Saturday, September 29th, 2018- Sochi, Russia
Russian Grand Prix, the Sochi Autodrom- Post-Qualifying
"Max Verstappen, fix your fucking face or I'll do it for you," your tone doesn't pull any punches, the words cutting through the chaos around all around you with lethal, deadly accuracy, bringing the entirety of the Red Bull garage to a sudden, unceremonious stand still that it feels like you'd just knocked the wind out of the everyone in it.
The hush that descends is nearly suffocating, almost preternatural in its stillness, the silence eerie and uncomfortable. It feels as if the room itself is holding its breath, and no one dares to so much as move a muscle or to make a single sound, since the team knows good and fucking well by now to stay well away from your and Max's conflicts, and that it is in their best interest to remain neutral, objective third party outsiders in such manners.
"Excuse me?" Max rounds on you, turning his back to Horner and Helmut Marko, the former of whom looks thoroughly unimpressed while the expression on the latter's features leaves you under the impression that he's just as fed up with the young driver's attitude this morning as you are.
"You heard me," you don't shy away from the anger in his voice, you match it and carry on, "fix your fucking face or I'll-"
"Or what?" The look on his face yields nothing, it gives no hints, no suggestions, nothing of any use as, in a handful of strides, Max has closed the distance between you and himself, coming to a halt less than a step away, "or you'll do what?"
He leans in, and for a split second, his mask slips and you catch a fleeting glimpse of some emotion in his eyes but it's gone as quickly as it had appeared, lost once again behind the apathetic facade of Max Verstappen, Red Bull's golden boy.
And yet, he still hadn't been fast enough to quash the glimmer of the other man, the one you preferred, the one he thought to be weak, and that, that was why you didn't flinch, you didn't reestablish a professional separation from where he now stands, you merely meet his gaze, unwavering.
"Or I'll fucking do it for you."
"Yeah? Is that right?" There's no way around it, there's an edge to Max's voice, one that every bone in your body is aching for, that's crying out for you to lean into the moment, into the intimacy evident in the planes of his face and the angles of his body.
Cheated towards you and his head cocked slightly to one side, Max gives you the impression that he's just as aware of you as you are of him, and that like you, he's analyzing you down to the last detail, paying special attention to how you're looking at him, care to not miss a single thing, taking note of how you're holding yourself, of how you're looking at him, how you're holding yourself, reading between your lines as closely.
"And how exactly do you intend to do that? Hm? Tell me that," his eyes drop to your lips again and again, the motion becoming so habitual in the space of seconds that you decide to rule it a nervous tick or a compulsion, something he can't control, that has no meaning beyond that, "come on, humor me."
"Don't play with me right now, I am not in the fucking mood to play games with you this afternoon, Max."
"Oh, really? I had no idea," you don't appreciate in the slightest how he's speaking to you, his tone thick with condescension, the air of cynicism surrounding him thickens, sarcasm oozing out between every syllable that rolls of his tongue, filling the gap between each letter with derision the consistency of molasses in December.
"You seriously think you're ready for round two of the argument we had after Monza?" The current situation might be comprised of more differences than it was of similarities to that particular afternoon, but it kept to the same theme, staying true to Max's habit of being punished for a mistake he'd made on track and taking it out on innocent bystanders.
