𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐠; oscar piastri ✔

PART THREE

Word count; 3,064

Mirabella

— May 23rd, 2023. Lisbon, Portugal.

I brought my hand to my brows, shielding my eyes from the sun. Oscar, a few steps down the airstairs, glanced over his shoulder, one eye squinted; exactly how he had looked at me the night we met, uttering the words I don't know what you're talking about. 

Mouthing, are you sure?, he nodded discreetly, stepping onto the concrete. He had asked me if I wanted ice cream - which I could never say no to, of course - not mentioning the part where his manager won't approve, given the hour and a half change-over. So I watched him thank the pilot, exchange a few words with Veronica, and gesture a simple thumbs up behind his back. Like that, we were waltzing through the airport, searching for ice cream. 

"What flavour?" He asked.

I examined the glass pannel in front of us, the various heeps of ice cream and gelato, purposely made into clouds of vibrant colours to attract tourists.

"Rum and raisin." I answered simply.

His lack of an answer made my head turn, wondering if he had even heard. Met with a dropped jaw, I scoffed.

"What?"

"Rum and raisin?" He frowned. "What are you, eighty?"

I rolled my eyes, "What flavour are you getting?"

He put his hands into his pockets, "Mint choc-chip."

I gasped dramatically, "I can't believe this."

"What?"

"You're calling me old for choosing a genuinely nice flavour, meanwhile you choose toothpaste."

His jaw was once again ajar, "It's not toothpaste."

"It basically is."

A worker surfaced behind the counter, wearing a bright red apron and cap, asking in a thick portuguese accent what we would like. Oscar ordered his - two scoops of mint choc-chip in a cup - and looked down at me as the worker probed anything else?

"Two on a cone?"

He stifled a chuckle, still focused on my flavour of choice, and turned to the worker: "Two scoops of rum and raisin on a cone, please."

Rolling my eyes once more, I folded my arms. He paid for the ice cream and we both received our designated orders, strolling to a table with two stools nearby. I took a lick from my ice cream, smiling at the velvety texture.

"Good?" Oscar inquired, between his own mouthfuls.

"Very." I smiled politely. "How is your toothpaste?"

"It's not toothpaste."

"It's mint!"

"Mint was around before toothpaste!"

I shook my head. We settled into that same, comfortable quietude that always seemed to find its way back to us. But then, noticing a toddler waddling away from his parents, bearing a orange sweatshirt, another thought came to mind.

"So you drive for McLaren?"

He nodded, "For the last few months."

"Do you like it?"

He made a face, meaning, it's not something you can put into words.

"It was a silly question."

He shrugged, "It's better than where I was before."

"Which was?"

"Alpine. Another team on the grid."