Chapter Text
October 2021:
«Look,» Oscar slurs a bit while placing his glass on the bar counter, along a trail of shiny, empty siblings which he cannot count so well now, «I just knew that getting anywhere close to him was a mistake. From…»
He has to take a deep breath in order to stop himself from hiccuping or burping.
«…day one!»
The man behind the counter nods in acknowledgement, or at least that’s what Oscar wants to see.
A few hours earlier:
Oscar is not a complainer, far from him, God forbid, but he would like to create a petition to be allowed to skip the FIA-mandated events, especially the loud, crowded ones where he has to dress like a fucking popinjay and be agreeable to perfect strangers.
(Both his mother and Mark recommended him to keep on being agreeable, even if they piss him off. They said that he should go, make sure people remember his face. Easy to say, for his mother, who loves him, and for Mark, Oscar knows his own face is not that peculiar and unforgettable. He isn’t The Mark Webber’s natural son, only his protégé, and he’s pretty sure he could have spent the evening in a more productive way if he stayed home glued to any racing game. Let his absence speak for him, if anything.)
Oscar loves everything about racing. Let this be very clear. He loves being one with the car, the sound of the engine, the smell of the fuel and the metal, the world flying past him as he drives. He just doesn’t really like the social part of it – it’s all fun and games if it’s some stupid challenge for the team’s YouTube channel, but this kind of shit is, well, shit. Normal people – his old schoolmates, his relatives – might think it’s glamorous, somehow, but all Oscar feels is a deep stink of stale rotting beneath the expensive fragrances the ultra-rich wear. Quite literally, right now, since they are in Venice and the stench of stagnant water impregnates everything, something he wishes he was told before. The hotel in itself brings the same aura of old splendour badly hiding the squalor: huge chandelier-lamps casting golden glow on stained walls, red and rusty-brown carpet covering squeaking floorboards, heat system unable to dispel the cold whiffs from any window and door. Which are still welcome, given that the cold, stinky air from October Venice feels better than the suffocating heavy breathing from the staff, businessmen and athletes crowding the foyer like Covid restrictions aren’t still a thing.
The worst part isn’t that, nor it is the clinking of glasses, the stilted conversations, the smell of a thousand different colognes and perfumes assaulting him, it isn’t even witnessing the unspoken hierarchies and the various other bullshit going on: at some point, he realizes he lost sight of Arthur.
He watches left and right – and he’s nowhere to be found.
He tries to ask around – no-one’s seen little Leclerc.
He searches for his other Prema mates – they have no explanation for Arthur’s vanishing.
Finally, his eyes go up the lobby little steps, towards the tiny mezzanine right before the stairs, and find the last man he’d want to speak tonight: the biggest star Prema ever managed to produce. Clad in a black, Ferrari-branded suit, looking almost too relaxed, Arthur’s older brother Charles smiles and nods at a guy who Oscar vaguely recognizes as a Pirelli spokesman.
Oscar walks up to him, hesitantly. He has to dodge a couple of waiters who look more elegant than any driver could ever aspire to, a few businessmen and three escorts around his age, but he finally manages to reach the objective just as the spokesman floats away. Perfect moment to strike.
«Uh… Charles?»
Surprisingly enough, Charles turns immediately – and Oscar is not an easy person to impress, but even he shivers in meeting Charles’ gaze: astonishing green jade that doesn’t seem to really register his presence, opposite to, well, the rest of the man, who opens himself to the friendliest of smiles.
«Oh, hi Oscar… it’s Oscar, right?»
Good, no need to introduce myself. He swallows once, trying to keep at bay the vague uneasiness he’s feeling: Charles smiles like Arthur, talks like Arthur, in the same low, caressing timber. Even Oscar’s own sisters don’t bear the same level of similarity in mannerism, nor would they fully smile and offer a friendly pat to a perfect stranger who just happened to share a space with their sibling.
«Yes, uh. Sorry to bother.»
«No bother at all. Arthur’s friends are my friends.»
Oh God thank you.
«Yeah, speaking of which. Arthur was by my side before and then he seems to have vanished, do you have any idea of his whereabouts?»
Charles’ eyes widen – a sparkle of something Oscar cannot name cross them – and he thinks about it for a moment.
«Uh. I wouldn’t bet on it, but… eh. If you go behind the stairs, well, there is a door and behind it there is a… corridor. At the end of it there was, a few years ago, a tiny music hall. If it’s still there, he might have found it. But I wouldn’t be sure. Arthur is… good at sneaking away.»
«Oh, makes sense. Mind if I still go check?»
«Of course not, tell me if you find him, ok?»
The corridor is no better than the atrium, to be entirely honest: the smell of humidity gets even worse, in the warmer, staler air. But as soon as he closes the entrance door and the rest of the unhappy party is locked outside, is like getting to effin’ Narnia. He forgets about everything the moment the forced chatter becomes just a muffled noise from behind.
