3. Sitting/snuggling in front of the fireplace with hot cocoa/tea (I'm so cliché) (Comfort)
NOTE: So I added another cliché to this; the hypothermia one. Yesss.
Also I felt tea was a little... overly British (don't kill me) so I went with hot cocoa to spice it up a bit.
"Jesus Christ." Ollie's teeth chatter, shivering in his wet clothes as Malcolm bundles him in the door to his house.
"You're a fucking idiot." Tucker says for the hundredth time, shutting the door behind them. "Falling in the fucking tank."
Reeder glares at him, trying to look as threatening as possible while drenched like a sodden puppy. "Shut up, Malcolm."
The gray-haired man ushers him into the large, tiled bathroom, turning on the hot tap and plugging the drain in the bath. "I'll draw us a bath."
"You lit the fire?" Ollie chuckles in disbelief and pads over to the couch, feeling a great deal warmer in a set of fleece pajamas.
Malcolm walks back into the living room holding two mugs. "It's cold. Shut the fuck up."
When he hands him a cup, the sweet scent of chocolate wafting from the hot liquid inside, Reeder looks at him, half-laughing. "You're ridiculously domestic, Malcolm."
"Don't tell the press." Tucker flops down beside him. "They'll have a mass fucking coronary."
The other shifts closer, pressing their sides together and twining their free hands. They prop their feet up, legs tangling together and Ollie drags a throw blanket to cover them.
"It'll ruin your tough-guy reputation." He rests his head on the silver-haired man's shoulder, grinning up at him, brown eyes sparkling through dark eyelashes.
"Hmm." Malcolm can't help but smirk down at him, gray eyes soft. "Guess I'll have to keep you around, then."
They sit in a comfortable silence, the fire crackling and popping, hands joined, mugs steaming.
When Jamie lets himself into Malcolm's house, the key scraping in the lock, he nearly turns around and leaves at the scene he arrives at.
His friend is asleep on the white sofa, an empty mug in a relaxed hand, propped against the side of a thigh. His boyfriend is wrapped around him, one hand resting on his stomach, the other loosely tangled in Malcolm's, his head resting on the other's shoulder; their legs are propped up on the ottoman and . There's a thick, warm blanket draped over their laps and the firelight flickers over their faces, warming Tucker's sharp features and Ollie's chocolate curls, crackling and making the scene feel so damn domestic, Hallmark card worthy Jamie is torn between quietly leaving and waking them both up with a shout.
The latter would be quite funny, he muses. But his friend is happy, and Jamie will respect that.
And protect it from the fucking press-vultures.
He ignores the slight tremble of his heart, the tiny, thin crack in the glass at seeing Malcolm so confortable with someone else.
Uncharacteristically gently, he takes the empty mug from Ollie's hand and coaxes the other from Malcolm's slack grip, scoffing when he sees the residue of hot cocoa on the bottom.
Hot cocoa. Honestly. Try to be a little sappier, Malc.
On his way out, Jamie can't help but snap a picture with his phone.
It'll make a great Christmas card.