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A warm scent of baked cookies wafts through the apartment. Outside, the chilling air floats through the Monaco streets, stopping to bite at the cheeks of unsuspecting pedestrians. The lights softly shine on the local market, where laughs and crinkling eyes are plenty, mulled wine passed around by the litre, fried goods filling up every plate.
Children are running around in the apartment wildly. Parents laughing heartily at their antics, faces flushed from the wine in the glasses. The scent of the Christmas dinner lingering in the air, long forgotten, as their bellies are full and warm, hands mindlessly grabbing at cookies rather than the mashed potatoes or the meat. It is warm, it is joyful. The lights are muted and yellow. It is Christmas Eve.
In your apartment though, it's cold and blue. The lights are off, apart from the blaring display of his phone, typing furiously. You lay on your side, turned to him, listening to the shrieking laughter from the apartment above you, the music from the Christmas market below your window.
Oscar is sitting at the edge of your bed, clad only in black Calvin Klein's, turned away from you. You gaze at the expense of his bare back, revealed to you only by the soft fairy lights from the street below. You see his shoulders shaking angrily, hearing the soft frantic tapping of his fingernails on the phone screen. The display brightness is harsh, but you don't see the screen, only the white light shining through his messy hair, settling on the rustled sheets.
Heart clenching, you reach your hand out, a breath away from touching the soft skin on his back. There, you stop. Letting it fall gently on the bed, you close your eyes disappointedly, as he doesn't tear his gaze away from the phone.
Seeing him bare again was a sight, after months and months of gazing at his back mostly underneath the self-important print of the number 81. The last time he was in your apartment, it had been just after Zandvoort.
You didn't come to the race, as he didn't invite you. The apartment had been colder than this night, when he knocked on your door. The suitcase still in his hand, silly grin on his face, Oscar pushed the door open and slotted himself against you. Mouth still pulled in an uncontrollable smile, he pressed you against the pillows of your couch, whispering how much he missed you.
That day, Oscar fucked you like he loved you. Like the way you wanted, needed him to. You lied on the bed on your side, looking at him like you do now, but then he had faced you too. Still emanating happiness, glory, victory.
Oscar shined gold that night, as if he always had. Skin turning into liquid with every trace of his body, you melted against him, turning gold as well.
He whispered against your lips, your neck, your thighs. He spoke into the night air, looking at you with a glint in his eyes you've never seen, disbelief coloring his face.
"A 34 point gap." Oscar told you, hand kneading the flesh of your hips gently. "I might really do it."
He buried his face in your neck. "I might win."
You'd like to think it doesn't affect you that much. Pretending that it doesn't mean anything, that you're completely, utterly, unquestionably okay with this. You'd like to say you smiled softly, and said 'Congratulations', then pushed him onto his back because you didn't care. Because you were there to use him, his body. You'd like to say you fucked him, but you didn't.
You did smile, and you did say 'Congratulations'. But the smile had been uncontrollable, and the words on your lips rushed and full of emotion. Your hands roamed his body because you needed him closer. You found yourself on top of him, but you didn't fuck him. There was nothing crude about it.
You didn't fuck him, because it was so much greater than that. Because you were proud. Because you wanted him to feel how proud you were. How much it meant to you, because it meant the world to him.
Oscar was the golden boy, but in his arms that night, you only wanted to be his golden girl.
"You're magic." You whispered, lips brushing his own. His eyes closed, breath even. He didn't hear you, and you'd like to say you were okay with that.
It had been months ago, when things were good. Before everything fell apart.
You feel the familiar words die in your throat, cold air biting your bare shoulders that peek out from the sheet covering the rest of your body. The light from his display shuts off suddenly with a soft click of the home button on his phone.
The darkness settles over you, eyes adjusting to the lack of light, trying to find the familiar trace of his lean muscles.
Oscar brings a hand up and runs it through his messy, post-sex hair, messing it up even more with a sigh. You stay still, frozen with a sneaking anxiety that's plagued you for months.
The feeling started in Mexico, during a warm weekend.
Oscar brought you to the race, for the second time that year. You watched the crash in Baku, you watched the contact with Lando in Singapore, you watched the sprint in COTA. In your own home, with the gentle light of your laptop reflecting in your teary eyes.
You saw him losing his light, weekend after weekend, mistake after mistake, point after point chipped away.
Like a carousel, he was soft and warm then he was cold and harsh, one moment gold, another black. You knew that, you always had. The first time Oscar had sex with you, it was Christmas the year before, when he was on a high of the Constructor's Championship. He ignored you after Australia. He worshiped you after China. After Miami, he implied that he loved you. Zandvoort was the last nail in your coffin, you were gone and naive, believing it would be different this time.
The feeling of your last night together embedded in your bones, the feeling of love, of worship, had left your heart fragile. Seeing the disappointment in his expression, the anger in his voice over the radio, even the thinly-veiled PR smiles in post-race interviews; they had left you barren. Disappointed. Despaired. You knew it was over, the carousel had turned and the only one left was him and his anger.
