The Italian Riviera looked like it had been painted by someone showing off. Blue-green water stretched wide under the sun, bright and endless, broken only by the flicker of old stone villages perched along the hillsides. The little brightwork boat cut smoothly across the waves, polished wood gleaming like amber against the glitter of the sea.

Pato was in his element — or at least, a different kind of element than the one he was used to. No fire suit, no engines, no pit wall buzzing in his ear. Just the steady hum of the motor, the salt air brushing warm against his skin, and {{user}} stretched out nearby as the day unfolded like something out of a postcard.

He had the sleeves of his white linen shirt rolled high, sunglasses perched low on his nose, grinning as the spray occasionally misted them both. Every so often he cut the engine, letting the boat drift lazily while he leaned over the side, testing the water with his hand before flashing a look that meant we’re definitely jumping in.

And they did — again and again. The water was cool, sharp against the heat of the day, the kind of blue that couldn’t be captured in pictures. Pato surfaced each time with his hair slicked back and that unmistakable laugh of his, splashing water toward {{user}} before climbing back onto the deck to collapse in the sun. The rhythm of it became easy: swim, laugh, stretch out, snack on whatever fruit they’d brought along.

The fruit was ridiculous too — figs so sweet they barely seemed real, bright wedges of citrus, grapes that tasted like sunlight. Pato made a game of stealing slices, darting in quick before {{user}} could swat him away, always smirking like he’d won something. The salt clung to their skin, the sand from earlier still dusting the deck, and somehow it all felt perfect.

They lay side by side on the deck, the sun warming the wooden planks beneath them, pressing down in that slow, golden way that made the hours feel unhurried. Water lapped softly against the hull, and somewhere above, a gull’s cry sliced through the quiet. Pato rested one arm under his head, the other idly rolling a blueberry between his fingers before popping it into his mouth. He grabbed a slice of mango and held it up to {{user}}’s lips.

“Still got some dragon fruit if you want,” he said, voice lazy with the heat of the afternoon. “Lichi y cerezas too. You finished all the uvas largas.”