Mistletoe (Cosette, Marius, 1831)
It's late out in the garden, and Cosette is hurriedly attempting to clear some of the snow from their bench with her gloved hands, which are becoming wetter and soggier the more snow she sweeps onto the ground. It's a small sacrifice, she thinks, wet hands or an entire dress to be sent to the laundry, but oh, how cold her hands are! She loves the snow, loves playing in it with her Papa even though now as a grown-up girl of sixteen she is really too old for it, but sometimes she wishes that snow was warm. What a ludicrous thought. Warm snow.
Someone clears his throat behind her, and she turns and beams. "You're here."
He takes her hand and bows over it. Even after almost six months of seeing each other like this, she still gets butterflies tumbling around her stomach. "I know. How are you?"
"Cold. But the snow is so magical, don't you think?"
"It makes getting around the city that much harder. I thought the gamins would die of laughter when I almost slipped over in the street outside the Musain," Marius says ruefully. "Gavroche has been imitating me for days."
"At least your misfortune is amusing to someone."
"I suppose."
He glances up above her head. "Well."
"Well?"
"There seems to be a certain plant growing above us," he tells her, almost mischeivous. Cosette follows his gaze - a ball of light leaves and white berries dangles tantalisingly out of reach. Oh yes, she'd picked a bit - ripping her petticoats in the process - to hang at the entrance to her bedroom. She should have realised.
"Aren't you going to follow through with the tradition?" she asks playfully. Marius smiles, cups her cheek.
"Gladly."
A/N I know that they didn't really meet in the winter, but I'm taking a bit of artistic license! Please review if you have time.