WIP Wednesday: tagged by @usedtobetam and @bitingdrivers
Since I'm on a roll, I'm posting a snippet of the next Well Bitten; Well Loved. Enjoy! Warning: angsty.
March 13-15, 2015 Australian Grand Prix Carlos stands frozen in the doorway of the FIA Formula 1 Grid Packroom. When the Red Bull Junior team had promoted him up the race seat with Toro Rosso, he had been so excited. He had been excited to drive the car. He had been excited to meet the team. He had been excited to get to know his teammate. He had been excited to join the FIA Formula 1 Grid Pack. He had been excited to have a new on-track family to surround himself in, and enmesh himself with. Instead, he's left with this. He did get to drive car: points on debut. The team were wonderful, and had already taught him so much. Max had been cool, and they'd gotten as close as they could pre-season while under the weight of ambition of their respective fathers. But it was the last bit that wasn't going according to plan. Carlos' family pack was large, with many moving parts, and more than a few conflicts between them. The mood in the FIA Formula 1 Grid Pack Room is sombre. Two people had failed the qualify the day before. Two more hadn't made it to the start line. One person injured their back, and was thusly not cleared for the race. Four people retired, and only one guy didn't make it into the points. Worst of all, Pack Alpha Lewis and Pack Omega Nico are teetering on the edge of speaking terms, and neither are in any sort of state to provide comfort to their packmates. There isn't even a Red Bull pile that he can climb into: Max is still talking to the engineers; Daniil was one of those who didn't make it to the line, and his displeasure—and therefore his unwillingness to deal with pups—is wafting off of him in droves; and Daniel is busy flitting around the packroom because Sebastian has drafted him to help plug up Pack Omega duties while he tries to keep Nico and Lewis from killing each other. Carlos was supposed to hangout with Fernando, but his countryman had gotten a concussion prior to the weekend, and so wasn't even at the track for any of this weekend. Carlos stands in the doorway, feet planted on the floor, unsure of where he might be welcome. No one looks particularly inviting. It's Max to makes the decision for him, having finally made it to the packroom. He takes one look at Carlos, breathes in his chemical smoke, and drags him over to Nico Hulkenberg in the back corner. Nico—Hulk—doesn't have much of a den going, and Carlos can't pick out the scents of anybody on the grid from the items that he does have, but still, just being in someone's den settles his senses. Max plops down next to him, and pops the cap of his little bottle of vanilla extract. Carlos rumbles self-soothingly as he runs his fingers over the bitten bruises littering his arms. His shoulders are dark from familial elders, and his forearms covered by siblings and cousins wishing him well for his first season in the big leagues. That's pack. Not this. This…disparate group of people who can barely look at each other. Carlos listens to Max and Nico as they converse quietly in German. He doesn't understand what they are staying, but he doesn't feel like talking anyways. Besides, it gives him something to focus on, so it's fine. Max Verstappen's arms are empty, Carlos notices, not for the first time. The other boy is wearing short sleeves, and his arms are completed clean of any blemishes. Carlos doesn't understand how that could be possible. He's even seen Jos give his son perfunctory bites. But they are just that: perfunctory , the type that fades quickly. Carlos looks out at the rest of the FIA Formula 1 Grid Pack, and doesn't think it seems like any of these people are going to mark up Max's arms anytime soon, or his. It's not that he thought he'd be celebrated for points on debut, but Fernando would have told him he'd done a good job at least. It's fine. He'll party with his family later, won't he?