Snowball Fight

December 15th, 1963

   The bare branches of the trees hung heavy with the white snow that fell gently through the icy air. The ground was covered with the sparkling flakes, littered with footprints of the various animals driven to roam for food in the frozen world.

Paul loved days like this. Days when it was just him and George, no one else. No recordings, no gigs, no interviews or photoshoots. Just Paul and George. Days like this were rare now.

Their hands were together, swinging in the small space between them, fingers intertwined. The woods around the couple were quiet and, for the most part, they were, too.

George turned his head, dark eyes studying Paul in the almost mysterious way they often did, but he didn't speak. "Can I help you, luv?"

A soft laugh and a crooked grin, "Mike showed me something at dinner yesterday." His foggy breath curled around his rosy cheeks and floated up past his brown mop of hair.

The chilly wind twirled a flurry of snow into Paul's face, "What'd he show you?"

George leaned closer to whisper in Paul's ear, "You were adorable when you were little, y'know."

"No he didn't!" Paul covered his face with his free hand and groaned, glad he could pass off his cheeks being red because of the cold, "No, no, no, no…"

"He showed John and Ringo, too."

"Christ, I'm gonna kill him! This is why we never go to my house for dinner!" Paul groaned again and let his head fall back.

Moving closer to peck the bassist's cheek, George shrugged, "Which is why we went to yours for once. John, Ringo, and I got bored of our own houses."

"Were the pictures from before we were friends?" A nod, "Toddler or baby?"

"Uh," George could hardly contain his giggles, "Baby."

"Yeah, Mike is so dead."

The younger Beatle laughed, "Aw, don't hurt the kid. It wasn't even his idea." He widened his eyes, almost like he was regretting saying that.

Paul narrowed his eyes, "Then whose idea was it?"

No answer.

"George!"

"I'm sorry! You were in the bathroom and I saw the photo album on the shelf!"

The older man pulled away, going off the trail they'd previously been walking on and huffing in anger, "You're a little traitor, y'know that?"

"Oh Paul, come back!" But he didn't come, so the guitarist sighed and let his head fall back like Paul's had minutes before.

Next thing he knew, something hit him hard in the chest. Bringing his head back up, he easily spotted a giggling Paul farther in the woods. He was tossing a snowball into the air and catching it over and over again. "Hey!"

"He-ey!" Paul sing-songed, chucking his second snowball at George, who sidestepped and dived to the ground.

Ignoring the fact that he had no gloves and the knees of his pants were getting wetter and wetter by the second, George began making his own snowballs behind a tree. "Missed me!"

Paul laughed manically, pretending to be evil, "I won't next time, Harrison!"

"You wish, McCartney!" George poked his head out around the tree and threw a sphere of snow at Paul, successfully hitting his leg.

Feigning pain, Paul cried out and grabbed his thigh, "You'll pay for that!"

George giggled again and hid behind the tree, quickly creating more ammo. He peeked around his hiding place again and saw nothing, so he popped up and started towards the general direction Paul'd been in. "Paulie, where are you?"

Suddenly, he was hit in the chest again. He followed the giggles he heard and found Pail behind a fallen log. Grinning, George dropped all four snowballs he'd been holding onto the bassist before Paul could move

Paul glared up at George, grabbing his leg to make him fall on his back into the fluffy snow. He soon found himself straddling the fallen man, a handful of snow held up threateningly and a large grin on his face. He went to stuff the melting clump down George's shirt, but his victim squirmed and protested.

"Not my shirt, Paul!" George shut his eyes tight in anticipation of the attack, but was thoroughly surprised instead. He heard another breathy giggle before a pair of warm lips met his colder ones.

"C'mon, luv, let's get home. You're soaking wet." Paul was off him now and was holding out a hand to help him up.

George gladly took it, shivering when the icy wind blew against his wet back. "Thanks."

"Christ, you're so adorable," The other kissed the tip of his nose, "And cold. Let's fix that." And then George was engulfed in a bone-crushing hug, which he accepted by stuffing his hands in his pockets and burying his head in Paul's chest.

After a few minutes, they went back to the trail and began heading home. Paul wrapped one arm around George's thin shoulders, pulling him into his side. George rested his head on the bassist's own shoulder, smiling. "Can we have hot chocolate when we get home?"

A kiss was pressed firmly into his hair, "Of course, dear. We'll drink hot chocolate while we cuddle under blankets to get warm again. How's that sound?"

"Good. I love hot chocolate."

"I love you, George." Paul was laughing again.

"Well, that was completely irrelevant."

George was shoved away playfully, then pulled back in, "Just say it back!"

The guitarist grinned, "Alright, alright. I love you, too, Paul."