Disclaimer: I do not own anything but the actual words that are written here.
Author's note: This story has an unconventional structure. Each chapter will be through the eyes of either Jack, Jamie, or Bunny. They will alternate in this respective order (so in chapter four, we'll be back to Jack). Hopefully it won't be disconcerting at all. This story is not what I would call contiguous, but it will flow in a chronological order (with some overlap in future chapters). Please let me know if you find any of it confusing at all, although I warn you that some things are left ambiguous because we are seeing it through the characters' eyes.
Please be aware that the story is rated T because future chapters will contain some graphic (gory) material. I will warn you when that comes!
It had started with Jamie's loneliness, a concept Jack had, as expected, an incredible amount of empathy for. He also had empathy for the undignified nature of feeling lonely, and so he had made a conscious effort to never discuss it with Jamie. They were both familiar with loneliness, and they were both loth to discuss their feelings.
A tacit was born.
The notoriously long winters of Burgess became longer, and the notoriously starry-eyed children of Burgess became ever the more steeped in fantastical delights. Jack Frost was now a worldwide phenomenon, albeit much more niche than the other Guardians. Sophie and Jamie had begun referring to him as a Cult Classic, although he was certainly not pleased with the term-as an immortal spirit, he knew the implications a cult could and sometimes did have on the world at large. It wasn't pretty. But there was a tacit to not talk about feelings, so he never made it known to them, at least not on any level beyond the occasional Hey, I'll have you know that I don't do the whole cult thing.
Despite Jack having stardom sparsely across the globe and densely across Burgess, Jamie's friends and peers were subject to as much growth as every other child on the planet, and several of them had stopped believing. Those who still did believe-well, Jack had found it hard to keep on good terms with them. It wasn't fun knowing that someone was pretending not to see him. It was... heartbreaking. But there was so much fun to be had with so many other children that Jack's heart cracked only occasionally. And when it did, he would find Jamie.
There was something about being there for a person who could relate to his plight—something that sealed all the hairline fractures in his heart. Now those nights spent on Jamie's roof staring at the moon were no longer filled with anguish and searching. He could only be thankful.
He was a Guardian.
Although, perhaps he wasn't the best at being a guardian all the time. When he would hang upside down, tapping on Jamie's window at 6 o'clock in the morning, he probably wasn't being a good guardian. To be fair, though, it was so he could give the boy a well-deserved pep-up before school. Jamie moaned, rubbing his eyes and coming to the window without bothering to look up once. Jack was convinced that his eyes were still closed the entire time.
"Morning!" He piped, flipping into the room without the aid of the wind. Jamie's word had been final: No more wind in the room. Definitely not in the morning. No, Jack. Jack's protestations had died in a poutlike frown, but he had obliged, sometimes still wearing that same pout. Not today, however.
"Morning, Jack," Jamie said with a yawn, leaning the window shut so that only a sliver of cold wind curled its way past his fingers. Jamie had learned years ago that the Spirit of Winter did not belong inside, partitioned away from the wind for long. The wind had told him that with a howling, battering anger that shocked both him and Jack. They had shared such a good laugh at that.
"What are you doing today?" Jack asked him, watching as Jamie sat back down on his bed, rubbing bleary eyes. He yawned again, stretching his arms into the air. When he finally blinked and looked up, he smiled with an amused shake of the head.
"You better not break my fan; my mom would kill me," he said. Jack shifted, uncurling one leg from around the fanblade and pressing his foot to the ceiling so he could flip down, back to the floor. Right-side up once more, he grinned at Jamie.
"You worry too much," but even as he spoke he followed Jamie's wide-eyed gaze to the ceiling. "Uh oh," he muttered, his laughter suddenly peeling out across the quiet morning. He lifted a bare foot to look at the blackened bottom as though there was a chance that the dark footprint on the ceiling wasn't his.
"Jack, what the heck! Dude, you have to clean that off." Jamie was fully awake now, at least, and he was laughing. That was good. It didn't last, however. Every conversation between Jack and Jamie was half-whispered, half-cautious, and, to most of the world, half-real. "My mom is gonna kill me for that, too!" He was still smiling as he said it, although his tone was hushed once more.
"Aw, she probably won't even see it." Jack slung his staff over a shoulder with a nonchalant shrug.
"Like she can't see your window art?" Jamie leveled him with a flat stare. The discovery that Jamie's mother could see his frost art-but only to the extent that preserved her non-belief-had come as a hysterical discovery to Jack. He had since made a conscious effort to get her to see what only believers would: an invisible finger tracing images into frost, or the frost ferns spreading at an unnaturally fast pace, or images and messages left in places where humans could not easily leave them. So far his numerous failures to make her see the unseen had failed to deter him from trying. The fact that she blamed what she did see on her children was icing on the cake. Or on the window, as it were.
