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Oscar loves going to the Farmers Market. Especially on Wednesday afternoons, when his classes were over, the crowds were thin, and the leftover fruits and vegetables from the weekend rush were discounted.
Except, he hasn’t been able to go for the past few weeks. Finals week was hectic and so were multiple projects assigned in the weeks prior. But it's winter break now, and Oscar can finally visit the market again. He even brought Lando along.
They take a left turn and park their bikes in the designated area. It’s been ages since he’s been biking, but he quite enjoys the feel of the late autumn breeze on his face and the smell of freshly-fallen flowers after last night’s shower.
They spend some time wandering around, perusing every stall and the rows of fresh fruits and vegetables they have in display. They share a sourdough loaf filled with apple and plum compote, split cleanly down the middle.
Oscar buys a custom-print mesh t-shirt with Hattie’s favourite K-Pop idol. He really only knows Hattie likes him because of the numerous Tiktoks she sends him, and even then his name completely escapes him. Regardless, that’s her birthday present secured.
He neatly folds the piece of clothing and tucks it in the tote. His performative male tote, as Lando's begun calling it. Speaking of Lando, he buys a small crochet keychain for himself and a pastel floral bandana for his mother.
Something catches the corner of his eye. A small honey booth.
The man tending the stall has big brown cow eyes and effortlessly perfect brown hair that’s somehow artful yet also messy. He’s wearing a green apron on top of a white dress shirt, tightly rolled up his sleeves to accentuate his forearms.
Within a few moments, the man looks at Oscar and smiles at him. Fucking smiles and waves.
“Hello, misters, would you like to try some of my honey?” he asks, his voice smooth and Spanish. Oscar’s going to die.
He clears his throat. “Yeah, sure.” he croaks, voice stable and definitely not shakey.
Carlos retreats below the table, rummaging for a while before procuring two sachets, one for Oscar and the other for Lando.
He offers it to Oscar, and he can’t help but stare at the man’s fingers. They’re not stereotypically feminine at all, bony fingers kept short, and yet they’re so demure. Holds the honey sachet like it’s precious.
Before Oscar could take it, someone shoves him forward. Hard. Oscar goes tumbling forward, his reflexes far too slow to brace himself before the fall.
And yet, he doesn’t fall flat on his face. Because the stranger’s hands brace him, grip tight against the sides of his arm. Oh god, he’s made a fool of himself.
“Whoa, careful there, señor! Wouldn’t want your pretty face to get hurt, eh?” he says, easy.
And Oscar just. Crashes out. Hard. Internally. He tries not to think about the hot, hairy hands holding him steady. Tries not to think about the scent of the man, who upon closer inspection, smells like green flowers and freshly-peeled oranges. Oscar’s, like, totally normal around hot men.
Lando, bless him, clears his throat obnoxiously from behind him. Oscar snaps out of it, stands up straight again and decides that he needs to say something now, because this is definitely becoming too awkward.
“Name?” he blurts out intelligibly, instantly flushing because that is not what he wants to say.
But the stranger only chuckles, a soft and light thing. “You’re asking for my name?” he smiles. Oscar nods dumbly.
But he doesn’t answer verbally, instead pointing at his apron where, right on top of his heart, Carlos Sainz Jr. is spelled out in neat cursive.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t see that.” Of course he hadn't, because his mother raised him with manners and he doesn’t go around ogling at men’s chests.
“And what’s yours, beautiful?” Carlos flirts. Oscar tries so hard not to blush.
“‘M Oscar,” he says politely, probably smiling dumbly.
“Here you go, Oscar.” Oh-skar. Oh my god. He’s not going to survive this. He opts to gingerly take the honey sachet out of Carlos’s hands. There’s a small bee and the text ‘Sainz’s Honey’ superimposed on top.
He rips the corner, and asks Carlos to tell him more about the honey, not that he cares much about beekeeping.
“Oh, eh, sure! I’m surprised, not a lot of customers are interested!” he clears his throat, leaning forward so his weight is propped up by his forearms.
“It’s orange blossom honey, grown in my family’s farm in the valleys of Mallorca. Probably harvested it myself! They’re monofloral, so the bees only pollinate one type of flower.” Carlos explains, waving his hand around a bit as he’s speaking.
