How to not share a sofa bed

by miss_chanandler_bong

Summary:

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.

Or,
George, Alex, Charles, Lando, (eventually Max) go on a skiing trip to the alps and chaos ensues

Notes:

Hope you enjoy!!

Chapter 1

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.

Chapter 2: How to not burn pancakes

Notes:

Okayyyy so I added another chapter
I’ll definitely add some moreee

The cabin smelled like coffee and toast before anyone was even properly awake.

Outside, the snow was still coming down in slow, steady flakes, piling onto the thick layer already covering the trees. The world looked muffled and white, but inside was warm, the fire from last night still crackling faintly in the grate.

George was at the stove, one hand on the frying pan, the other gesturing wildly as he argued with Alex.

“It’s not hot enough yet,” George insisted, holding his hand above the surface like he could measure the heat with his palm.

Alex rolled his eyes. “You’re going to burn them if you wait any longer. The whole point is low and slow.”

“That’s bacon,” George shot back, affronted. “Not pancakes.”

Charles slipped past them with a faint smile, reaching for the chopping board. He’d learned long ago that it was best not to get in the middle of George and Alex’s kitchen debates; they would sort it out eventually, usually with one of them sulking and the other smug.

He set about cutting up the fruit - strawberries, bananas, a few slices of orange - while occasionally lifting his coffee mug for a slow sip. Outside the window, snow was still falling in lazy, drifting flakes, settling thick on the trees. His breath didn’t fog the glass from here, but he imagined it would if he pressed close enough.

Lando was hovering near the toaster with his phone in one hand, laughing at something on YouTube. His other hand was buttering a slice of bread - except he kept forgetting about it, letting the toaster cycle end and restart again until the bread came out almost black.

“Lando, you’ve burnt that again,” Charles said mildly.

“It’s rustic,” Lando replied, not looking up from his phone.

“It’s charcoal,” George muttered.

At some point, a bottle of maple syrup tipped over on the counter, spilling into a glossy amber puddle.

Alex, catching sight of it, froze dramatically. “We have a situation,” he announced.

Within seconds, the three of them were gathered around it, discussing the “syrup crime scene” like detectives at a police briefing. Charles just shook his head, pushing the plate of neatly cut fruit toward the centre of the table.

By the time the pancakes were finally done-half of them perfectly golden, half of them slightly questionable-they all sat down together. It wasn’t the most refined breakfast he’d ever had, but there was something about eating with snow falling outside that made it feel perfect anyway.

*~*

After breakfast, the cabin became a flurry of activity as they layered up for the slopes. Thermals, fleeces, and thick waterproof coats were tugged on over each other, hats pulled low over ears, scarves wrapped snugly under chins. Gloves were pulled tight, then pulled off again because someone inevitably forgot to zip something or fix a boot buckle.

When they finally stepped outside, the air hit them like a clean, icy splash. It was sharp and dry, the kind of cold that made every breath plume out in pale clouds. Snow crunched under their boots with that satisfying crisp sound you could only get in proper winter weather. Charles tilted his head back for a moment, watching his breath drift upward before it dissolved into the cloudless, pale-blue morning. His cheeks prickled in the cold, and his nose felt instantly chilled.

The drive to the slopes was short but winding, the narrow road edged by towering pines weighed down with snow. The trees looked almost unreal, their branches heavy with perfect, untouched layers of white. Lando pressed his forehead to the car window, narrating in mock-seriousness about how they were venturing “into the wild.”

Alex told him to save the commentary for when he could ski without falling over.

When they arrived, the air was alive with the sound of skis scraping over snow, the mechanical hum of chairlifts, and the occasional joyful shout from somewhere up the slope.

Charles took a moment before heading to the lift, clicking into his skis with that familiar satisfying snap. The first push forward was his favourite part - gliding smoothly over the compact snow, the cold wind instantly sweeping past his face.

