Chapter Text
Nico awoke feeling a cold dampness throughout his body, making the sheets surrounding him drown him in his wake. Suffocating him, almost. As it is, what little sleep he thought would help whatever was wrong with him only brought more terror and pulsing anxiety through his tired body, his heart still battering against his ribcage. The fear-mongering dream was already a wispy blur that escaped his mind but not his trembling body.
His arms reached out to the other side, only to be met with more cold sheets. Still clean and unbothered. He huffed out a harsh breath before finally kicking the nuisance of a fabric from his torso, exposing his bare chest to the dark chill of the room. He felt every hair on his sweat-soaked skin stand and felt a tiny bit glad to sense something to distract him from his hazy thoughts.
The creaking window blew more cold night wind to his ever-growing hair, reminiscent of how they were while he was in Williams. Disgruntled at the memory that thought brought up, he shook his head, the movement only making more blond strands land in front of his eyes, obscuring his view. They felt foreign to him.
His icy fingers grabbed a few in between his pointer finger and thumb, his vision zeroing on the oily streaks of brownish-yellow.
“I really need to cut this off.” You need to go out to do that, a voice that sounded similar to his old therapist supplied for him.
Nico only sighed in reply before sinking his body further into the bed, letting the wind fully envelop him. The sweat made the chills sharper, making it harder to go back to sleep. He didn’t know if he even wanted to go back to the agitating land of dreams, but his thoughts were scarier when they were awake. Sleep was both easier and harder; he hadn’t decided yet. Nico just needed a way not to be. Just for a while.
He couldn’t tell if the tremors that shook him awake in the morning were from the cold or from the nightmares; he was too surprised at waking up at all.
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After yet another failed attempt to shower, Nico trudged slowly to the kitchen, grabbing a clean enough bowl and spoon before slumping over at the marble counter; at least it used to look like Carrara marble without all the shit and crumbs dusting over it. Nico made another harsh mental reminder to clean the apartment before the kids came, while he grabbed his meal with practised movements.
The image of frosted cornflakes should have made him throw up with how much he has been eating it these days, but instead, it’s the only thing he could manage to stomach down. It has always been his safe food from his racing days, and God, do bad habits come back fast.
With slow, lazy hands, he started munching on the cereal. No milk, because the last one went sour before he finished it, and that was… days? A week? Nico wasn’t sure, but time had definitely passed.
A glance at his barely charged phone made him realise that it had been weeks since he bought groceries. Or went outside at all. The kids were still with Vivian in Germany, and their last cancelled appointment was early last month, so Nico did the quick math his lazy brain could still do and counted 38 days.
He was just surprised he had this much Frosties stocked up to last that long.
He tried to eat quickly, although failing from all the urges to throw up, since sitting here in the open area of the large Monaco apartment made him want to start screaming again. The silence of the apartment was the worst background music for his ears, even the shrieking of burning tyres was better than whatever this loneliness could offer. Thoughts of racing pulled him awake again, sitting up straighter on the barstool. Gott, lass mich das nicht noch einmal tun (God, don’t let me do this again).
He gave up on eating and dragged his legs to the main bedroom again, only to pass by his daughters’ rooms as he walked by. He couldn’t help himself and pushed one of the well-decorated doors open. Inside was more silence instead of the normal shrieks and shouts, the empty single bed and desk staring back at him in further disappointment: leering at him as the silent witnesses of the fights that took place in this very apartment.
Flashbacks took over his mind and consumed his heart bit by bit, careful to purposefully nudge each rib Nico had, restricting his breathing with memories that leave a disgusting taste in his mouth. Guilt continued its feast then, engulfing his family’s love in its entirety, leaving nothing for Nico to grasp onto. He wasn’t the one to leave too soon this time.
Without even realising it, small tear droplets started running down his face. The happy-go-lucky dad he used to be was now summoned only once a month, not nearly enough time for him to love his beautiful daughters freely or even spare a glance at the woman he used to love so much.
The one thing he sacrificed everything else for was gone now. Nico Rosberg has nowhere else to turn to but his own fucked up mind and an empty apartment housing a half-rotting bowl of Kellogg’s Frosties.
At the mention of said cereal, his dysregulated brain turned up with a brief flash of him and Lewis munching on Frosties on their hotel room carpet, race suits still sweaty and laughter exchanged happily. His mind’s betrayal only led him to cry harder, because, whether Nico likes it or not, he cannot help but miss his best friend when there was quite literally nobody else left in his life.
They were boys together for goodness' sake, and that means something. To him, at least.
Even now.
Well, that relationship was also dead and gone. The wound left over from the war he has picked and licked one too many times, it scarred his whole body from head to toe like a mark that says ‘Lewis Hamilton was once here, or whatever was left of him, I guess’. Even so, his number sat still in Nico’s phone, and a pair of dusty spare keys still sat in a drawer somewhere.
Familiar, ugly resentment at his former rival began to flood Nico’s senses, an all-encompassing force that took him back to the battlefield he had thought he left so many years ago. For Lewis, flying seemed to be so easy: So natural, so effortlessly beautiful. He soared through the circuit and, even through losses, he’d bounce back to leap even further each time.
Nico, however, if he’d ever grow wings, he’d merely become Icarus. Trembling, barely fluttering with his plastic and borrowed wings. His father’s name granted him entry to the skies, but Nico was chasing after the too-bright sun. He wanted and wanted and wanted, but passion was no match for talent and grit. Nico wasn’t just passionate; however, he was just greedy as humans come.
For everything that came after the year he won the championship, after he finally felt the warmth from the sun, he fell.
Oh, but how fun it was to free-fall: Everything became a blur and alive, and Nico could only laugh wildly as he sank and sank and sank. Falling felt like more freedom than the sun could ever give.
Either way, the said ex-friend was probably too busy at charity galas or fashion events to even bother with him anymore. No, it’s been too long, and the entire world has moved on from Nico Erik Rosberg. And that’s how it’s supposed to be, he thought. He had his victory; he had flown once, and that was that.
Nothing to do now.
That’s what he wanted: nothing.
Mind made up, he walked back to his bedroom, into the en suite and rummaged for the bottle he was looking for. Another nap wouldn’t hurt him much anymore, or so he thought as he took a couple too many pills, letting them melt before he swallowed them dry.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, grossed out at what he saw. His hair was falling over his head with a week-old short beard growing steadily, a pair of bloodshot eyes, and an expression he was too tired to discern, but he did not feel good. He had not felt good in a long time, and of course, it shows. He was now glad he had not left his apartment in this state.
“This is how it’s supposed to be,” he whispered to no one. And how it’s going to end, a voice replied back in his head that was now too heavy.
Deciding this was enough, Nico plodded over to the too-big bed, the short walk making him out of breath already. With a huge sigh, Nico lay on his bed and began to pray in his heart. He prayed for his daughters to grow up happy with his ex-wife, he prayed his parents would grow old without worrying over him, and, strangely enough, amidst everything, he prayed for Lewis to be happy too. Whatever would get them to be happy, as long as he was not there. As long as he was not here at all. Never has been.
“Amen,” he uttered in a language as he closed his eyes, and a deep, bitter taste carried him to deep slumber.
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