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Watching Newt stand in the snow is something very akin to magic. The little flakes fall gently upon his hair and get caught up in the frizzy ginger curls, one after the other, dusting them like icing sugar on a choux bun. It's magic, and like all magic, Credence loves it and longs for more.
"You look funny."
Newt giggles and blushes and giggles again, a symphony of high cheekbones and golden freckles and pure happiness cascading from his charming, quirky mouth. It makes Credence's chest feel fuzzy and his heart whole and wonderfully, wonderfully full.
"Is it a bad kind of funny?"
Newt tilts his head just so and snowflakes escape from their ginger cage, swooping their way onto Credence's lap as he leans in to touch their foreheads together.
"No," the boy chuckles breathlessly.
Their hair mingles, their breaths join as one - one wispy bloom between them, like soft spells leaving a wand. Credence's lips part in a shy smile, catching icy sugar in the pinched up corner like one catches a kiss. Newt laces their fingers together, and Credence's heart feels bare and tender, his skin a-tingling.
"Not at all," he murmurs. "Not at all."