𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐠; oscar piastri ✔

PART TWENTY THREE

idrk how I feel about this chapter, but for the record the song at the end is Home by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros (spoiler alert ig?)

Word count; 2,726

Mirabella

— August 8th, 2023. Near Marseille, French Riviera.

The days with Oscar's family came and went like the tide; naturally, leisurely, gratefully. Even when the day came to leave, it seemed like we had been there for weeks, though Nicole disagreed, embracing her son for what felt like hours, Chris patting her on the back to take her attention away from him. We had shook hands again, though his lips tilted more when we said goodbye, commenting that I am welcome back whenever I liked, even without Oscar; one night - family board game night - I had teamed up with him for a trivial activity, and we won every round (based on pure luck, not my intellect). Then Nicole hugged me, nearly as long as she had Oscar.

"It could've gone worse," Oscar noted on the drive to the airport.

I agreed, asking if he wished he could've stayed longer.

"I can be a shithead." He said simply, sparing me a smirk. "My dad would've kicked me out in a few days time."

I had laughed. Even now, lying in bed together, his arm enveloping my back, I found myself stifling giggles.

"What?" He mumbled, half asleep.

Or maybe it was the fact that he adored sleep so much, and this was a schedule we had picked up in the last few days; filling hours with swimming, exploring the coast, sunbathing, nothing better to do, waking up with the same objective.

"Nothing." I grazed my finger over his stomach, tracing the contours.

He made a noise, unsolvable - a grunt of some kind.

"Got a problem?" I beamed.

I felt his head shake, and with it a foreign incense that I hadn't noted since Miami; thanks to the summer break, he was free from the tests that usually prohibited him from indulging in such a thing. During our layover in Signapore, he had asked me how I felt about it, to which I answered that I was indifferent. He'd explained that because of the free time at the beginning of the break, he usually struggled to recognise the lack of routine, his mind growing increasingly restless. It helps, he said, craving validity. Little did he know how appreciative I was by the fact he had even asked.

I made to sit up, though his arm held me in place, a hum of disagreement leaving his lips.

"Oscar." I complained.

Another hum of disinclination.

"Oscar!"

"Two minutes."

"Pass me my phone, then."

A moment passed, then another. Nothing.

"Oscar..."

His hand moved across my back, rubbing the skin. I parted my lips to talk, only for his fingers to pinch at my sides, and I sprang away. He chuckled, eyes more open now, smirk lingering on his lips. Recognising his motivation, I grabbed the sheets from the bed, wrapping them around my body as I searched the floor for my clothes. He rolled over, burying his face into the pillow.

"I'm not waiting forever for you." I warned, already starving.

He sighed dramatically. Slipping into a netted shawl, I slid open the door to the cabin, ascending the stairs to the main deck; we were staying on one of Chiara's yachts, permanently stationed in the French Riviera, off the coast of Marseille. In fact, it was the yacht she had been gifted by the same man that now ceased to exist - the CEO of a modelling agency, now bankrupt.