You watched the race alongside the rest of your friends, who never knew you found yourself underneath his sheets, in his arms. They laughed and smiled, teasing Oscar gently for the last few months. He laughed with them, but the bitter glint in his eyes betrayed his rage.
When the race started, you prayed and hoped he would win, because that meant he would stay yours. Oscar qualified eighth, but you thought maybe, with you there, maybe there would be a miracle and he would be golden again.
Your friends held their hands together in a last ditch attempt to bring some luck to their friend on track, so that Oscar could find some time anywhere, so he could find himself in front of Antonelli, so Lando wouldn't take what was rightfully his.
It didn't work, it couldn't.
Your heart broke over and over again with each failed overtake, shattering into pieces when the safety car was announced. He was so close, so close to keeping his glory.
Oscar was golden, you knew, everyone was sold.
That Sunday night, his gold had turned into coal. One point away.
When you knocked on his hotel room door, you were met with a deafening silence. Not a sound, not a word, not a chance to share your warmth with his cold.
The next morning, when you had brushed your hand against his, he pulled away sharply. Your warmth has disappeared. Not even a glance, Oscar turned to another one of your friends, laughing brightly.
You turned from his, a false smile rising to your lips, but you knew. You felt it in your bones, where once he had placed his loving mark, that he was fading away.
The familiar ache continued on, until after the championship was over, slipped from his grasp. It followed you everywhere, present even in the soft glow left behind from his intimate grasp.
You felt it as you watched him shed your fearful grasp, sitting up on the edge of the bed, facing away from you.
You felt it when he mussed his hair, standing up in your cold room.
You felt it when he finally turned to you, stony gaze settling on your fragile, vulnerable, bare body. It used to feel like a blessing to find yourself under his gaze. Especially as vulnerable as you are now, you used to thrive when his eyes roamed your body, a scorching heat lighting up inside of you.
Now, the only thing left was cold. You were a ghost in your own body.
Then, it was the only time you felt alive. Now, the only thing you feel was the dead silence between you, heavy with expectations that were never met.
"Who were you texting?" You whisper, bringing the blanket up higher to cover yourself, chasing after the only warmth left in your room.
"Stella was busting my balls about missing some team meeting." He sighs, picking up his McLaren-branded quarter-zip off the floor.
You hum softly, full of false understanding, one that you forced yourself to learn.
The championship was the other woman in your relationship. Well, the lack of one. Better said, you were the other woman in Oscar's relationship to the trophy he had been chasing all his life.
You tried to understand, you did, and you'd like to say you didn't care.
But you did, and Oscar cared about the championship more. You find yourself victim to the tempo of his life, rather than your own.
You think of Qatar, after the ill-fated race. This time, you came alone, bought your own pass because you wanted to be there for him. You wanted him to be golden, for you.
He saw you after the Sprint, still glowing from the victory, sweat glistening down his neck. You beamed at him sweetly, joyous tears shining in your eyes. After the celebrations, he tucked you behind a wall in the paddock, away from the cameras and watchful eyes, kissing you passionately. Leaving marks along your neck. Promising to thank you properly for coming, later.
Oscar left you there with weak knees, and a golden thread weaving itself in your heart.
Then came the qualification, where Oscar found himself on top again. Once again, he was golden. Tentatively, he glowed from within, a prideful glimmer that was lost in Imola or Las Vegas.
He was patted on the back, sought after in the paddock, receiving praise after praise. The glow intensified, as he wove his way through the garage, shining under the attention. This, this was his mistress, that feeling of glory.
You got to him an hour later, maybe even more, but it didn't matter because he dragged you quickly to his driver room where it finally felt warm, where the lights were yellow and his hands were gentle.
That night, you pressed yourself against him like you never would again. You left more hickies than you ever had, to the point he teased you lovingly. He had you in the driver's room, both glowing. One from glory, one from adoration. Then, he had you in his hotel bed, after which Oscar tucked you into his side tightly, kissing the top of your head softly.
You thought, maybe it was finally falling into place, as you fell asleep in the warm presence of your golden boy.
It didn't last long.
One wrong strategy call, that had you biting your lip to the point of bleeding, cost him the victory.
It cost him a night with his mistress, it tore the gold from his soul and stomped on it ruthlessly.
It cost you him. Mercilessly, at the whim of the cruel nature of the man you loved and the sport that hated him.
A night that promised to lead to everything, left you with nothing as you waited for Oscar beneath the yellowed lights of Qatar streets. They flickered softly, matching the frantic beating of your brittle heart.
Moments, hours, years later, you see Oscar making his way towards you. Everybody's gone, and it's strangely calm, but the lights flicker from yellow to blue when he settles in front of you.
