitar almost fell off his lap. "shit-! uh- wait! don't come in!"

you opened the door anyway. he froze like you had caught him cheating. you stared. he stared. then you said the only logical thing.

"you play guitar?"

he swallowed, cheeks turning a deep, cute shade of pink.

"...no?"

you raised an eyebrow.

he wilted.

"...okay. maybe."

you walked in slowly, your voice soft. "oscar...since when?"

he looked everywhere except at you. "a while."

"how long is a while?"

"...a few months."

your jaw dropped. "you've been learning guitar for months without telling me?"

he winced. "i wanted to get good before you saw."

you heart melted into goo at him. "why?"

he hesitated and looked down plucking nervously at a string.

"i just...wanted to do something for you."

you stepped closer. "for me?"

he nodded. quiet. his cheeks pink and shy. somehow even more adorable than usual.

"you said once that you liked the sound of acoustic songs. and that you wished you could play. and that it would be nice to sing to something live."

he took a breath.

"i thought...maybe i could learn. and then maybe i could teach you. or we could play together. i know it's stupid-"

"it's not stupid," you whispered.

"it's not?" he said softly.

you shook your head, eyes stinging with warmth. "oscar that is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me."

he looked at you with that wide eye stare, slightly overwhelmed softness, the one that had always made your chest tighten.

then he asked, bashful and quiet. "do you want to hear something?"

your lips parted. "are you sure?"

"no," he answered honestly. "but i want you to anyway."

you sat on the floor in front of him, legs crossed, hands in your lap like you were waiting for a private concert.

oscar cleared his throat. adjusted his grip. placed his fingers slowly on the frets.

"this is the one i've been practicing."

he started to play. the first chord buzzed awkwardly, one string had been muted by accident, but he kept going. and the second chord was cleaner. the third better. he fell into a rhythm, gentle and earnest, and the progression he played was soft and warm and familiar.

you recognized the song. one you had once told him you loved because "it sounds like falling in love."

your heart climbed into your throat.

he wasn't just learning guitar because you wished you could.

he was learning your songs.

he looked nervous, focused, sweetly determined. his fingers weren't perfect, but the effort was. the love behind it was.

he couldn't meet your eyes when he finished. "i know it's not great-"

you lunged forward and threw your arms around him, tackling him into a hug so forceful he nearly dropped the guitar.

"oscar piastri," you murmured into his shoulder, "that was the best thing anyone has ever played for me."

he let out a breath, relieved and soft, his arms coming up around you.

"so you're not mad?"

"mad?" you pulled back to look at him. "i'm in love with you."

he blinked. "you were in love with me before this."

"now i'm more in love with you."

he flushed bright red.

later that night, after dinner had ended, and after oscar shyly placed the guitar back on its stand like he was returning a fragile piece of art, you walked up behind him and hugged him from the back.

"teach me," you mumble softly.

he froze. "now?"

"only if you want to."

his ears turns pink. "i...yeah. i want to."

he sat on the couch with the guitar and patted the space beside him. you curled up next to him, thigh pressed to thigh.

he handed you the guitar carefully, guiding your fingers. he explained how to hold it, how to angle your wrist, how not to press to hard or too soft.

you tried a chord. it buzzed horrible.

you groaned. "oh god. i'm terrible."

he laughed softly. "you're not terrible. you're exactly where i was a few months ago."

"you're being nice."

"i'm always nice to you."

you shot him a look.

"okay, fine," he corrected, "you're being slightly terrible. but in a very cute way."

you smacked his shoulder lightly. he leaned his head against yours, smiling.

then he adjusted your fingers again, gently, patiently. and when the chord finally rang out clean, you gasped.

"that was me!"

oscar's grin was blinding. "that was you."

"i did it?"

"you did."

you turned to look at him, excitement glowing all over your face, and that was the exact moment oscar's expression softened to something raw and tender.

"you have no idea how happy i am right now," he murmured.

you blinked. "because i learned a chord?'

"no," he said quietly. "because i get to do this with you."

your breath hitched. you learned forward and kissed him, slow and warm, your fingers still resting awkwardly on the strings. oscar kissed you back with the same gentle reverence he'd used on every chord he played.

you whispered as you pulled back. "you learned guitar for me."

he stroked your cheek. "i'd learn anything for you."