‘in the middle of winter i at last discovered that there was in me an invincible summer’
— albert camus, l’été
𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑 𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐒 for is a few days to himself in the peaceful wilderness of the Italian Dolomites. After his rollercoaster rookie season, some 'alone time' feels overdue. It's not his fault that he gets caught up in the worst snowstorm to hit the region in over a decade — and it's definitely not his fault that Natasha Lowell ends up getting snowed in with him. But in hindsight, maybe he should have checked the forecast first...
𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐞:
[1] of snowstorms & strangers — out now!
[2] thin ice, thick silence — coming soon!
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. oscar piastri x fem!oc
𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. angst, fluff, sexual themes, bad language, daddy issues AND mommy issues, alcohol abuse, depictions of mental health issues, messy family relationships, MEN (except oscar of course), natasha’s friends suck, a lot of people suck in this actually (rich people core 🤩)
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞. i’m back from an almost two-year hiatus because i’m in an insane oscar era right now (and i’m also avoiding revising for my exams whoops) anyways idk what this is but i hope you enjoy it! please help a girl out and like & reblog <3 support is always appreciated x
𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. angst, fluff, sexual themes, bad language, daddy issues AND mommy issues, alcohol abuse, depictions of mental health issues, messy family relationships, MEN (except oscar of course), natasha’s friends suck, a lot of people suck in this actually (rich people core 🤩)
𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. angst, fluff (mixed with a bit of angst ofc), probably wayyy too much description (sorry i’m a yapper), sad natasha core, alcohol abuse probably, allusions to suicidal thoughts, fainting, mentions of oxbr*dge (this warning is more for me tbh)
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞. for the tolstoy fans (if you guys exist lol) — spot the war & peace reference! p.s, please like & reblog! <3
masterpost
chapter i , chapter ii (coming soon)
read below the cut
𝟏𝟔 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑 𝐕𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐢 𝐅𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐬, 𝐈𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐲 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭
𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐂𝐀𝐍’𝐓 help but worry what Signora Moretti will think when she finds her wine cellar half emptied. She’s only been staying at the quaint little lodge high up in the Italian Dolomites for a few days, but already, if someone asked her how many bottles she’d gone through, she wouldn’t be entirely confident in her answer. Of course, the signora did say she could help herself to whatever she liked, with it being the holiday season and all, but there’s a fine line between festive drinking and straight-up alcoholism. Natasha fears she may be treading that particular tightrope.
In her defence, she has a lot to try and forget about. A part of her wonders if everything seems like it has fallen apart now because her life was so perfect before – it is all about perspective, after all. But, as Natasha’s gaze burns holes into the bottom of her wine glass, she thinks that things weren’t perfect; just easier. Pretending everything was perfect was the simple part, the one constant in her life she became so good at she even tricked herself into believing it. Now the illusion has crashed down all around her. She supposes she should have been more prepared for it.
The storm outside seems to be shaking the very foundations of the lodge; of the earth itself, even. Oddly enough, Natasha finds her brooding is a welcome distraction from it. She’s seen the news – the worst snowstorm in a decade, or so everyone keeps saying. Well of course it’s just her luck that she’s stuck somewhere high up in the mountains, exposed to the elements as if on an open plain with no shelter for miles around. Perhaps it would have been smart to actually check the weather forecast before she booked this impromptu trip; but, in her defence again, she wasn’t exactly in the right frame of mind for such technicalities. Natasha Lowell just needed to escape.
Still, the screeching sound of the wind and the groaning of timber does frighten her a little. She may not speak Italian, but the weather reporters sounded fairly concerned when she flipped over to the news channel earlier. The thought of it is enough to make her stomach drop. Natasha flips open her laptop, against her better judgement, in an attempt to quell the pit of fear in her gut. Rejection stares back at her – the email she received two weeks ago from Magdalen College Oxford telling her she would not be considered for the 2024 Classics PhD program. When she first saw it, she thought it was a joke. She’s an alumnus of Magdalen after all, with First-Class Honours and a perfect academic record; one she’s worked tirelessly her entire life to achieve. Natasha simply can’t understand what more they want from her – what is it that she’s missing?
Suddenly, contemplating her imminent death by snowstorm doesn’t seem so terrible anymore. She snaps her laptop shut with an even larger pit in her stomach, one now occupied by fear and disappointment; that terrible, gnawing feeling she hasn’t been able to shake for weeks – the feeling that somehow, even after years and years of hard work, she’s still not good enough.
