"My God, your hands." Grantaire catches them in his own, chafing the pale fingers. "Can't you wear gloves like a sane man?"

There are snowflakes in Enjolras's hair, flecks of ice in his blue eyes. "I'm all right," he says, and tries to pull away. But Grantaire draws him close, into an embrace warmed by brandy and a good fire. By the time he realizes his daring, Enjolras has relaxed into his arms.

He kisses the snowflakes away, silent with wonder. That it should come to this -- that his love and concern should be accepted, as a matter of course.