In 300 years, Jack had found plenty of people who had seen the same as Mrs. Bennett, and occasionally someone who saw the magical side of it too, as Jamie had on that fateful night. Jack absolutely loved that Jamie's own mother was one of these rarities. Maybe someday she would see as much as her children did.
A small click caught their attention, and both watched as Sophie stepped into the room.
"Soph, will you seriously knock? I couldda been naked," Jamie said. Although he gave a snort afterward, there was no humor in it, and his voice had an edge of annoyance that sent a twinge of pain through Jack's heart.
"With Jack here?" She asked, an eyebrow raised incredulously. The spell of darkness was broken, the beginnings of a crack healed. Jack laughed again, this time with Sophie, and after Jamie sputtered with a red flush to his face, he joined in as well. Jack was sure that he would, that he could never like the sound of anything more than these two children laughing with him.
"What are you two doing up so early?" Their mother asked, peeking in the door in a gesture that had become something of a morning staple.
"Their alarm clock is winter," Jack replied casually, leaning his head against his staff with a fond smile. He'd come to love their mother, even when she was on one of her morning nag tirades. Like right now, apparently.
"And what's so funny? Jamie, why is it always so cold in here?" Jack chuckled, and the three gave each other knowing glances behind her back. She was stalking across the room—Jack hopped backwards, out of her way—to close the window, grumbling about the mess of clothing strewn about the floor. "You still haven't learned to use a hamper for your laundry, I see."
"Mom, it's not always dirty," he moaned, eyes on the ceiling. His eyebrows furrowed when he saw the footprint again, and he shot a glare at Jack, who only burst out laughing in response. Oblivious, Mrs. Bennett was stooping to pick up every white item of clothing she found.
"I'm hoping you don't mean these," she said, holding up a pair of white underwear. "I will not be doing a smell-test on your underpants, Jamie," she said, deadpan. His underwear swayed in her hand like a flag, held up triumphantly. Jack was on the floor, clutching his sides with laughter. Sophie had fallen into a fit of giggles as well.
"Mom!" Jamie was shoving her out of his room, face as red as a poinsettia.
"Don't be late for school!" She sang from behind the slammed door, now deceptively pleasant.
"Ugh, shut up," he grumbled, flopping down onto his bed. Jack wasn't sure who Jamie was talking to, his mother or the two in here, but he continued laughing. He wiped a hail-like tear from his cheek.
"Your mom," he started, his words dying on a stray chuckle. "Your mom is a brilliant trickster, Jamie." He watched curiously as Sophie picked up one of his frozen tears from the floor. It was already melting in her warm fingers.
"Haw haw," Jamie's voice was muffled in the pillow. "Now both of you go away, I have to get dressed." Neither were listening. Sophie was fascinated by the tear, Jack fascinated by Sophie's fascination. The fact that neither had left seemed inconsequential to Jamie, who continued to lie face down, unmoving.
Then Sophie stuck the melting tear into her mouth.
"Gross!" Jack shrieked with renewed laughter. "Sophie—what!" He hopped up onto Jamie's desk, toes sending a web of frost across the wood.
"Hm," she said calmly, head tilted in appraisal "so it is just like mine." Jamie turned his head to look at the two but didn't move otherwise.
"What did she do this time?" He asked flatly.
"She—she's drinking my tears!" Jack pointed at the nine-year-old girl sitting on the floor, and he reminded himself of a woman standing on a chair shrieking at a mouse. He stepped off the desk lightly.
"Stop being weird, Soph," Jamie said, sounding entirely disinterested. One of his arms fell off the bed, and he pulled a pair of jeans up from the floor with it. He did the same to fish for a shirt. "Seriously go away. I gotta get dressed," he groaned, face back in his pillow.
"Make sure to at least turn your dirty underwear inside-out," Sophie said, making a mad dash for the door as she did. He blindly threw the striped shirt toward her voice (it hit the door), then groaned when he looked up again, seeing that no others were close to his bed.
And then, as though it was obliging Jamie, the wind began to howl at the window, demanding Jack come back out to play and leave the boy to his big windowed box. He chuckled and opened the window, whispering a devious plan to his oldest friend. It was delighted to comply, of course, and in an instant was stirring up the clothing from Jamie's floor in a whirl. With one last, sweeping flourish, the wind dropped a heaping pile of clothing on top of Jamie's prone form. And although Jack could just make out his friend's protestations under his own peels of laughter, he noticed that the teen still did not move. Jack whooped and flew out of the window, hearing one last defeated groan.