#arboreticsf1

When the Christmas Eve pictures roll into Oscar’s WhatsApp thread, it’s already Christmas morning in Australia, and Oscar was sat in the ugliest sweater his sisters had ever bestowed upon him, sweating. It was dead heat now in Melbourne, no white Christmas in sight, and a little bit of Oscar longed for London—he was out of sync with his own home now, maybe upsettingly, maybe just realistically.

His neck was itching. Staring into Carlos’s pixelated face, a little goofy in the angle, the wild spray of his hair, Oscar scratched at himself deftly. Distantly. There was noise in the kitchen, boisterous and happy, and Oscar found himself thousands of miles away, imagining himself in a suit, stumbling through feliz navidads. It was a silly fantasy, unwieldy, not very imaginative, and raw in Oscar’s mind. Too soon to be thinking of such alternatives, the relationship too undefined.

Oscar hearted the picture, sent a partial selfie of the sweater, the bottom of his chin, DACHSHUND THROUGH THE SNOW sprawled across his chest. Carlos would like that, would send laugh-crying emojis, a picture of one of the many dogs clattering around in the Sainz mansion. Oscar, if he tried, could hear their little claws skittering along the hard floors, disappearing across the thick rugs. He had only seen Carlos’s home in images, obviously, but. As with everything related to Carlos, Oscar had spent plenty of time imagining. That old undercurrent of spite thrived in those daydreams—cold feet, Pomeranians with no personality—until it spun to Carlos himself. His grey vest, suit jacket long shed. Piñon, tall and wiry, sitting patiently by his side, the two of them escaping for long walks across the countryside.

That was where Oscar liked to imagine himself, following Carlos down his familiar paths, frosted fields, too cold to sweat even when Carlos insisted on a jog. “Got to stay ready for the season,” he would say, wiggling his brows. Carlos could probably lay off training for the whole break and it wouldn’t make a difference in the Williams, Oscar figured, but still. There was pride in his strength, his grace, his blunt hands and big eyes. Carlos had won Oscar’s home race with a bandage around his stomach, just weeks out from surgery, after all—what a slap. That scar taunted Oscar sometimes, a white gash through Carlos’s impeccable tan. Remember what you’ve both lost?