Chapter Text
It was nearly midnight when the car finally pulled up to the little snow-dusted cabin, headlights sweeping across the frost-covered trees. The drive had been long, dark, and filled with a chaotic mix of dodgy playlist choices (George), aggressively wrong turn directions (Lando), and far too many crisps crunched at maximum volume (also Lando). Charles, in the backseat, had been quietly regretting his decision to accept George’s offer of a lads’ getaway in the mountains. Max was meant to come with them, but he had a last-minute sponsor event he couldn’t miss, just a two-day delay. He promised he’d be there by Saturday evening, and Charles had been counting down the hours ever since.
The car wheels crunched over the snow-packed driveway as they pulled up to the cabin, the headlights casting golden arcs through the late afternoon haze. Snowflakes still drifted lazily down from the grey sky, settling softly on the roof, the trees, and the already-thick blanket that covered the ground. Pines lined the clearing, their branches heavy with white, and the only sounds were the engine ticking as it cooled and the satisfying creak of doors opening.
The air was bitingly cold, the kind that crept under coats and nipped at noses, but it was so still - no traffic, no city sounds, no press, no media pressure, just the gentle hush of wind through pine trees and the crunch of boots on frost. The cabin itself looked like something out of a postcard. Sloped roof, a small chimney with a trickle of smoke curling into the sky, strings of fairy lights flickering gently around the porch railing. Charles blinked up at it sleepily, arms crossed over his chest for warmth.
“This is actually nice,” Alex said, slamming the boot shut.
George gave him a look. “Actually nice? I planned this, you little rat.”
“You also forgot the food bag at the petrol station,” Charles mumbled, trying to tug the collar of his coat higher.
George winced. “That’s… a fair point.”
Inside the cabin, it was warm and woody, with a small fireplace already going in the main room. There was a pile of mismatched blankets in the corner, and the kitchen smelled faintly of cinnamon, like someone had used the place recently and left it cosy for the next guests.
They dragged in their bags, jackets, and ski gear, throwing them into vague piles near the stairs. Lando immediately claimed one of the twin rooms to himself, leaving George and Alex with the other one and Charles and Max (when he arrived) got the double room.
For now, it was peaceful. They unpacked the bare minimum (toothbrush, phone charger, snack stash), dumped their coats onto the hooks by the door, and padded around in thick socks, yawning and rubbing their eyes. Someone made tea. Someone else found biscuits. The fireplace crackled softly.
Lando had practically bounced on the balls of his feet when he’d pulled the two sofas into beds and flung duvets everywhere, already holding a hot chocolate in one hand and wearing some ridiculous fluffy socks that had Santa faces on them.
“We’re doing this properly, boys,” he’d said triumphantly. “Winter cabin movie night, times two.”
George and Alex had immediately claimed the bed closer to the fireplace, sprawling across it like they were on a throne, fighting over which film to put on first. Which left Charles tucked into the other sofa bed with Lando.
Eventually, after a dramatic debate and a near-physical stand-off between George and Lando (over a copy of Die Hard), they settled on something light, funny, and not too long.
By the time the movie hit its final scenes, the cabin had slipped into a warm, hazy quiet. The only sounds were the low hum of the credits rolling, the occasional soft snap from the fireplace, and the gentle hush of snow still brushing against the windows. It was a kind of stillness that made everyone feel sleepier than they realised.
Charles was the last one still vaguely watching, eyes fluttering open and closed in slow, heavy blinks. He was tucked into the edge of the sofa-bed, the blanket pulled all the way up to his chin, one hand curled loosely under his cheek. His hot chocolate sat forgotten and half-finished on the table. Every few minutes he shifted slightly - not fully awake, just gently adjusting like someone too warm to move but too content to care.
Lando had already passed out. He was completely boneless, limbs tangled in the blanket, his face smushed into the cushion in the most undignified way imaginable. His arm had flopped across Charles’s legs at some point, and his socked foot kept brushing against Charles’s ankle, but he was clearly deep in the kind of sleep you only get when you’ve eaten too much and laughed too hard.
Charles let out the faintest sigh, barely more than a breath, and turned a little in his spot, subconsciously curling closer to the warmth of Lando’s side. His cheek brushed the edge of Lando’s arm, and for a moment he blinked again, trying to keep himself awake - but the room was so quiet, so soft, so safe.
Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, the fire dimmed into a low golden glow. And tucked under three blankets, in a messy pile of friends and cocoa mugs and quiet breathing, Charles finally let his eyes close for good. Not even on purpose - just sleep pulling him under, gentle and easy, while the world outside turned slowly to white.
Now, at 2:13am, the movie had long since ended and the room was silent. George, half-asleep and thirsty, had peeled himself out from under the covers with the grace of someone trying not to step on squeaky floorboards. He shuffled into the kitchen, grabbed a glass of water - and then happened to glance over toward the other bed.
He stopped. He stared. He blinked.
And then he had to physically bite the inside of his cheek to stop the laugh from coming out loud.
Because Lando Norris, human golden retriever, had absolutely starfished himself across the entire mattress, mouth open, duvet tangled somewhere around his shins. One arm was stretched fully across Charles’s chest like he was trying to hug him and also pin him down, and one leg was slung heavily over Charles’s middle, blanket barely covering either of them.
