𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞; oscar piastri ✔

PART THIRTY FIVE

I've officially planned out how this story is going to end (don't worry, not any time soon) but let's just say you guys are going to hate me xoxo

Word count; 2,336

Tomás

— June 11th, 2023. Sant'Agata Bolognese, Italy.

The sun was barely above the horizon when I woke Oscar up. And, like usual, he objected to the interruption, rolling back over, gripping onto the sheets as I tried to yank them away. But then I reminded him our flight was in thirty minutes, of which we had twenty to get to the airport - which happened to be an hour's drive away - and he jumped out of bed.

Heading downstairs, I placed a cigarette between my lips, ready to light. Except, before going outside, I approached the couch, where Lando had promptly fallen asleep the night before. Shaking him awake, he darted up, as if I was some sort of intruder that he had to defend himself from. However, recognising me, he fell back into the cushions, eyes fluttering shut.

"Jesus Christ, Taz..." He murmured. "You gave me a heart attack."

"You're in charge." I told him.

"What?" He didn't open his eyes, already half-asleep again.

"Wake up," I thudded his shoulder. "You're in charge."

At that, he sat up. Oscar's footsteps descended the stairs nearby, and Lando looked at him with a frown.

"Why? Where are you two going?"

"Marseille." I said simply.

"What? Why?"

"We'll be back this evening." I turned away, towards the front door.

"Wait!" He beckoned back and, as if it was some sort of last resort, said: "Oscar?"

His teammate shrugged, following me onto the veranda. I lit my cigarette, unlocking the doors to the car out front. The sky, as was usual in summer, was quickly morphing from hues of orange to a deep blue, the temperature only increasing as we made our way to the airport. And only once the plane had lifted off, did Oscar finally question why we were going to Merseille in the first place.

"You still haven't said why we're going to an F2 race."

We were sat on one of the double armchairs, my head resting on his lap. "You weren't in F1 that long ago."

"And I have trouble believing that's the reason we're going to one now." He smirked, raking a strand of hair away from my forehead.

I smiled, rolling my head to the side as he continued to draw circles around my hair with his fingers.

"So?" He echoed.

"His name's Franco Colapinto." I looked back up at him, almost losing the thought as I deciphered each corner of his irises. "Heard of him?"

"Not particularly." He answered, still tracing patterns through my hair.

"Exactly."

"What do you mean 'exactly'?" He nearly laughed.

I shrugged, "I'm going to change that."