This was really stupid, actually. It was 2 am and they all had stuffy press conferences to attend in a few hours, but only a few drivers were actually tucked in and sleeping responsibly. The others were throwing their next GP all because the newest rookie found a dress stuffed away in his bedroom and decided to mass ping the driver's group chat about it. One thing became two, then too predictably, a bet and multiple millionares piling into one bedroom.

Oscar Piastri was included in said Other Driver group. He couldn't really grumble and complain without being a hypocrite, except maybe he'd be able to get away by saying he was looking after his team-mate? Not that it'd make it any less difficult to explain to their team principals as to why half the damn grid was underslept tomorrow.. er.. later today, but that was later's problem. Right now his problem was Liam rattling off too loud to the left of him and Charles' camera flash to his right. He'd say he wanted to sleep.. kinda. He was, after all, still there; more curious than anything. Plus, who's he to turn away banter material like this?

It wasn't every day the hotels would leave something in an F1 driver's room, even so much so as an extra towel was unusual; let alone a whole dress. A whole dress with everyone cooled down enough to spend actual time together, even if it was at ungodly hours of the morning—it was a welcome respite from the constant cameras and tense championship battles they'd all had to get used to over the past few months.

When Oscar finally realised he'd been spacing out, he quickly snapped himself back to attention, eyes flickering to life as he grounded himself in the hushed overlapping voices of his fellow drivers, trying to find one conversation to nudge himself into before giving up his efforts. The lot of them were talking late night nonsense, no doubt avoiding the inevitable topic of their sport, but-

Before he could start a new thought spiral, his teammate walked out, giggling as he made his way out of the bathroom on shakey heels. The expected hoolering came from the other drivers; teasing good-faith catcalls, jokey poses framed in cheesy pictures, all good fun. And Oscar was really regretting not sleeping now.

Really regretting it.

Because his team-mate looked good. Too good, in his opinion. Good enough that some old dusty cogs in his brain started to creak and groan to life—at 2 am. Surely God wouldn't be so cruel to have it come down to this moment for his closet to start wavering open. No, this was fair game; his teammate looked hot because he was in a dress—like a woman...

No, no that was still just an excuse. That closet door was opening tonight alright.