The wind rages on.
Time passes, and boredom begins to eat away at her. Absentmindedly, she switches the tiny square television on, frustration bubbling up in her stomach when the picture flashes onto the screen, grainy and flickering. It’s a wonder the signal is still working, really. She waits a few minutes, hoping the picture will miraculously sharpen, but unsurprisingly, it never does. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem – Natasha is far more accustomed to reading on rainy days than watching TV. In her childhood, she would pile up all her blankets on the cosy window seat in her father’s study, one of his old copies of Wuthering Heights or White Nights open in front of her and a mug of hot chocolate balanced precariously on her knee. But now, she doesn’t feel like reading. She doesn’t feel like doing anything. It’s a pit she hasn’t managed to bring herself to climb out of yet.
The sound of the wind shrieking through the tree branches outside breaks her out her thoughts – but that’s not what catches her attention. Over the deafening noise, Natasha swears she hears something thudding against the timber walls of the lodge. Her whole body freezes in anticipation, ears trained: and sure enough, there it is again.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
She springs up, heart racing. It’s just a tree branch, she tries to tell herself. No one is crazy enough to be outside in this weather. All the same, she edges backwards towards the kitchen, and takes a frying pan from the stove, just in case. It would be just her luck if she ends up the victim of a murder in a remote lodge deep in the Italian wilderness – just like every murder mystery cliché ever. Natasha waits with bated breath for a few moments, braced for the sound to resume. Just as she begins to think that she must be going crazy, it comes again:
Thud. Thud. Thud.
It’s more frantic this time. Startled, Natasha jumps to attention, brandishing the frying pan above her head with shaking hands. There’s no possibility of it being a tree branch hitting the wall – that she’s sure of. The thudding is too deliberate, too full of intent; like someone is trying to break down the door. Please don’t be a murderer, she thinks, her pleas now dangerously close to a prayer. Despite herself, she inches forwards, frying pan held in front of her in what she hopes looks like a warning. Even the sound of the shrieking wind and heavy snowfall is drowned out by the blood pumping in her ears, the anticipation coursing through her veins. If it is a murderer trying to break the door down, she’ll be the first to strike.
Suddenly, the door handle is rattling, and Natasha almost screams. Whoever stands behind it is trying desperately to pry their way in, that much she’s sure of. Suddenly, the chance of these moments being her last seems far too much like reality – especially when the lock begins to turn.
Before she even has the chance to cry out, the door flies open. Ice cold wind and a flurry of snowflakes swirl into the room, meeting her skin like a slap to the face. Natasha stumbles back, tripping over the edge of the rug. Somehow, she manages to stay on her feet as a dark figure steps out of the cold. She can just about make out a pair of broad shoulders, and, once the figure has straightened up, a frame that towers over her by a good six inches. Oh, fantastic, Natasha thinks; It’s a man. As if her chances weren’t slim enough already. Her sweaty palms tighten around the handle of the frying pan in preparation.
That’s when the figure looks up. He has soft brown hair stuck up in all sorts of odd angles from the wind, a sharp jawline, and an abnormally thick neck. His eyes lock with hers – a darker brown than his hair – dazed and unfocussed. He steps forward, stumbling on the wooden floorboard like he’s had a few too many glasses of wine to drink. Natasha raises the frying pan higher.
The man raises his hands up in a sign of surrender, the action seeming to use up all of his remaining energy. He manages a small, exhausted smile, before opening his mouth to speak.
“You weren’t planning on fighting me off with that, were you?” He quips, voice hoarse and ragged. Then his soft brown eyes roll back into his head, and he falls forward face-first, landing in a heap at Natasha’s feet.
For a moment, all she can do is stare.
Five minutes ago, she was curled up on the sofa, drinking herself into a familiar oblivion. In the time since then, she’s gone from fearing her imminent death by snowstorm, to facing the possibility of being murdered in a remote winter lodge like she’s the victim in an episode of Columbo, and now to the reality of her potential killer passing out at her feet. Natasha wonders if maybe she has had too much wine – surely these things only happen in dreams, right?
But the man in front of her is very much real.