His eyes are hard, hands white at the knuckles from gripping his bag tightly. There's a storm brewing in his eyes, the intense burning of his anger simmering beneath the thin facade of calm.
"I'm sorry." You speak softly, eyebrows drawn in sympathy. Reaching a hand towards his shoulder, he juts out of the way.
"Let's just go." He states coldly, moving to brush past you towards his car.
"No." You whimper, turning to him. "Let's talk."
"I don't want to." Not turning around to face you, he stops. His voice is full of malice, one that had been building since lap 7 of the race.
"I'm sorry, Oscar, I am, please don't take it out on me." You plead, voice watery, as the lights continue to flicker above your heads. You, facing his back, shoulders curled so they don't shake.
You step forward, shaking hands tracing his waist, settling around him, cheek pressed against his back. "Please, just talk to me."
You hug him tighter to yourself, screwing your eyes shut, as the familiar ache in your bones, fear, engulfs you fully. "I'm right here."
Oscar stills. Then, he slowly pries your hands from his body, turning to face you, eyes watery and cheeks flushed.
"You know what this is, don't you?" Cold. That's what this is, you think.
"I don't need you." The ice pierces you harshly.
"You're a distraction. I can't afford it when I'm fighting for a championship." He spats, unkindly.
You stumble back, his anger bleeding into you.
"I'm not the reason you lost today, Oscar." You force out, disbelief coloring your face.
"You might as well be." He turns his eyes away from you, gaze still icy. "If you weren't here, maybe I would've noticed the pit call was stupid."
He kicks his feet on the pavement, colored blue from the cold light of the flickering night.
"Maybe, I would've been faster. Less tired from indulging you. Maybe."
The icy dagger in your heart continues twisting.
"Maybe, if I didn't have to play pretend with you, I would've won."
"Pretend?" You ask.
"Like we're in love."
It stops twisting. It's ripped out of you, leaving you to slowly bleed out on the pavement.
"We both know what happened to you." You spit, rage filling your own eyes. "You fell off, Oscar, this entire thing is your fault."
He brings his eyes to yours finally, two burned hearts finally connecting.
"You lost, on your own merit, and you'll lose if you continue acting this way." The anger leaves your body, leaving behind only the teary eyes and the gaping wound in the center of your body.
"Whatever." He rolls his eyes and turns. "Find your own way home."
You stand there, beneath the flickering streetlight, watching your golden boy walk away, as you die slow.
On Christmas Eve, you're already dead, a ghost haunting the empty halls of your apartment, when Oscar comes knocking on your door.
You hadn't seen him since he left you alone with his anger, on a street in a different country. Oscar lost the championship, coming third. You knew, because your stupid heart still turned on the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix the next week. You knew, watching his perfectly maintained facade, that the gold in him turned hot-red, burning him from within.
Lando was a deserving winner, much to your chagrin. You allowed yourself to fantasize what it would be like if Oscar had won. If his mood swung your way, and his anger wasn't anger, but a glorious, loving joy he would shine on you with.
Would he apologize for his words under the streetlamps? Would he kiss you as lovingly as he did after Zandvoort? Would he make love to you as gently as he did the first time?
You allowed yourself a moment with the golden Oscar, before you crushed the feeling beneath the memory of his cold, angry gaze.
Barely through the door, his hands were already on you, gripping and grasping at your hips, thighs, breasts. Oscar pressed his lips to yours urgently, with a passion you could mistake for loving, but which you recognized as controlled rage.
You could mistake the hands under your shirt for an attempt to get as close to you, or you could mistake his desperate gasps for loving sighs. You could mistake the pressing heat of his hips pressing into yours for grief, or you could mistake his hot mouth on your thighs for apologies.
Maybe, you would forgive him, if he didn't hold you like he knew you, as he grinded his hips against yours desperately. Maybe, you could believe he was golden again, if he didn't leave you in dead silence after having sex with you.
Why did you let him? You didn't know, but maybe this was a moment where you take back control. A ticket off his swinging emotions, a ticket out of his heavy gaze.
Maybe, the cold in your room was a reminder of what he truly was.
The clock strikes midnight.
"Hey, it's been a year since we first hooked up." Oscar states matter-of-factly. "Maybe we should do it again."
"I don't think so." You turn on your back, fixing your gaze on the ceiling, as he buckles the belt on his jeans.
"Why not?" He asks, toeing on his sneakers.
You laugh cruelly, "Don't act like you were kind, Oscar."
A silence falls over you.
"Did you love me?" He asks, suddenly still.
"Yeah." You admit, the familiar gaping wound stinging you softly. But warmth fills your body.
"I think I loved you too." He whispers.
"Not enough." You whisper back.
He gets up, turning to you one last time. Eyes finally soft, anger dissipating for the first time.
"Merry Christmas." Oscar says, lingering for a moment.
"Leave." You say, "And please don't call." Turning on your side, eyes closed, you hear the soft click of your front door.