𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞; oscar piastri

PART TWENTY

IM BACK

Word count; 2,227

Tomás

— May 21st, 2023. Sant'Agata Bolognese, Italy.

I shot up, forced awake by a loud sound, like logs falling down a flight of stairs. Except, instead of timber, it was Lando, who had tossed off of the couch and smacked onto the floor, waking himself up in the process. Releasing a breath, I buried my head into my palms, suddenly tender.

"Why do you always do that...?" I muttered, voice hoarse.

"I can't help it..." He answered, slowly raising himself up from the cold tiles. "Fuck..."

I shook my head, raking my hands through my hair. Reaching for my phone on the coffee table, I groaned.

"What's the time?" Lando blinked at me.

"Six thirty." I frowned, dropping it back onto the surface.

The McLaren driver hummed in disinclination, thudding back onto the floor. I dragged myself up, an ache spawning at the centre of my back from a night on the couch, and sauntered through to the kitchen, as if acting on instinct. Searching the cupboards, I squinted at labels, hoping to find something with alcohol.

Nothing.

Standing upright, I leaned on the kitchen island, my head too heavy for my shoulders - a result of too much booze and yet not enough, of sleeping somewhere uncomfortable, of not eating properly.

Then, it hit me.

The night before, when I'd cleaned the bottles from my nightstands, I noted that one still had some whiskey left, though at the time I put it in the trash anyway. I groaned again; even when we'd go to bed at a reasonable hour, Oscar would still be the last to come down, always sleeping in - as if he was permanently deprived of it. There was no way he'd be awake at dawn.

"Where are you going?" Lando mumbled, still on the floor.

I didn't bother answering, making my way upstairs. Somewhere, I knew it wasn't worth it, but my legs were moving faster than my mind, my hand already attached to the doorknob of my bedroom. Gently, I pressed on the threshold, peering my head into the room.

Oscar was dead to the world - in fact, if it wasn't for the slow rise and fall of his chest, I would've assumed he had actually slipped away in the middle of the night. Carefully, I crept towards the bin in the corner, reaching for the bottle of whiskey. Cracking open the cap, I sniffed the neck, pondering when it was first opened, only to take a sip anyway - all that was left of it, really. Examining the bin, I wondered if there were any others I had missed, only to flinch as Oscar rolled over.

What am I doing?

I shut the door softly behind me, heartbeat soothening; with everything so quiet, it had practically began to throb in my ears. I headed back down the corridor, towards the stairs, only to stop again, pushing open on the door to what had been Oscar's room. The leak had worsened, virtually soaking the bed, though I wasn't sure how, given the lack of rain we had witnessed. I shook my head.

How could I forget?

Yet, something else caught my eye; Oscar's suitcase, sprawled across the ground, a heap of clothes balancing on it. Specifically, a photograph, peering out of the secured mesh.

Lily's photograph.