She’s quick to discard the frying pan on the arm of the sofa, dropping to her knees beside his unconscious form. It takes all her strength to flip him over so he’s lying on his back, head lolled to the side and brown hair plastered to his forehead from a mixture of melted snow and cold sweat. Natasha curses, brushing the stray curls from his forehead in order to press the back of her palm against it. Sure enough, his skin is cold to the touch, and worryingly pale. Her heart flutters in panic as her hands dart to his neck, feeling for a pulse – it’s there, she thinks, but it's weak; almost so weak that she worries she might even have imagined it.
“Please don’t be dead.” She whispers, desperation washing over her in a cold wave. The last thing she wants is to wait out this storm with a dead body at the foot of the sofa.
The stranger, of course, makes no reply. Natasha can see his chest rising and falling just the slightest amount beneath his puffer jacket; shallow and quick, but there – that’s a small comfort, at least. Unsurprisingly, he’s shivering. She’ll need to find a way to get him warm. His clothes are soaked through, clinging to his body like a second skin, and she knows the longer he stays in them the worse he’s going to get. Natasha curses again. How on earth is she meant to lift his dead weight off the floor and onto the sofa, let alone figure out a way to get him out of his wet clothes?
“Alright” she mutters, “Guess I’m doing this myself then.” She shuffles around until she’s kneeling by his head and loops her arms under his broad shoulders. Her muscles strain at the effort of it, but she manages to lift his upper body off the floor and begin dragging him towards the sofa. Unfortunately, that’s the easy part – the difficult thing is getting him on to the sofa. Though he’s not particularly tall, he’s got considerable muscle mass; like that of an athlete, she thinks. Natasha, on the other hand, certainly isn’t one. This is probably the most exercise she’s done in months, and it shows.
Her first effort to haul him onto the sofa is a resounding failure, one that almost results in the both of them collapsing to the floor. Somehow, Natasha manages to maintain her grip under his shoulders, gritting her teeth at the exertion. “A little help would be appreciated.” She mutters, half to the unconscious stranger and half to herself. But still, she tries again. She manages to prop half of his upper body against the sofa arm this time, rejoicing inwardly at the small progress. Natasha moves to loop her arms around his legs, aiming to swing them around to have him lie straight, with his head propped up against the pillows. But, just when she thinks she’s succeeded, his left shoulder slips from its precarious position against the sofa arm. Her expression morphs into one of horror as he begins to fall, seemingly in slow motion. It’s an act of desperation that has her diving forward to catch him, sending them both tumbling to the floor. The stranger lands first with a harsh thud, Natasha following after him, sprawled out against his chest. It’s all she can do to press her face into the soaked front of his puffer jacket, groaning in frustration.
This is not what a relaxing winter retreat is supposed to look like.
Suddenly, Natasha freezes. Beneath her the stranger is moving, a pained groan rumbling from within his chest which she feels through the thick layers of clothes separating them. Her head shoots up, gaze wide with panic as his eyes begin to flutter open, revealing soft, honey-brown irises. The stranger blinks – once, twice, a third time – in an attempt to take in his surroundings, though there’s still the same look of dazed confusion in his eyes that she noticed in the split second before he passed out. Natasha is frozen as his gaze eventually locks onto her, and his brows furrow in confusion. He opens his mouth as if to say something. No sound comes out.
“Are you alright –?” Natasha begins, face still only inches away from his; but before she can finish her sentence, as if the sound of her voice has startled him, the stranger shoots forward. His nose collides with her forehead sharply, and they both cry out in pain. Natasha all but leaps away from him, falling on her backside in her haste to get away. The stranger lets out another groan, sitting up slowly and painfully. His movements are sluggish, unsteady – she needs to get him into some warm clothes, Natasha thinks again.
“Where – where am I?” the stranger speaks, his words slightly slurred, “Who are you?”
She hesitates for a moment – giving her name to a stranger who could still be a murderer? Not a wise idea. Luckily for her, he lets out another pained groan, his questions suddenly forgotten, and she jumps back into action.
“You need to get out of those clothes.” Natasha murmurs, moving towards him slowly. He’s trying – and failing – to get to his feet, the confusion and disorientation in his eyes growing more and more by the moment with each attempt. “Do you need help standing?” she offers, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Miraculously, that seems to calm him, and he nods softly.