The group scattered quickly across the runs. George was all focus and clean technique, the type who probably had a checklist of form corrections running through his head. Alex was just behind him, less graceful but managing well, occasionally calling out to George in mock advice. Lando, of course, was everywhere-sometimes upright, sometimes not-clearly determined to make his skiing as much of a performance as possible.

Halfway down one slope, Charles slowed and dug his poles lightly into the snow, letting himself drift to a stop. From there, he had the perfect vantage point to watch the chaos below. George had just swerved to avoid a collision with Alex, both of them waving their arms in exaggerated frustration that dissolved instantly into laughter. Lando, meanwhile, was attempting something that looked suspiciously like a jump and ended with him sprawled in a heap, skis pointing in opposite directions.

The cold air carried their laughter up the slope, oddly clear and bright in the stillness between runs. Charles couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his mouth as he pushed forward again, carving gentle turns through the powder.

They rode the lifts back up again and again, the world dropping away below them into a quilt of white and green. The wind bit at their cheeks, leaving them flushed and glowing, but no one seemed to mind. Time blurred into a rhythm of climbing, gliding, and laughing.

By the time they finally headed back to the cabin, the snow had begun to fall heavier, the flakes fat and slow, spinning down through the pale afternoon light. It softened everything-the outlines of the trees, the edges of the rooftops-until the whole world felt muffled and close, like they were inside some enormous snow globe.

*~*

The wind had picked up too, rattling at the windows. After hanging up damp coats and kicking off boots, they spread themselves across the living room. George took over the armchair nearest the fire, leaning back with a book. Alex curled into the other armchair, his legs tucked up. Lando was lying upside down on the sofa, head dangling toward the floor, groaning about how bored he was. Charles settled on the rug, back to the sofa, his phone in his hands as he typed a message to Max.

Charles- it’s snowing more now, can’t wait to see you later ❤️

It was only a minute before the response came through.

Max- I’ll be there soon schat, miss you xx

The fire crackled, casting warm light across the room. A sudden flicker of the overhead lights made them all freeze for a second.

 

“Power cut incoming,” Lando announced, immediately flipping upright and darting to the kitchen. “I’m getting snacks before the fridge dies.”
Alex called after him that the fridge would be fine, but it didn’t stop Lando from returning with an armful of crisps and biscuits.

George planted himself by the fire, immediately poking at it with a stick he’d found outside.

“This is how you keep it going,” he announced, as though the rest of them cared.

They ended up digging out a stack of board games, the heavy snow outside wrapping the cabin in quiet.

Monopoly didn’t last long-George was too competitive, Lando was too chaotic, and Alex quit when Charles quietly bankrupted him. Lando sulked dramatically, sprawled across the floor while Charles stacked up his winnings with a small, satisfied smile.

*~*

George, Alex, and Lando had barely put monopoly away before declaring they were starving. Not just hungry - starving - in that way where they couldn’t possibly wait for anything to be cooked. Lando immediately suggested going into the village for “real” food.

“Could just order,” Charles had said, sitting down on the spot closest to the fire.

George shook his head, already grabbing the car keys from the hook. “Nope. We’re going. Fresh bread, proper cheese, maybe something from that deli. Be back in an hour.”

“Or two,” Alex added, pulling his hat back on. “Depends how distracted Lando gets.”

“Excuse me, I’m very efficient in a grocery store,” Lando said, already halfway out the door.

And just like that, they were gone, the door swinging shut behind them and the sound of their voices fading into the snow.

Charles had lingered by the window, watching their car reverse down the track, taillights glowing faint in the white haze. The cabin settled into quiet almost instantly. Just the fire crackling in the grate, the occasional soft sigh of the wind at the windows, and the creak of the floorboards when he moved.

He sat himself down on the sofa and pulled out his phone to scroll, just wasting time.

It was the crunch of tyres that pulled him out of it. His heart lifted before he even thought about it. A moment later, the door opened, letting in a gust of cold air and the faint smell of snow.

