British winters.

Not the most beautiful of winters, by any stretch of the imagination, but still a definite cool season. The snow of two days ago had melted into slush, grey puddles of sogginess lying in wait on the pavement. I was just praying that my boots were going to hold out until we got back to the apartment.

It had been Mello's idea to go out. Even I was starting to get restless cooped up in the flat and besides, chocolate supplies were low and the couriers wouldn't deliver because the roads were icy. Leaving Mello without chocolate was like pressing the detonator switch on an atomic bomb.

It seemed that he was regretting this outing, however.

"Matt?"

I raised my eyebrows. "What, Mello?"

"I'm cold."

I turned to look at him. Leather trousers, boots, black sleeveless shirt, fur-lined hooded jacket. You wouldn't have thought that he'd be cold, but I could see the slight redness in his usually pale cheeks, the tiny tremors of his muscles. He was so damn skinny; it wasn't really surprising that he was freezing.

I scanned the street. "Mells, there's a coffee shop just down the road. We'll stop and get hot chocolate."

Mello practically barrelled through the door and raced to the counter with all the grace that he could muster. I followed him rather more sedately. A nervous waitress took the order of a hot chocolate and a cappuccino and disappeared, escaping a rather demanding leather-clad blonde and an awkward auburn gamer in orange goggles.

Mello drummed his fingers on the countertop, counting every second that the girl took over these drinks. He practically snatched the drink out of her hand when she returned.

"Are you taking it to go or staying in?" she asked.

"To go," Mello snapped. He grabbed my arm and towed me out of the café.

I managed to hang onto my sugared coffee. "Mello, what the fuck are you doing? I thought you said you were cold!"

"I was cold," he replied as we walked out into the freezing cold. "But that girl took so long with the hot chocolate that even my fucking toes thawed out."

I took a swig of coffee. "Alright, alright."

We passed five minutes in silence. Mello spoke again.

"Matt?"

"What?"

"My hands are cold."

I rolled my eyes and sighed. "What do you want me to do about that, Mells?"

"Well, you've got gloves, for starters."

"So? They're mine!"

"Oh, go on, give me a glove."

"No! They're my goddamn gloves!"

"Matt. Gimme a glove."

"No."

"Give me a glove, you fucker!"

If I didn't give him one, he wouldn't stop griping for about three hours. I pulled off a glove and handed it to him. He yanked it on. "Thank God. I thought my hand was going to fall off."

Each of us held our drinks in our gloved hands and kept walking. We managed about a hundred yards before –

"My right hand's cold," Mello complained.

"Oh, for God's sake," I muttered, taking his right hand in my left. Anything for a quiet life. "Better now?"

"Much better," I heard him murmur as he interlocked his fingers with mine. "Not quite so cold now."

I certainly wasn't cold – warmth was spreading through me from our linked hands, radiating through my body, sending the shivers packing. Mello rarely displayed affection like this, in a way that resembled traditional romance rather than throwing something at my head, and it made it all the more special he did. My breath hitched as he leaned into my side. Mello.

We reached the apartment. Mello refused to let my hand go, so I had to fumble awkwardly with the key between our hands. When we finally made it over the threshold, Mello looked at me.

"Still cold."

I rolled my eyes. "Take your coat off, dickhead. How am I supposed to do anything with that furry leather thing on?"