Xerxes has a really awful cold tolerance, when it comes down to it.

He still insists on going out in the cold weather improperly clothed, though, and so Liam worries. He wants to scoop the idiot up and bundle him up properly, but Xerxes protests, Xerxes avoids, puts it off with a laugh and a smile and a quip of: "There'll always be hot tea waiting for me when I come back, right, Liam?"

Of course there will be, but that doesn't make Liam feel any better about the man's health.

So inevitably, when Xerxes returns, Liam is on him like white on rice – stripping him of clothing wet from slush and snow, draping his shivering, pale form in a blanket warmed by the fire, and shoving in front of the fireplace itself, a hot cup of tea in his hands and a tray of warm cakes at his side.

"Eat," Liam insists. "Put some meat on your bones and maybe you won't be socold all of the time."

Xerxes smiles at him wanly, and eats. "You're such a mother hen."

Damn right he's a mother hen. Liam purses his lips, shoves his glasses up, and sits next to the idiot – drapes an arm around him for good measure to make surehe's warming up. Xerxes leans into him, then, a final little shiver wracking his form before he does seem to start warming, all while eating chocolate frosting off of his fingers, sipping his steaming, too-sugary tea, and stretching out his bare feet in front of the fire until the flames nearly lick them.

"I like you that way, though."

"Good," Liam huffs, and squeezes Xerxes tighter. Very good, because he isn't changing – not any time soon.