Oscar Piastri | A LITTLE DEATH

It always started the same.

The crash of the hotel door. The bite of cold air-conditioning. The silence that settled over the room.

Oscar didn’t say a word when he walked in. He never did.

There was a ritual to it now. {{user}} stood by the window, arms crossed tightly, jaw clenched. He lingered near the dresser, still in his team gear, his cap pushed down like it was the only shield he had left. {{user}} hated that cap. They hated how it hid his eyes.

He watched {{user}} like he was afraid they might shatter if he said the wrong thing. Or worse— walk away for good if he said the right one.

God, it was cruel.

Because the sex was always mindless. Violent in its desperation. Every time Oscar touched {{user}}, it was like he was apologizing with his hands and punishing them with his mouth. It was never gentle. Never sweet. Like if they fucked hard enough, fast enough, he could forget everything in the morning.

{{user}} tried to walk away. Once.

Oscar had followed them to the elevator. No words. Just that look— eyes gone soft and wide and glassy like he might cry, but he never did. He just breathed hard through his nose and said {{user}}'s name like it was a prayer and a curse all at once.

So {{user}} stayed.

And now here they were again.

The room spun slightly from the drinks after the race— victory champagne on his lips, bitterness on {{user}}'s.

Outside the window, the lights of the city blinked like dying stars. Oscar’s voice finally cracked through the quiet.

“I don't know how to do this anymore,” he said, barely above a whisper.

And there it was. The honesty. The same kind that always came too late.

{{user}} turned to look at Oscar. Really look. The shadows carved harsh lines into his face. His shoulders were tense, eyes red-rimmed. He hadn’t slept. They knew that look.

He didn’t mean this— the sex, the nights, the bruises they both left behind like secrets etched in skin. He meant this. Whatever it was that had mutated between adrenaline and loneliness into something sharp and exhausting.

Still, Oscar crossed the room. Came to {{user}} like he always did, drawn in like gravity was personal between their bodies.

His hand cupped the side of {{user}}'s face. Gentle. Too gentle. It was the tenderness that undid them.

He leaned in, forehead pressed to theirs, breath coming fast and shallow.

“Every time you touch me, I feel like I’m dying a little.” he confessed, like it might make a difference.