Just like before, Natasha loops an arm underneath his shoulder. The stranger gets unsteadily to his feet, swaying a little before she guides him to sit on the edge of the sofa. She glances around briefly, trying to identify if he brought any clothes with him, or if she’ll have to go searching for anything spare Signora Moretti may have left lying around the lodge. To her relief, she spots a discarded suitcase just by the door.
“Can you get out of your clothes alright by yourself?” Natasha speaks up again. The stranger looks down at his soaked puffer jacket and tracksuit bottoms like he’s only just noticed them. When he looks up again, he nods.
“Yeah, I – I can do it.” He croaks out, smiling weakly.
Natasha tries to return it, but falls short.
“Alright.” She breathes shakily, “I’ll get you some spare clothes and some blankets. If you need me, just call.”
She’s turning away towards his suitcase before he has a proper chance to respond – but she hears him mutter a quiet thank you all the same. Natasha’s hands tremor as she works open the zip, finding neatly folded piles of clothes and expertly organised toiletries inside. She takes out a plain white t-shirt, a navy-blue hoodie and joggers to match, a pair of warm looking socks, and a pair of black boxer briefs – she makes a point of ignoring the crimson tint that brings to her face, as she stacks it all neatly beside the suitcase. Behind her, Natasha can hear the stranger shuffling around. His groans of pain are infrequent now, and he seems less unsteady on her feet. But she can’t tell if he’s finished changing yet, not without turning around. Natasha’s skin flushes again, as she chews on the inside of her cheek in frustration.
She’ll just have to bite the bullet.
Natasha stands, the pile of clothes bundled in her arms, and turns around. She makes a point of fixing her gaze on the ground, but that does little to ease the embarrassment that crawls over her skin at the sheer absurdity of this situation. The stranger sits on the edge of the sofa, shirtless and looking just about as awkward as she feels. Natasha places the clothes next to him, then realises with a jolt that he’ll be wanting some privacy to change. She clears her throat awkwardly, shuffling around to the back of the sofa, yet again trying to keep her eyes firmly on the floor. Luckily, there are a couple of blankets discarded on the floor, so Natasha scoops them up quickly and all but flings them in the stranger’s direction, before retreating to the adjoined kitchen.
He mutters a quiet thank you. The reply gets caught in her throat.
Natasha busies herself making him a hot water bottle and a cup of tea. A part of her itches to glance over at him again, curiosity gnawing away at her insides, but she resists the urge. What is he doing here? She can’t help but wonder. And why does he look so familiar? Perhaps he just has one of those familiar faces, or perhaps she does know him from somewhere – school maybe, or even university. Either way, she’s sure she’s seen him before.
It occurs to her then that she doesn’t yet know his name.
The silence even seems to drown out the howling wind outside, which still hasn’t let up. Natasha waits until the sound of the stranger’s shuffling has stopped before approaching him, a mug of tea and a hot water bottle in either hand. He looks up at the soft padding of her footsteps, and smiles again, a little less weakly this time. For whatever reason, Natasha doesn’t think this is the smile of a murderer – quite the opposite actually; like this, with his chin tucked into his hoodie, he looks utterly harmless. So, she allows herself to return the gesture.
“Thank you. For, uh – for helping me.” The stranger speaks up after a pause. His speech is more assured now, she notices – a positive sign, at least. For the first time, she recognises the hint of an Australian accent in his voice. That strange feeling of familiarity creeps up on her again.
“You don’t need to thank me.” Natasha replies softly. He opens his mouth again as if to retort, but before he can, a violent shiver wracks his body instead, almost sending the mug of tea flying out of his hands. She takes it from him quickly.
“You need to wrap up warm.” Natasha pushes. He’s changed into the warmer clothes, but the blankets she left him are still discarded over the back of the sofa. “Here.” She reaches behind his head and drapes the warmest looking of the two around his shoulders. The stranger tenses at first, startled by her sudden closeness, but as soon as he feels the warmth begin to cling to his body again, he relaxes into it, letting out a deep sigh.
“Thank you.” He breathes again, closing his eyes in what looks like pure relief. Outside, the wind goes on howling; but now, it doesn’t feel so daunting as it did before. At least, if she is going to die, she won’t be doing it alone.
“I’m Natasha, by the way.” She speaks up again after a moment. The stranger’s eyes snap open, coming to rest on her as if he’d forgotten she was there.