Max stepped inside, shaking the flakes from his hair. His cheeks were pink from the wind, eyes bright. He shut the door quickly, stamping his boots on the mat.

When his eyes found Charles across the room, something in his expression softened - not in a big, obvious way, but in that quiet shift Charles always noticed, like he’d been waiting to see him.

Charles didn’t plan to move. One second he was in the armchair, the next he was on his feet, the blanket slipping from his shoulders and pooling behind him. Max barely had time to take his coat off before Charles was there, sliding into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The cold of Max’s body from outside seeped through for a moment before his warmth broke through it, solid and familiar. Charles pressed his face into the space between his shoulder and neck, breathing in the faint mix of snow, wind, and woodsmoke.

“You’re cold,” Charles murmured against the wool of his jumper.

Max let out a breath that was almost a laugh, his hand settled at the small of his back, thumb moving in slow circles. “You’re not,” he said, voice quiet and warm.

Neither of them rushed it. Max’s other arm curled around his shoulders, and Charles let his own hand drift up to the back of Max’s neck, fingers brushing over his hair, damp from the melting snowflakes. They stood like that until the chill from outside was gone, replaced by the soft heat from the fire.

When Charles finally leaned back enough to look at him, his fingers smoothed down Max’s wind-ruffled hair. “I missed you,” he said, not as a confession, just a fact.

Max’s eyes held his. “Missed you too.”

Outside, the snow kept falling, muting the world into white. Inside, the fire cracked softly, and Max’s thumb traced slow, steady lines over Charles’s arm. Neither of them said anything more. They didn’t need to.

They stood there for a long moment, swaying slightly, the only sound the soft crackle from the fireplace and the distant hush of snow outside. When Max finally pulled back just enough to see him, his hand came up to cup Charles’s jaw, thumb brushing lightly over his cheek.

“Your cheeks are warm,” Max murmured. “Been sitting by the fire?”

Charles nodded, eyes soft. “Waiting for you.”

Max’s chest tightened in that way it always did when Charles said things like that - quietly, sincerely, without thinking how much weight his words carried. He leaned in and kissed him, slow and unhurried, the kind of kiss that was more about coming home than anything else.

When they finally broke apart, Max pressed their foreheads together, smiling faintly.

When Max guided them toward the armchair, Charles didn’t resist. They sank into it together, the blanket retrieved and wrapped around both of them. Charles shifted sideways so he could tuck his knees against Max’s thigh, one hand resting over Max’s chest where he could feel the steady beat beneath his palm.

Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, the fire popped softly. Max’s arm stayed secure around him, his thumb brushing slow lines over Charles’s arm, and neither of them said anything more. They didn’t need to.

Chapter 3: How to not fall in love with your boyfriend all over again in one night

Notes:

Enjoy!!

George and Alex were in their room, Lando had passed out in a sleeping bag in the living room for some reason no one was quite sure of, and Charles and Max were tucked into one of the upstairs bedrooms, sharing a real bed this time. The duvet was thick and soft, the radiator ticking faintly in the background, and outside the snow was still falling.

The radiator ticked softly, a steady, comforting rhythm that blended with the faint whisper of wind brushing against the windowpane. Outside, snow drifted gently down, leaving the room wrapped in a serene, hushed stillness. Every now and then, the bed groaned faintly as Charles shifted against Max’s chest, a tiny, lived-in sound that made the space feel even more intimate.

The air was crisp near the window, carrying the faint scent of winter outside, but under the thick duvet it was warm and cozy, the contrast almost indulgent. Charles’s shampoo lingered lightly, mixing with the familiar, comforting smell of Max’s cologne, and the combination made Max’s chest feel like the safest place in the world. The quilt tucked around them trapped heat perfectly, pressing gently against their bodies, while the occasional draft from the window made Max pull it a little tighter, ensuring Charles’s feet stayed snug.

