"I know, baby, but you're gonna go with Uncle Dan and Daddy," Max audible chokes at that, promptly trying to cover up his reaction by faking a coughing fit which only serves to draw greater attention to the initial response, "for just a little while but then, I promise, Kaia, I'll come find you and Daddy-" only an anguished groaning sound escapes from the Dutchman this time around, "as soon as I can, okay?"
"Okay," the two-year-old replies glumly, her bottom lip starting to tremble, "okay."
"Max-" you start, only to be cut off by Daniel.
"Don't you mean Daddy?"
"Get fucked," Max takes a well aim swing at the Australian as he passes him on the way to his daughter, arms already raised to take Kaia from your arms, a hand catching Daniel in the side of the head and walloping him hard enough to make him yelp in pain, "come on, vlinder, we've got a long day today and all we have so far is a late start and a whining Uncle Dan to show for it."
----------
If he'd gotten more than four hours of sleep the night before and he hadn't gone to your room last night, if he'd resisted the temptation to go to you, to ask you for help, or even if he'd not let you climb into bed with him, then perhaps, Max might have been able to be honest about the emotions that were running rampant inside of him, or to, at the very least, acknowledge what the feelings currently wreaking havoc on his mind and body were actually called.
But since he hadn't slept more than four hours and he had gone to your room, since he had given in to temptation, he'd asked for help and he'd not only just let you in his bed, he'd welcomed you into it, he'd pressed his body to yours, and he'd let himself enjoy it, because he was a fucking idiot and because it had felt good, it had felt really, really good.
So, Max wasn't honest with himself, and he didn't acknowledge a fucking thing.
And instead, well instead, Max refused to admit to anything, and pretended like his current state of denial wasn't exactly what it actually was, a mere precursor to what would inevitably come next- anger, then bargaining, which would be followed by depression, before finally reaching acceptance.
He wasn't inept, he could do the math, he knew what that particular set of emotions hallmarked, but that didn't mean it made any fucking sense to him.
Because Max wasn't in mourning, and he had no reason to be experiencing grief and it's five little stages, not unless he could bring himself to admit that- no, absolutely fucking not. He wasn't going to do this today; he didn't have the time or the emotional bandwidth it would require.
No, this morning, just for this morning, he was going to let himself be selfish and make a stupid fucking decision, and he was going to deal with all of this later.
Max was in denial, and he didn't fucking care about it.
Stomping across his room and into the bathroom, Max turns the shower on, fiddling with the taps until he's become well enough accustomed with the lay out to be able to figure out how to get the water running all the way hot, since God knows, that every hotel has to have a different set up, guaranteeing that every race weekend brought with it the inevitable battle to learn a new system.
Reaching back, grabbing his shirt by the neckline at the nape of his neck, Max pulls his t-shirt over his head and off his upper body in one fluid motion, his forehead wrinkling and his brow furrowing when he catches a familiar smell in the air, one that immediately derails his train of thought, taking with it all the focused he'd had on the moment at hand.