“Oscar.” He replies.
Piastri, Natasha thinks to herself. She isn’t quite confident to say it aloud, but she’s sure that’s his last name – Oscar Piastri, McLaren Formula 1 driver. Memories flood back to her of earlier in the year, when she would spend what felt like hours sat with her little brother and sister, Petya and Vera, watching the Grand Prix. Natasha never paid a whole lot of attention to it, but she’s certainly been forced to watch enough over the year to remember McLaren’s rookie driver. It all makes sense to her now, why he’s so familiar: the Australian accent, the copious number of orange t-shirts folded up in his suitcase – it all clicks into place. Still, Natasha decides not to bring the matter up, opting for a simple hum and nod of acknowledgement instead. But it is odd – a few short weeks ago, Petya and Vera were cheering for him whenever his car appeared on the TV. Now he’s sat across from her on the sofa, huddled up in her blanket.
What a day, she thinks.
“Do you – uh – do you remember how you got here?” Natasha speaks up again eventually, growing a little restless in the silence that envelops them. Oscar’s brow furrows as he sits up a little straighter, pulling the blanket more firmly around him.
“Yeah.” He answers, “I booked this place out for a couple of days from, uh – Signora Moretti, I think her name was?” he shrugs, “Anyway, the storm hit as I was driving up. My car got stuck in a snowdrift, so I decided to walk the rest of the way.”
Natasha stares at him blankly. “You walked up a mountain in a blizzard?” she says, incredulous. Oscar at least has the decency to look sheepish, reaching around to scratch the back of his neck bashfully.
“In my defence, it would have been further to walk back.” He protests. She merely shakes her head, fighting off the sudden urge to laugh.
“You’re lucky you didn’t freeze to death.” She muses, arching an eyebrow in his direction. Oscar smiles again, a hint of playfulness tugging at his lips this time.
Natasha’s brow furrows suddenly. “Wait, are you sure you got the right date for your booking?” she questions. It’s his turn to frown then, tilting his head at her quizzically. “Because I’m not due to leave for another three days.”
Oscar frowns again, and reaches into the pocket of his navy-blue hoodie to retrieve his phone. She watches him in silence as he taps the screen a few times, presumably searching for the booking confirmation email. Once he’s found it, he turns the screen around for her to glance at. Sure enough, the booking reads: 16 December until 20 December 2023. Natasha’s lifts her gaze to look at him again, a weary sigh slipping past her lips.
“She double booked us.” Oscar nods sheepishly. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter much now, anyway.” She shrugs, glancing around at her surroundings. Her gaze is drawn to the window, where the curtains are drawn tight, yet still the sound of the raging wind and a small, whistling draft pushes its way through into the room. Natasha turns back to Oscar, who is already watching her curiously. “We won’t be leaving anytime soon.”
Right on cue, the wind gives an especially ear-splitting shriek. Natasha glances uneasily up at the timber beams lining the ceiling. Is the roof buckling under the strain of the storm, or is it just her imagination? She prays it is – she can’t imagine being crushed beneath it would be an especially pleasant way to die. But even then, she thinks, when the storm eventually does let up, will they even be safe to leave? Natasha remembers the mountain pass up to the lodge being precarious enough as it was, even before the snow began to come down – she definitely doesn’t fancy her chances now.
As if Oscar can read her mind, he reaches forward to nudge her shoulder, breaking her out of her trance. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He murmurs. Natasha isn’t so sure – and neither is he, if the slight tremor in his voice is anything to go by. But at least she won’t have to face whatever comes next alone.
They lapse into silence for a moment. It’s not awkward, but it’s not comfortable either, and Natasha finds herself picking at the frayed sleeves of her jumper – a habit she picked up as a child and has carried through to adulthood, despite her father’s distaste for it. Oblivious, Oscar sips at his tea, grateful for its warmth. Natasha watches him, taking note of the colour beginning to return to his cheeks, and the way his hands seem to tremble less and less with each passing moment. That’s a good sign – at least she won’t have to deal with him dying of hypothermia on top of everything else.
“Are you feeling any better?” Natasha breaks the silence after a few more moments. Oscar finishes his sip of tea before answering.
“Much better, thanks.” He nods, the corners of his mouth turning up a little into a grateful smile. “How long have you been up here for, then?” he goes on to ask, tilting his head to the side in a show of curiosity.
