October 2nd, 2018- The Monte Carlo Quarter, Monaco
Jimmy'z Monte-Carlo
"I told you this was a great idea!" Daniel shouted over the blaring music, grinning like a madman with a drink in both hands- Max didn't have a single fucking clue when that had happened, last time he'd checked the Australian had been entirely drink less- his head bobbing with all the rhythm of a deaf man.
"It was definitely an idea, but I don't know about great-"
Max could feel the repetitive thump of the bass in his very bones, the thrum of it so ridiculously loud that he didn't think he could even remember the time before the beat echoed through his body, persistent and unending, until it began to feel like his blood itself had begun to sing.
With the melodies now coursing through his veins, it began to feel almost as if the songs themselves were dead set upon winning him over, as they bled one into the next, their notes coming without even a momentary reprieve, one after another until he stopped caring about trying to differentiate the former beat from it's successor.
But he didn't particularly want to be won over because inherently, that would mean he still had the wherewithal to make a conscious decision about anything and that unique distinction, as far as he was concerned about it, only meant one thing- that he wasn't drunk enough yet. Max didn't want to think, he didn't want to have to hear his own thoughts anymore. The only thing in the entire world that he wanted right now was to drink until the club around him went hazy and the stupid fucking voice inside his head went quiet.
"Too much talking, not enough drinking."
"Here's to 21," Daniel raised one hand in the air, drink held aloft.
"To 21," Max replies, opting not to point out that he's been 21 for three days now or the fact that, for the most part, the novelty of his birthday has long since worn off, Max simply elects to play along, finding that it's far easier to just suck it and go through the gestures than it is to do anything else, "and here- here's to forgetting 20."
"To forgetting 20," his teammate repeats, dipping his head in acknowledgement.
"And to making it to 22," he muttered to himself, downing the remainder of the vodka Red Bull from his sweating glass, wrinkling his nose as it goes down, the drink watered down and flat, a clear sign that he wasn't drinking enough or fast enough, if half a cup's worth of ice melting had outpaced him that easily.
"It's about fucking time you showed up!" Max doesn't even have to turn around to know who Daniel's speaking too because he's so far past the point of not taking note of the way his friend's face brightens when you come in a room that it's not even fucking funny.
He knows it shouldn't bother him, and that, strictly speaking, he shouldn't even care enough to start doing such ridiculous things as pick up on the change in demeanor, but fuck me does it get on Max's nerves.
"What is this? A cry for help?"
"Don't you know a birthday party when you see one?" Max spreads his arms wide, "it's a fucking birthday party."
"What? Just me, you and pretty boy over there is a party now?"
"No, me and pretty boy are," he can't help himself to let that go right now, not when he's torn between his perpetual urge to get combative when he's in a mood like the one he's in tonight, and especially not when his drunken brain is talking a million miles a minute, the push and pull between doing what he wants to do and what he should do, what is the appropriate course of action to take, battling it out inside of his head like they've got nothing better to do than fuck with him, "you- you're just here."