Charles was curled half on top of Max, legs tangled, face tucked under Max’s chin. His ear was pressed over Max’s heart, steady and rhythmic, and Max had one hand resting warm on Charles’s back, the other combing slowly through his curls. Every few minutes, Max would lean down and press a soft kiss to Charles’s forehead, like it was second nature. Which it was, really.

Charles was warm. So warm. All his muscles relaxed, his breath slowing, sleep pulling at him with soft fingers. He let out a tiny hum every time Max kissed him, the sort that barely escaped his throat.

Charles shifted ever so slightly against Max’s chest, a small flex of his fingers brushing over the fabric of Max’s t-shirt. One foot nudged gently against Max’s side, almost imperceptible, as if testing the warmth he felt through the duvet. His eyelashes fluttered against Max’s skin when he turned his head just a fraction, and Max’s hand, still tracing soft circles through his curls, seemed to make him melt further into the warmth.

Every tiny touch brought a response. Charles let out faint, half-asleep hums, a noise more instinct than conscious sound, his lips parting slightly as he drew a slow breath. His cheek pressed more firmly into Max’s collarbone, as if anchoring himself to the steady beat beneath him. Even in sleepiness, he reacted minutely to Max’s kisses on his forehead, turning toward them, letting them linger, letting the safety of the contact sink into him.

Inside his half-dream, half-conscious mind, thoughts floated lazily: This is safe. I never want to move. I want to stay right here. Every heartbeat, every gentle stroke of Max’s fingers along his hair, confirmed it, pulling him further into that cocoon of warmth. He let out another tiny hum, a soft sigh, the sound of contentment slipping from him almost without thought.

Max, sensing these micro-reactions, smiled softly, pressing another feather-light kiss to the top of Charles’s head. He shifted slightly, making sure Charles’s body was fully supported, his chest rising and falling in time with Charles’s, the gentle movement grounding them both. Every twitch of a finger, every subtle shift, felt intimate and precious, Max’s awareness of Charles’s comfort wrapping around him like another layer of warmth.

And as Charles’s eyelids drooped fully closed, his body melting against Max’s, he finally let his thoughts settle completely: I’m here. I’m safe. I don’t have to go anywhere. I can just be.

Max smiled. “You comfy, bébé?”

Charles gave a lazy, happy noise in reply - more breath than voice - and nuzzled in closer.

Then, a quiet, barely-there, half-asleep mumble:

“…much prefer sharin’ a bed with you…”

Max glanced down, amused, hand still stroking gently through his hair. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhm,” Charles breathed, eyes shut. “You don’t kick me off the bed…”

Max bit back a laugh and kissed his forehead again, softer this time. “No?”

Charles sighed like it had haunted him. “Lando did. Kicked me off. George had to rescue me…”

Max tried not to snort, stroking behind Charles’s ear. “You poor thing.”

“Also…” Charles’s voice was heavier now, thick with sleep, the words sinking slowly between each breath. “You kiss my forehead.”

Max’s heart squeezed.

“You like that, hmm?”

“Yeah…” Charles breathed. “S’nice.”

There was a long pause, just the sound of their quiet breathing, Max’s fingers combing slow and steady through soft curls.

Then, drowsy and muffled, like it tumbled out without thought:

“…love you…”

Max didn’t reply right away - just pressed another long kiss to Charles’s forehead, holding him a little closer, his voice barely more than a whisper when it came:

“Love you too, always.”

Charles smiled against Max’s chest. He was already half-asleep again, but this time there was no danger of falling off the bed. Only warmth, and quiet, and Max’s heartbeat under his ear.

Max could feel it - the way Charles’s breathing had started to even out, the warmth of him settled perfectly against Max’s chest, the weight of his limbs getting heavier. But still, every few seconds, Charles would stir just slightly. A soft twitch of his fingers. A flutter of his eyelashes. Like he was trying not to drift off completely.

Max smiled gently, fingers still stroking through his curls, and leaned down to murmur into his hair.

“You go to sleep, schat,” he whispered, quiet and warm. “You’re so tired.”

