mando rainy day inside!!!!!!!!
For you, friend!!!
From the October Prompt post:
#7 - Rainy day spent inside
They're supposed to be golfing, which isn't notable in and of itself, given that Max estimates he spends approximately 70% of his waking hours with Lando golfing, but they're not golfing, is the thing, because it's raining. And they've golfed in the rain before, sure, but it's been raining steadily since last night and they both know it would be miserable, and so by mutual silent agreement they're sat on the couch together instead, carefully not talking about the fact that they're not golfing. They made toast and Max made tea, and he's currently cradling his mug in his hands, watching the faint wisps of steam curl from the surface, and not watching the way Lando is fidgeting, next to him, as if he's working up to something.
"Do you know what's good on a day like this?" Lando asks, once the toast is done and the tea is half gone and cooling, and the rain is still falling steadily against the windows.
Max can't begin to guess what Lando's thinking. All he wants is to curl back up in bed and have a nice morning nap.
"What's that?" Max asks, because this is his time with Lando, and they're supposed to be golfing, and really he knows he'll do whatever Lando wants, within reason, but Lando is generally quite reasonable. Well. Maybe it's more that Max is rather used to him, but that's beside the point.
"Cuddles," Lando says, and when Max turns to look at him he isn't sparkling with mischief, trying to start something, he's morning-soft, still, wearing a sweatshirt Max knows was his at one point- a Christmas gift from his grandma- and he's terribly genuine, looking at Max with his big hopeful eyes, as if Max has ever once denied him something he wanted, especially cuddles.
"Well, come on then," Max says, setting down his mostly-finished lukewarm tea and shifting ever so slightly, because that's all he needs to do for Lando to burrow in against his side until his curls tickle Max's nose and he's half draped over him like Max's absolute favorite blanket, one leg over Max's.
"Mmmph," Lando declares, contented. The fingers of his left hand drum an off-kilter beat Max's ribcage, something between the raindrops and the remix Lando spent half the night working on.
"There you are," Max says, and he wraps one arm across Lando’s back and rests the other on his shoulder, fingers circling absently, and they're not playing golf, after all, but Max thinks he doesn't mind, not one bit, when he can spend the morning like this, comfortable and dry, just him and Lando and the rain.
