It's been the same every year for as long as he can remember. The first snow was always the best for sliding. The ground wasn't ever cold enough, so the snow would be dangerously slick. They would lug their tubes back afterwards, laughing and shaken to the bones from wet cold.
Their Ma would fuss. "Reckless ingrates, both of ya. Catch yer death o'cold out there, leavin' yer long sufferin' Ma all alone- and this close ta Christmas too."
It was the time spent afterward under a blanket in front of the wood stove Murphy cherished most. They would burn their lips on hot tea and spill on each other, cursing and giggling, not able to be still for shivering. Ma would shoo them out of the kitchen and into bed, and they always helped themselves to a handful of biscuits each ("Which I was savin' fer company tomorrow, ya pissants!") before tearing up the stairs in a blur of laughter and bedding.
They would build a stronghold of blankets around Murphy's bed.
"Why do we always hafta mess my bed?"
"'Cause, yours is closer t'tha heater, dumbshite."
They would huddle close, still a bit cold, munching away on stolen booty. They would wake in the morning warm, tangled together and covered in crumbs.