He takes a look at his surroundings – the same red carpet, just more stained, wooden doors, all presumably locked – and tends his ears, trying to catch any sign of human presence.
He hears the first notes when he’s around the middle of the long corridor – a muffled solo jam session, the piano slightly shrill; if Oscar were to describe the song, he’d say it’s jazz, but oddly… familiar. That’s something he’s heard before. He stops to focus on what the hell Arthur is playing behind closed doors, thinking nobody will hear him, and it’s only when the tempo changes to a more relaxing, soft rhythm, he recognizes it: a wild reminiscence of being ten, home from school with a fever, stuck on the sofa with his little sisters all three enchanted by the fucking cartoon.
Oh God, not the Aristocats song.
The relaxing rhythm turns into the most uptempo part of Everybody wants to be a cat, and Oscar snorts.
Come on, Arthur… and yet, it fits him so well. He can imagine little Arthur on the sofa with him and his sisters, giggling because of the stupid cats jazz band. Oscar even takes his time to notice how well the other is playing it, perfectly recognisable even if he only has a piano and the original song is layered, his hands picking on strings that somehow imitate voice and trumpets. He walks towards the door with the full intention of waiting for the end, knock and tell him something along the lines of yeah nice playing, now get the hell back.
His pretty straightforward plan never gets carried on, because Arthur just doesn’t stop playing: the happy rendition of the Aristocats song slowly morphs into something else, something oddly… sad. Melancholic.
Oscar knows the word, but the feeling has always… eluded him. And yet, it hits him with the first notes, a strong shove and then a pull towards the cold wall.
He can picture what is going on behind the door: Arthur sat at the piano with his long fingers stretched, covering like ten keys at once, fast, elegant, his eyes closed, no need to read any sheet. Oscar already knew about Arthur’s musical prowess, he knew that he was good, but whatever he’s doing right now is out of this world, it’s something he never heard before. It’s slow and soft, nothing Oscar would deliberately choose to listen to, but he stays nonetheless, mesmerized. He wonders if Arthur fantasizes of having an orchestra, an audience – stage lights dancing on his suit, on his hair – or if it’s only for himself, a musical mindfulness exercise just to have a secret that’s only his, for no-one else to witness.
Oscar didn’t expect to hear a low voice accompanying the notes.
« Bien sûr, nous eûmes des orages… »
O scar doesn’t get to hear Arthur use his mother tongue often, let alone sing in it .
« Vingt ans d'amour, c'est l'amour fol… »
H e doesn’t understand shit in French, but the word amour does not leave much room for misinterpretation: ugh, a sappy love song, of course . But he can’t bring himself to move, either to leave the room and go search shelter from the haunting combo of voice and piano or to open the door and interrupt the magic trick happening. He doesn’t even realize that he’s showing his teeth in a mute growl, nor that his own fingers are grasping at the air, lacking something to do with themselves.
« Mais mon amour, m on doux mon tendre mon merveilleux amour… d e l'aube claire jusqu'à la fin du jour, j e t'aime encore tu sais, je t'aime… »
U gh, cringe. Sappy sappy sappy. And it is, because it is, but he already knew that about Arthur.
Arthur and his gentlemanly demeanour, Arthur and his long phone calls, Arthur and his longing stares at pretty sunsets. Hadn’t Oscar known better, he’d think he’s some sort of fairytale prince come to life, or at least that’s what his own sisters seemed to assume the first time they saw him. Arthur, golden hair and silver eyes, French accent and graceful movement, his vaguely vacuous smile adding, if possible, to the charm: flaws make perfection real, tangible, human.
Oscar is no philosopher, he doesn’t reason much on the value of aesthetic or anything else; he’s just repeating to himself things he overheard in fleeting conversation, of course.
« Bien sûr tu pris quelques amants, i l fallait bien passer le temps, i l faut bien que le corps exulte… »
He wonders why the hell Arthur chose cars , instead of pursuing a musical career, because when his voice rises on the higher notes Oscar’s eyes start to prickle a little. It’s as soothing as it’s unnerving, a contradiction in many ways: hauntingly beautiful, mellower on the low notes, perfectly clean. It’s the sound equivalent of biting into a chocolate chip muffin, with the same sensation of fullness and warmth in the lower part of his abdomen .
« Mais c'est toujours la tendre guerre… »
Oscar doesn’t stay for the last refrain. He quietly leaves the corridor, closes every door he finds behind him, until he finds a restroom to seek shelter in. He splashes water at his own face, tugs at the collar of his shirt, takes a couple of deep breaths before staring at the mirror.
Well, yeah, I don’t look too haunted. It’s passable. Go back there, be polite, say your goodbyes and find a way to get out of here.
He hopes nobody else finds Arthur before he wants to come out – Oscar has a feeling of having just witnessed something not meant for human ears, an epiphany of some kind.
On his way out, he manages to catch Charles’ attention again. He shoots a quick thumbs up gesture to him, and Charles acknowledges him with a nod and a quick smile that doesn’t reach his jade eyes.