#written in a fugue state post-christmas-eve-retail-shift and quickly edited tonight

[nicbutnasty]

in from the cold

Max F/Lando | 400 words | G rated for cosy winter fluff

Heavily inspired by Max and Lando's photos from their skiing trip.

Read on AO3

Max is already curled up in front of the fire when Lando walks in and unceremoniously deposits himself into Max’s lap, nearly knocking his phone to the floor in the process. There’s not really room for two people in the armchair Max has claimed, but Lando squirms until he’s mostly comfortable, still fidgeting until— “Mate, your hands are freezing!” Max yelps as one of Lando’s hands finds its way under his fleece, the other swiftly following it. He tries to pull away, for fear of losing his nipples to frostbite or something, but Lando’s got him trapped.   “What’ve you been up to? Your trackies are soaked, too, Bob.”

And they are: from knee to ankle, the fabric is sopping wet, leaving damp patches on the sherpa blanket over Max’s lap. No wonder Lando’s freezing. 

“Been making snowballs,” Lando replies from where he’s got his face buried in Max’s shoulder, his red nose a pinpoint of cold on Max’s jaw. This close, Max can hear his teeth chattering slightly. “Chucking them at Ed. For Instagram. Thought it’d be funny.”

“No gloves?” Max asks.

“Nah.” He shakes his head, tickling Max’s jaw with his bright pink beanie. 

Max shoves at him, ineffectively. “Alright,” he sighs, “Get up, strip those trousers off, and then get under the blanket. You’ll catch your death in wet clothes.”

“Buy me dinner first,” Lando jokes, flashing one of those ridiculous grins of his. As if he thinks he can stay curled up against Max, making the whole setup cold and damp, purely through charm.

Max doesn’t justify that with an answer, so Lando reluctantly extracts himself from Max’s fleece and slides off, making quick work of his wet joggers. 

“You’re the one with the Formula 1 salary, Bob,” Max finally retorts, probably too late. “Maybe you should buy me dinner sometime.”

He pulls back the blanket and beckons for Lando to join him, making room for Lando’s back against the armrest and legs across Max’s lap, socked feet tucked in. 

“Maybe I will,” Lando murmurs from where he’s pressed up against Max’s fleece again, head half-tucked into his armpit. “Maybe I will.”

Ed traipses through with the rest of them later, when Lando’s half asleep on Max’s shoulder, their legs intertwined. “Alright, you two,” he nods, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to see the two of them curled up together.

Which, he supposes, maybe it is.