Charles shifted slightly, nose brushing against Max’s collarbone, and gave the tiniest, most stubborn noise. “Noo..”

Max blinked. “No?” he echoed, chuckling softly. “Why not, schat?”

Charles was quiet for a moment, and Max didn’t press. He just kept stroking his hair, patient, waiting.

Then, in a voice barely louder than a breath, Charles mumbled, “Cause you’re here. And I’ll be by myself when m’ sleeping.”

Max stilled.

For a second he couldn’t speak. His heart gave this soft, aching little pull - the kind of feeling that sat deep in his chest and made him want to wrap Charles up in a dozen more blankets and never let him go.

“Oh, lieveling…” he murmured.

He shifted slightly, just enough to tuck Charles even closer into his chest, hand now cradling the back of his head, thumb brushing behind his ear. Then he pressed a long, warm kiss to his cheek.

“I promise,” Max whispered. “I’ll be here the whole time, love. And I’ll be right here when you wake up. You’re not gonna be by yourself.”

Charles let out this soft, relieved sigh - not quite a reply, more like his whole body just… believed him. Trusted him completely.

“M’kay,” he breathed.

And then, like a switch had been flicked, his entire body relaxed. He melted into Max’s chest, head tucked just under Max’s chin, the last of his tension slipping away. Within seconds, his breathing had gone slow and deep - completely asleep.

Max lay there holding him, one arm curled protectively around his back, hand still gently in his curls. He could feel the steady rise and fall of Charles’s chest, the warmth of him pressed close, and he kissed his forehead one more time.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Always.”

And Charles, fast asleep and wrapped in Max’s arms, didn’t stir again all night.

Max lay still for a few moments, just watching Charles breathe, feeling the tiny rise and fall of his chest beneath his hand. The duvet was warm around them, but the faint chill from the window made the contrast even sweeter-the cold outside and the warmth of Charles pressed close, utterly human and comforting. Max let his fingers linger in Charles’s curls, tracing small, absent-minded circles, feeling the soft texture and the little shifts as Charles’s body relaxed fully into sleep.

Every so often, Charles would twitch a finger or murmur softly, like a secret escaping in his sleep, and Max would lean down and press a gentle kiss to his temple, just to remind himself-and maybe Charles too-that he was right here. He felt an ache of fondness swell in his chest, the kind that made him want to hold Charles forever, to never let the world interrupt this quiet safety they’d carved out.

Max’s gaze drifted around the room. The radiator clicked and hissed faintly, snow brushed softly against the windowpane, and the faint scent of Charles’s shampoo mixed with the warmth of their shared duvet. He could hear the subtle creak of the bed as Charles shifted in his sleep, tiny, unintentional movements that made Max smile.

He traced a slow path down Charles’s back with one hand, just enough to feel the subtle tension in his muscles release further, marveling at how much trust Charles had placed in him. Max felt protective in a way that made his chest tighten pleasantly-the way Charles seemed so content, so utterly at ease, made Max’s heart ache with love.

“Sleep well, schat,” Max whispered softly, his voice barely audible in the quiet of the night. “I’ve got you. Always.”

He stayed like that for a long while, just listening to the rhythm of Charles’s breathing, the little sighs that punctuated sleep, and the soft hums that escaped unconsciously. Max imagined the cold outside continuing its relentless snow, but inside this room, with Charles here, the world was perfect. He wanted to remember every small detail-the curl of Charles’s hair against his hand, the warmth of his skin, the faint scent of the room-and treasure it all.

Eventually, Max allowed himself to relax, too. He shifted slightly, letting his weight settle comfortably behind Charles, one arm still cradling him, the other hand tracing gentle, lazy patterns across his back. There was no rush, no obligations-just the quiet intimacy of being there for someone you loved, completely and entirely.

And for Max, that was enough.

Notes:

I will definitely be adding more chapters to this noww

Notes:

Thanks for reading 🩷
I may add more chapters to this