“A few days.” Natasha responds quickly, fighting off the urge to sigh. “Since the thirteenth I think.” She trails off, glancing over at Oscar warily. His eyes are narrowed ever-so-slightly, as if he’s trying to see past the wall she’s put up around her. A rueful smile makes its way onto her face. “Not my usual Christmas setup, but I kind of like it up here. It’s peaceful.” She admits, though her faint smile is soon replaced by a frown, “Or it was, before this storm hit.”
“Yeah.” Oscar agrees, nodding, “That’s why I’m here too. For a bit of peace.” His gaze locks onto hers, silent understanding passing between them. He sucks in a sharp breath, glancing quickly away, “I had no idea about this storm, though. Probably should have checked the forecast before I booked.”
Natasha can’t help but laugh at that – the first true laugh she’s let out in quite a while. It’s odd enough that she and Oscar have ended up in the same place at the same time by pure coincidence; but it’s even more odd that they both seem to be here for such similar reasons.
“I didn’t check it either.” Natasha admits. She ponders her next works for a moment, considering whether they’re too personal – or too cryptic, perhaps – to reveal to a total stranger. “I was, uh – in too much of a rush to get away.”
The confession is out in the open before she can stop herself. Natasha gaze drops to her hands instinctively, fingers picking at the frayed edges of her jumper once again. She can feel Oscar watching her, though; curiosity and confusion radiating from him like warmth from the sun. Perhaps there’s a little understanding in there too. When Natasha lifts her head, he’s already looking at her, eyes soft. He opens his mouth, to question her further, she thinks, but before the words can materialise on his tongue, everything goes black.
Natasha jumps like she’s been electrocuted, her entire body going rigid as a thunderous crash follows the sudden darkness. Her hand flies out to grasp at the closest thing to her like an anchor, her grip vice-like and harsh. It’s only when Oscar lets out a sharp hiss that she realises it’s his bicep she’s got hold of. Natasha blushes, oddly grateful for the sudden darkness now, and lets go of him with a murmured apology. Yet as soon as she does, Oscar is shuffling closer, close enough to brush against her shoulder, as if he too needs the assurance that he’s not alone.
“What happened?” he whispers into the darkness. Natasha shrugs her shoulders. Her first thought is the huge pine tree planted outside the lodge – the wind is certainly strong enough to uproot a tree, and this one is more than close enough to have collided with the roof if it fell. She lets out a low groan. She can only pray it hasn’t done too much damage.
“Have you got your phone on you?” Natasha whispers back in Oscar’s direction. “I left mine in the kitchen.”
He catches her meaning instantly, fumbling around in the pocket of his joggers for his phone. A few beats pass in silence, and then the room is lit up again. Natasha squints as the harsh, white torch shines directly into her eyes. This time it’s Oscar’s turn to mutter an apology.
“Should I try the lights?” he asks after a moment. She shrugs in response, as if it say, it couldn’t hurt. A nauseous pit in her gut tells her this isn’t just a momentary power outage. She knows where Signora Moretti keeps the generator, and if anything happened to that – well, she doesn’t like to think what that could mean.
Oscar stands from the sofa, leaving Natasha in darkness. She watches the harsh light of his phone torch travel across the room, flickering as he searches around for the light switch. Her breathing grows shallower by the second, her hands clammy – she’s never been afraid of the dark, per se, but there’s something about the stress of this whole situation that has her glancing fitfully over her shoulder, half-expecting another unexpected visitor to creep out from the shadows – one significantly more menacing than Oscar.
“Lights are out.” A voice cuts through the darkness. Natasha whirls around, her heart a flurry of rapid pulses like she’s trapped a dozen butterflies in there, each as desperate as the other to get out. Sensing her uneasiness, Oscar puts his hands up in a calming gesture, moving slowly now as he lowers himself back onto the sofa, so as not to startle her again. He looks concerned. She makes a point of ignoring that.
“Signora Moretti keeps some candles in the back room for emergencies.” Natasha speaks up, tilting her head towards a door at the back of the kitchen. “We’ll have to make do with those for now.”
Oscar is quick to nod, and makes as if to get to his feet again. He pauses for a moment, hands planted on his knees, before glancing sideways at her. There’s a silent question in his eyes, as if he’s asking her permission – or asking himself perhaps. Then, he extends a hand towards her.