Charles - bless his soul - hadn’t moved. He was curled up on the absolute edge of the mattress, back to the room, arms tucked in close like he was trying to take up less space. He looked cold. His curly hair was squished flat on one side. One of his socks was halfway off.
He looked like he’d tried, even in sleep, not to bother anyone.
George wheezed under his breath and doubled over slightly, fumbled back to the other bed and urgently waved at Alex.
Alex blinked groggily. “Wha’s wrong?”
“Look at them,” George whispered, barely able to keep the grin off his face.
Alex turned slowly, saw what George was pointing at, and had to clap a hand over his mouth to stop his laugh from bursting out.
“Oh my god,” he mouthed. “Oh my god, he’s hanging off the bed.”
George nodded, choking on air.
“Is he- is he even under the duvet?” Alex squinted. “I think Lando stole it.”
“He’s completely stolen it.”
They both laughed again, muffled and gasping, and George fumbled for his phone. He took a photo - blurry and dark, but absolutely golden. Lando’s limbs were everywhere. Charles looked like he was seconds from falling off. His arm was curled up protectively in front of him and he’d somehow ended up with only a corner of the blanket over one shoulder.
*~*
The morning sunlight drifted through the cabin windows in soft golden stripes, catching on the drifting specks of dust in the still air. The room was warm with sleepy quiet, broken only by the occasional creak of wood and the sound of someone shifting under blankets.
George and Alex had been awake for a while now. George was sipping tea from a Santa mug and leaning against the kitchen counter, watching Alex fumble with the stovetop in search of bacon. They kept glancing over at the sofa beds, giggling every time they remembered the photo from last night.
“He’s still like that,” George whispered, nudging Alex and pointing with his mug.
Lando, somehow, was lying in the exact same ridiculous position - diagonally across the entire mattress, mouth open, blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon. His arm was flopped over the space where Charles used to be, and his leg stretched all the way to the edge of the bed.
Charles… was not thriving.
He was curled into a little ball, half-off the side of the mattress, shivering slightly. His curls were sticking out in a fluffy mess. Only his socked toes peeked out from the pathetic corner of blanket still clinging to him.
Then Lando shifted. Stretching like a smug house cat, he swung one arm up - and smacked Charles in the face.
Charles made a small noise and blinked awake blearily.
“…Ow,” he mumbled, the softest, sleepiest voice in the world.
Alex nearly dropped the pan.
George slapped a hand over his own mouth and physically turned away, shoulders shaking with the effort of not laughing.
But Charles didn’t wake fully. He blinked once, frowned faintly, then shut his eyes again with a soft sigh and curled tighter.
“He’s still cold!” Alex whispered. “Look at him! Lando is a duvet thief and a bed hog.”
“He’s going to fall off-”
And then he did.
It was Lando who shifted, stretched again, and accidentally booted Charles directly off the mattress with one socked foot.
There was a soft thump and then a very displeased, very muffled:
“…Twat.”
George couldn’t help it - he burst out laughing.
“You alright, mate?” he called over.
Charles, now sitting on the floor and glaring at nothing, blinked up at him.
“I hate him,” he said, flatly.
Alex snorted.
Charles stood, still wrapped in his sad little bit of blanket, and padded over to join them at the kitchen counter, cheeks flushed with cold, curls a mess, socks slightly mismatched. He looked mildly traumatised.
“He’s not even sorry,” Charles muttered, watching Lando snore peacefully across the room. “He’s dreaming about skiing or something stupid.”
“He did smack you in the face and kick you off the bed in his sleep,” George agreed, as if this was a valid conversation to be having at 8am.
“You should kick him back,” Alex said cheerfully.
“Later,” Charles mumbled, sipping his tea.
About ten minutes later, Lando finally began to stir.
It started with a wiggle.
Still deep in sleep, Lando shifted onto his side, arms stretched out, one leg thrown dramatically over a pillow. The bed beneath him creaked slightly, the way it always did when someone moved a bit too close to the edge-but Lando, oblivious, kept going. Another shuffle. Another lurch.
And then…
A moment of stillness. Balance hanging by a thread.
He twitched once more-one final, doomed roll-and gravity took over.
There was a long, drawn-out beat where it seemed like he might save it. His hand flailed out, caught the edge of the duvet, scrabbled-only to send the entire blanket whooshing off the bed in a flurry of limbs and betrayal.
Then came the thud.
Lando hit the floor in the least graceful, most tangle-limbed heap imaginable. There was a thump, a startled grunt, and a muffled curse from somewhere inside the duvet mountain.
George snorted.
Alex dropped the spatula.
Lando sat up groggily, one eye open, hair completely mental.
“…Did I die?”
“Did you fall?” George asked through a grin.
Lando groaned from the floor, tangled in a corner of the blanket, face half pressed into the rug. “M’totally fine. I meant to do that.”
Charles, still wrapped in a blanket and now sat on the edge of the other sofa bed, blinked sleepily and tucked his knees up. His phone buzzed in his hands. A message from Max.
Max: I’m at the airport. Boarding in 15. Miss you.
A tiny smile curved at the corner of Charles’s mouth.
Charles: I miss you too. Please hurry. Lando has nearly killed me twice and it’s not even 9am.
Charles put his phone down and watched with great amusement as Lando tried to figure out how to stand back up without knocking over the coffee table.
George poured tea. Alex flipped pancakes. Outside, fresh snow started to fall again.
And inside, the morning was just quietly, ridiculously lovely.