Sunday, November 11th, 2018- São Paulo, Brazil
Brazil Grand Prix, Autódromo José Carlos Pace- the Interlagos Circuit
If anyone ever asked Max about the content of the last two text messages he'd sent, he'd deny them until whoever it was that had the misfortune of asking either gave up or he ran out the clock. He didn't even care that there was concrete evidence of what he'd said, that on the evening of Sunday, November 11th he'd typed out and sent the two lines of text.
See you soon. Won't keep you waiting. I need this.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I need you right now.
He wasn't his father's son for nothing, he'd find a way around the truth if he had to. But for now, for the time being, Max locks his phone and shoves it into the pocket of his pants, or as much as he can put it in the admittedly very tight front pocket of his skinny jeans.
As long as it fit enough that he was no longer holding the electronic in the palm of his hand and staring at the dark screen, rethinking over and over again what he'd said and the possible ramifications that could potentially come of it, Max was content. He did not permit himself to check his phone even once more, knowing that if there was an emergency, anyone who'd be calling him about it would know the procedure and would simply call him, they wouldn't waste anyone's time texting him about the matter.
All he allowed himself to do was stare out the window and try to not think, since his ears which were still ringing with the telling off he'd gotten first from the stewards for turning a verbal dispute into a physical altercation, something that had gotten him sentenced to community service, then by Horner, Helmut Marko and GP, before Daniel had made his appearance and taken his turn at giving Max a talking to, and now in combined with what he'd said to you, he thought he was better off just trying to not touch or say or do anything for a little bit.
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Keeping his head down and his eyes averted, Max swiftly crosses the hotel lobby, aiming to avoiding drawing attention to himself because tonight really isn't the night that he feels much like stopping to take pictures or sign anything, and while his current mood is definitely something, it's not the kind of mood that anyone in their right mind would ever describe as being... family friendly– for lack of a better turn of phrase.
Luck seems to be on his side, for once in the entirety of this entire fucking day, because he makes it into the elevator and up to floor that both your and his hotel rooms, the latter of which has now become Kaia's room, which is to say the room the three of you have slept in together every night since Tuesday.
Thanks wholly to the fact that you've been given oversight privileges when it comes to booking the accommodations, you've somehow managed to snag two rooms on a floor that isn't shared with anyone else on the team, Max doesn't have any idea how that had even been possible or how you'd pulled it off without catching the attention of Horner or Daniel.
But at this point, after nearly three months living and working with you all day, every day, he's come to learn that it is not for him to ask why or how but to merely be grateful for what you've accomplished.
It's absolutely fucking ridiculous that the inside of his head is just on a perpetual loop of shit like this, of his thoughts wandering off in the very midst of things because they'd evidently rather spend their time gathering around you, curling up in your lap and brushing against your ankles like over friendly, slightly aggressive stray cats, that he can't for the life of him seem to wrangle back into some semblance of order.
There had been a time before when he would have been infinitely more embarrassed about the current state of affairs inside his head but Max has evolved past such things in recent weeks, not because he'd intended to, rather because he'd not really been given much of a say in the matter.