“We’ll go together.” He murmurs. Natasha stares down at his open palm for a moment, head spinning ever-so-slightly. “For safety.” Oscar adds hastily. That has her lips twitching upwards in amusement, especially when she notices the faint flush spread across his cheeks at his own forwardness. Nevertheless, Natasha takes his hand gratefully, clinging onto him as he pulls them both to their feet. She thinks she hears him murmur keep hold of me, but over the sound of the howling wind, she can’t be sure.
Sure enough, they find a whole box of candles in the storeroom; more than enough to keep the how lodge almost as well-lit as it had been before. Once they’ve located a lighter to match, they make quick work of setting up the candles – first in the living room and adjoined kitchen, then in the bedroom and en suite. By the time they finish, Natasha’s heartbeat has slowed to a steady rhythm, and the urge to check back over her shoulder every few seconds has all but subsided.
It helps that Oscar doesn’t let go of her hand until the very last candle is lit.
“There.” He breathes, stepping back to admire their handiwork. “Reckon that’s enough?” he turns to Natasha, tilting his head to the side – she’s noticed he tends to do that when waiting for an answer.
“More than enough.” She returns, smiling faintly. They find their way back to the sofa before long, settling back into their seats on either end, a respectable distance between them. Natasha shivers a little, but hides it beneath the thick blanket she’s now wrapped around her shoulders. Oscar takes the other one – the warmer one, though she doesn’t tell him that – pulling it firmly around his shoulders with a sigh of relief. The colour is back in his cheeks for good now, Natasha notes: a healthy, flushed pink. Under the dim candlelight, he looks a little like he’s glowing – the faintest hint of a summer tan peeking through; eyes like pools of liquid honey-brown.
Natasha averts her gaze quickly, as soon as his head begins to turn. Her gaze is drawn back to the window in the corner of the room near the fireplace – the one covered by the maroon curtain, which barely manages to hold the draft in from outside. The candles they’ve placed around it flicker dangerously with each gust of wind. Natasha’s hand drops to pick at the frayed sleeve of her jumper yet again. While their emergency lighting has warded off most of her fears, she still feels uneasy. The storm doesn’t seem like it will be letting up any time soon – if anything, it’s only getting worse.
“I don’t know how we’re supposed to sleep through this.” Oscar speaks up from beside her, and Natasha glances around. He too is watching the flickering candles, a look of apprehension clouding over the warmth of his irises. Natasha bites her lip, anxiety taking hold of her.
“I’m not sure we are.” She murmurs back.
As if in reply, the wind gives another fierce howl, and the entire lodge seems to groan with it. Suddenly, Natasha is tense again, every muscle in her body seeming to tense up as the sound of the storm outside and the blood pounding in her ears drowns out everything else. She doesn’t realise she’s unconsciously shuffled closer to Oscar, nor he to her, until she senses the faint warmth radiating from him and seeping into her own skin. Natasha turns to look at him, slowly, tentatively. His mouth is slightly parted, eyes fixed solely on her. He’s just as nervous about the raging storm as she is, Natasha can sense – he’s just managing to hide it better.
A few beats of silence pass before the tension finally snaps. Oscar inhales sharply, patting at the spot directly next to him in a silent instruction. Natasha doesn’t need to be told twice. She shuffles as close to him as she can without ending up seated on his lap, and tucks her knees up to her chest. Oscar’s side moulds into hers like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle – shoulders touching, thighs pressed together for both warmth and comfort. He doesn’t put his arm around her, doesn’t take her hand in his again; but the quiet reassurance is still there, steadfast and undeniably soothing. Natasha’s shallow breaths slow to the ordinary rhythm, soon syncing with his own. She focusses on the shared sound, and before long, the shrieking and howling of the wind is all but drowned out.
They exchange no words. The minutes pass by in comfortable silence, punctuated only by each other’s steady, deep breaths. Natasha soon feels her eyelids begin to flutter closed, as the familiar, velvet veil of sleep passes over her. She catches the faint scent of grapefruit and cinnamon, flooding her senses like warm rays of sunlight filtering through the trees in summer. Natasha lets sleep take her with a faint smile on her lips and the vague thought crossing her mind: Strange, she thinks, how in all her life she’s never felt safer than she does now, wrapped up in the warmth of a complete stranger.