Oscar nods along, drinking the rest of his honey. “It tastes really nice. Can really taste the citrus.”
Carlos grins, proud of himself. “Thank you. You know, they’re about to go out of season so if hypothetically you guys want to buy it you should buy it now.”
So subtle is not Carlos’s middle name. Oscar doesn’t seem to mind that.
“Got it.” he nods, all serious-like. “And if, hypothetically, we wanted to, how much would it cost us?”
He points to a small jar. “That one’s, eh, 30 euros.”
“30 what?!” Lando exclaims.
“But—“ Carlos interjects, “Special discount for you. For free. If you would like to, eh, hang out with me after this.”
Oscar short-circuits. His entire body reboots.
“I, um, are you asking me out on a date?”
Carlos smiles, ear to ear. “Well yes!”
“You. Asking me out on a date?”
He cards his fingers through his hair, all prince-like and effortless, and clears his throat. “Well, if you don’t want to, then it’s okay.”
Oscar’s frozen. Malfunctioned.
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Oh god, how embarrassing. Is he sure Carlos actually wants to go out with him or just taking the piss?
He tries again, but his throat strains. Carlos stares at him wide-eyed, like a kid who’s just broken his toy.
“He’d like to,” Lando pipes in and Oscar nods eagerly, hoping that the message comes through. He’s thankful for every God who convinced the dorm manager to make them roommates. “Trust me. He’s just… having a little trouble expressing it.”
Carlos’s smile slowly ticks up. “Well, what do you say about dinner? I get off in 30 minutes, and I know a good spot around here.”
“I’ll see you then,” Oscar says, finally able to utter something out.
He mindlessly walks away from the stall, letting his legs drag him towards the general direction of the picnic tables, Lando in tow behind him.
“You dog!” Lando half-shouts, punching his arm. “You better be glad I didn’t let you fumble the bag.”
Oscar merely groans, burying his hand in his head. “We will not speak about that ever again.”
They sit on the bench, scrolling and playing games until thirty minutes has blinked by. The sun’s dipping below the horizon, as are its warmth and the golden orange hues that colour the sky. The night is much windier, the copper tree above him rustling furiously.
Oscar regrets not bringing a windbreaker with him, but then again he did not anticipate having a date. He can’t even remember the last time he went on a date.
When he makes his way to Carlos’s stall, the crowds are much thinner and most of the other stalls have shuttered. Crates and stands are covered in black, heavy tarp, and the vibrancy of the market is no longer present.
Carlos is packing his jars into large container boxes. Oscar notices his struggling and immediately rushes over to help him.
He puts several honey jars in, heavier than they look, and some other honey-related snacks.
“Thank you,” Carlos says, carrying another box and leading the way.
Once they put the boxes inside the trunk of Carlos’s Golf, they walk towards the restaurant.
A cool breeze passes through Oscar. He lets out an involuntary shiver.
Carlos turns, his big brown doe eyes staring at Oscar. “Are you cold?”
If Oscar were stronger, or if it was summer instead of early winter, or if he wasn’t so starving and freezing, he would probably snark something along the lines of No shit sherlock, you’re such a genius.
But he’s not, it’s not, and he is, so he merely nods and let Carlos’s jacket slide onto him. It smells like Carlos’s perfume, smells of citrus and young flowers, and carries much of Carlos’s body warmth. He can’t help but positively melt in it.
“It’s, um, it’s a nice jacket.” he says politely, zipping it up.
Carlos smirks, perhaps knowingly. “Yeah?”
Oscar nods, probably blushing. He’ll say it’s because of the cold. It’s not.
The Spaniard holds a tentative hand on Oscar's waist, featherlight but feels like a million bricks on Oscar’s skin. “Okay?”
“Yup,”
“Alright,” Carlos retrieves his hand, and Oscar tries not to mourn the loss. “We’re here.” he says, opening the door.
Oscar smiles. “Thank you. By the way, you look bee-utiful tonight.”
Carlos blushes furiously. Later, much later, when they’re all warm and drunk sipping cheap wine and eating honey-glazed banana chips on the back of the Golf while overlooking the beach, something dawns on Carlos.
He blinks. Once. Twice. “Wait, was that a bee pun?!”