either or :3

pls and thx xx

this yes this

mb it’s lowkey very long

It was absolutely freezing at the Nurburgring.

Silvery mist hung ominously over the section of track Formula One kidnapped once a year for their open-wheel event. The sun hadn’t made an appearance all weekend, and drivers—like you—were losing track of time.

The usually bright, bougie red-and-white of your Ferrari fireproofs were somehow dulled. The only bright thing remaining in this year’s paddock was your teammate’s—Kimi’s—eyes.

He had shed his sunglasses this weekend, as the light wasn’t so harsh, and looked absurdly comfortable in the subzero German climate.

You decided not to dwell on it further—otherwise your face would turn green with envy—and started a half-hearted conversation with your wind-ruffled race engineer.

She was petite and brown-haired, much older than you, and very switched-on. Usually conversations with her were really interesting, though it seemed everybody in the Ferrari garage except Kimi Raikkonen had experienced an unfortunate sort of brain freeze.

The man himself had appeared at your side without your noticing. ‘Hi.’

You jumped, huffing out a very opaque breath into the chilly, damp air.

‘Not cold, I see?’

You had donned a thick, lined jacket on top of your fireproofs today, one that had your last name printed across your shoulderblades. Kimi’s lay forgotten on one of the telemetry desks.

The Finn shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Always an eloquent man,’ you rolled your eyes and he remained as expressive as a sheer seaside cliff.

‘Well, we’ll see if you’ll be talking when you run off track. It’s very slippery out there,’ your engineer piped up with a small smile.

‘Mm,’ you snickered. Still, Kimi’s face barely wavered. If you squinted, however, you might have convinced yourself the tiniest of tics had quirked the corner of his lip upward.

Someone called him from across the garage and he rolled his eyes. ‘Race starts in 20, you should probably go,’ your engineer nodded.

Your teammate trudged off.

‘You need to get that jacket off,’ you grit your teeth at your engineer’s words. ‘It won’t fit in the cockpit, c’mon.’

You sighed and peeled it off, immediately shivering and reaching for your gloves and balaclava. ‘Just get me in the car and get it over with, please.’

She nodded peacefully, walking with you to your car and calling over some mechanics. You watched longingly as they pulled off the tyre warmers and stacked them neatly at the back of the garage.

Your helmet was warm after you shoved it on, thank God. As the team wheeled your car over to it’s p5 start, you had to fight back images in your head of curling up on top of a pile of tyre-warmers.

…

The race start had been messy, but you didn’t have time to think about it now. Some of the hairpins here had thrown drivers much better than you into spins—and your tyres were slowly getting shredded.

You had relayed this to your engineer about three laps ago. She’d asked you to last just a little bit longer—you were relieved when the message came in confirming your pit.

You might have been a little too relieved—turn 13 and 14 appeared out of nowhere and as you fought to keep your Ferrari within track limits you felt something slip.

This lock-up combined with the slick track sent your car flying off track, the rear swinging around and smacking into the wall.

Your head buzzed. It had smacked back into the seat behind you and somehow your helmet felt ruptured—upon your shaky hand’s inspection, you discovered it had.

The metallic taste of blood flooded your mouth. Whether you’d bit your cheek or it was coming from your throat, you didn’t know.

‘Shit…’

The red flags waving from the trackside blurred your vision. Cars still zipped past, heading into the pits.

You tried to brace your hands on the sides of the cockpit but they slipped, and you slumped forward, fighting with the spinning feeling in your head as the steering wheel flickered in and out of encroaching darkness.

Hands, rough, gloved ones, yanked you out of your car. They sat you down and placed cold metal pendants over your heart, gently removing your helmet.

Their hands felt your neck and retracted covered in your own blood. You vomited, vaguely felt disgusted, and passed out.

…

Was it Christmas?

That was the first foggy thought in your mind. But snowflakes weren’t usually so large, were they?

They blinked. You squinted.

You tried to reach for them, but your hand flopped back to your side, feeling as if it was weighted with a thousand bricks.

Warmth encased your hand and you relaxed. ‘Mm…’

A small laugh—more like a snicker—escaped the lips of the face hovering over you. That’s what it was, then—a face.

A familiar one.

‘Kimi?’

The warmth covering your hand tightened. You foggily realised that your stoic, icy teammate was holding your hand.

‘You crashed.’ good to know that the rare display of emotion hadn’t reached his voice.

‘Think so,’ you squinted up at him, trying to get him to laugh again. To your delight, he did.

‘The guy who has been replacing you is shit.’

‘Good to hear you miss me, then.’

‘Yes.’ he didn’t elaborate and you found yourself blushing.

‘He must be really terrible, then.’