𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞; oscar piastri ✔

ALTERNATE EPILOGUE II

So these two epilogues have been a little bit like one-shots, I just felt guilty and wanted to give you guys a glimpse of their future. The next (and final!) chapter will be a bit more in the future. Should they get married or is that cliché?

Then, I promise, I'm done with this fic.

Word count; 4,605

Tomás

Surrounded by darkness, I shot up, struggling to breathe. I wondered if we were stuck in time, that I was yet to heal from the pneumonia that had rippled through me last December, and this time I truly wasn't going to make it through.

But then I felt it.

The shift in the bed next to me. P's leg, angled in my direction, like she was ready to jab my ribs (as she frequently did). Oscar on the other side, unbothered, guarded by one of her arms over his bare chest.

I hoped that would bring me back to reality, but it didn't even try. The noise was still in my head, like a devil's incantation; metal tearing, shattering carbon, the screeching of tyres. Someone kept calling my name, and I couldn't tell who. I couldn't even move.

I'd never dreamt about Silverstone before.

And some part of me knew it wasn't real - but it wasn't convincing enough. Because there had been a car seat next to me, a hand on my arm. 

Oscar's hand.

My shirt was cold with sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to break out. I pressed my hands flat to the mattress, hoping it would stop them from shaking, from imagining Oscar in the cockpit with me.

But I wasn't catching up. The scene kept replaying, on and on, like a broken record; the wall rushing up too fast to process, the crunch as the car folded, the deep, rich smell of fuel.

I shoved a palm over my mouth, fearful I'd throw up. I pushed the blankets off, careful not to make a sound as I escaped the prison of that mattress, of my mind.

From the balcony, I tried to gather a sense of time. The street was empty, no engines, no alarms. I gripped the railing, hoping it would anchor me.

Oscar was fine. He's right behind me, asleep. Fine.

It wasn't working. Because in the dream, we'd both burned to rust.

My chest locked, like my lungs forgot how to expand. My back met the wall, and I slid to the floor, cradling my head.

I hadn't even heard the door open, nor the footsteps approach me. I couldn't help but flinch as his hand brushed over my shoulder.

"Hey," Oscar's tone was steady, reassuring. "Sweetheart?"

My head snapped up, the fog of my conscience clearing. Oscar was crouched in front of me, gaze harrowed by concern.

"I'm here." He said, reaching for my hand this time.

I didn't flinch, my stare latched on his, as if deciphering what was reality and what wasn't.

"Oscar..." I breathed, almost a question.

"I'm here." He smiled warmly, fingers weaving through mine.

He rebalanced his weight, sitting on the concrete, knees upright. I didn't have to say anything, didn't have to move. Just threw my head on his leg and squeezed his palm. I felt his free hand rake through my hair, draw circles on my skull.

"Nightmare?" He asked.

I didn't have to answer.

"Do you want to talk about it?"