Thursday, October 18th, 2018- Austin, Texas
United States Grand Prix, the Circuit of the Americas
Look, Max didn't normally have anything against the random assortment of location themed racing suits that Red Bull liked to have made from time to time, hell, he would even go so far to say he enjoyed them most of the time, a break from the monotony of the same livery season after season, but this time around, he'd had more than enough of it.
As Daniel had pointed out, quite unhelpfully in Max's personal opinion, the racing suit presented the advantage of making him look exactly how he felt- like a fucking fool.
Not only was Max a clown because he was alone here, unaccompanied by his press officer or his daughter, he looked like one too, all dressed up in the cowboy inspired set of fireproofs that the team had designed for the United States Grand Prix weekend.
If Max never had to answer another question or put on another themed racing suit again, that would still be far, far too soon for him.
"Verstappen! I like your costume!" He doesn't even need to turn around to know exactly who it is sidling up behind him just now, their voice distinct enough to register without necessitating visual confirmation before retorting.
"Leclerc," Max forces out through tightly gritted teeth, "it's not a costume, it's a-" he doesn't even know what to call whatever the hell it is that he has on right now, that he'd only finally been talked into wearing following a series of threats from Horner which had rapidly escalated from minor and insubstantial to the sort of thing that he was likely to recall even after death, "special livery."
"Special livery, costume- call it whatever you like," Charles waves a hand dismissively, "it doesn't have to have a name to still be that hideous."
"Great," he mutters to himself, so beyond not in the mood for this that it likely would have been comical if he'd been getting more than a couple of hours of sleep a night and he hadn't just spent the last two days with a camera recording his every move, pretending like he wasn't fucking miserable without his daughter here whilst simultaneously maintaining the facade that he didn't feel your absence with every breath he took, "yeah, well done, cheers. I'm absolutely overjoyed to know you don't have buttons in your head but eyes."
"I-" is all Max lets Charles get out before he interrupts, cutting him off before he can even take a proper shot at getting started, the limited, rudimentary scraps of which having proved to be more than sufficient to exhaust the full extent of the patience he had left to spare today.
"Where's the other one?" He glances around, scanning the sea of faces that surround him, filling the paddock with the familiar and unfamiliar in equal measure, knowing that if one is here, then the other can't be far behind, "the one of you two that I actually like," Max isn't exaggerating, he does like Pierre, he actually much prefers the Frenchman to the Monegasque, "there's never one without the other."
"You know, I could ask you the exact same thing," Charles points out, a smug smirk of a grin on his pale, thin face, "looks to me like you're missing pieces this weekend, aren't you, Verstappen? What happened? You finally succeed at scaring off your better half?"
"Seriously, where is Pierre? It's unprofessional of him really, to let you off the leash like this, I really had thought he was a far better handler than that," Max shakes his head in dramatized disapproval, "when was the last time you bit someone?"
"Aw, look at you, lashing out like the feral animal that you are," the Ferrari driver says with faux sympathy dripping from his tone, "should I call your handler before you hurt someone?"
"Fuck around and find out why don't you, Leclerc?" Max snaps at the other man, his patience having finally run around.
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Sunday, October 21st, 2018- Austin, Texas
United States Grand Prix, the Circuit of the Americas
Even after he'd spent the last three nights cutting his afternoon as short as his jam-packed, rigorous schedule would permit so he could eat dinner, get back to the hotel, to be showered and in his room with time to spare in which he could catch the tail end of Kaia's bedtime.
At the earliest hour he'd gone to sleep since he'd been a child himself, he'd fall asleep on FaceTime, blinking through bleary, slumber heavy eyes, stealing endless sneaked peeks of you and Kaia on the other side of his fuzzy screen, curled up together in what had once been his bed but which had, weeks ago, become our bed.
And yet, in spite of this change for the better, Max still felt much the same: his chest still felt uncomfortably tight, his heart ached perpetually, and on a whole, he remained just as short tempered as he'd been since he'd left Monaco on Monday night.
So, for the first time in recorded history, setting a precedent in his own recollection and memories, a podium finish in second following a grueling climb up from 15th and back into the points hardly seemed to register with him at all, failing entirely to bring him out of his foul mood.
Grumpy and disgruntled, Max stood on the second highest tier of the winner's podium, with an excited expression and a smug grin plastered on his face, he pretended like the ceremony going on around him, the roar of the crowd surrounding them, down to even the celebrations of his team, didn't reach his ears sounding muffled and muted, having lost their customary zeal to the numbing, dulling pain that's consumed him whole in recent days.
It's funny how that happens when you are forced to come to terms with the fact that not only are you no longer in possession of your own heart but also in addition to having lost any and all claims that you'd formerly had to it.
