There is nothing quite like the sound of snow falling.
Silence.
Raphael gazes at the New York skyline, stealing a moment of peace as the usual hustle and bustle of the city is oddly muted by the first snowfall of the season. It isn't late, but Christmas shoppers scuttle home to wrap themselves in blankets and warm their cold hands by the fire.
A small step to his right, the gentle sound of crunching snow.
Something cold and wet hits him on the back of the neck, icy water trickling into the crevices of his shell.
Slowly he turns.
Donatello stands unabashedly, holding a second snowball. Wide eyes look at his brother, hopeful, innocent, head tilting in an unasked question. He's always loved the snow.
There is no warning.
Raphael charges at his brother, who shrieks in laughter and tries to throw his second weapon. It splatters harmlessly against Raphael's chest.
Two seconds later, Donatello finds himself face down in the fresh snow.
Donatello laughs as his brother helps him up. Raphael brushes the snow off himself with cold hands. His eyes narrow as he realizes his precious silence has been broken.
Somehow he doesn't mind.