Silent is the atmosphere of the midday city. Well, calling Burgess a city is a bit of an overstatement, but the tall office buildings, the handful of taxis, and the people made it a city instead of a town. In the two months that you've been here, Burgess has grown on you. However, the clamor of the city in the mornings is something you've decided you'll never become used to. Within your first week here, you found the perfect place of solace, free of the noise of bypassing traffic, almost invisible in lieu of the rest of its surroundings. Nobody ever comes while you're there.
By a frozen lake, two rocks jutting from the otherwise smooth surface, you sit on the roots of one of the many evergreen trees that surround the snowy clearing. Every day, after school and the chores at the halfway home, you come to this lake and sit, taking in the soft rustles of the pines swaying in the occasional breeze or from reading whichever book you filched from the school's library. Sometimes, with the sun resting on your legs, you wonder about whatever happened to your nonexistent parents, but you never come up with something concrete. All you can remember is orphanage after orphanage and pain with darkness, always pain and darkness. It's in those moments that the snow begins to fall, distracting your thoughts.
Today, the lake is as calm as ever, but for one thing; there is a new sound. It takes you a while to notice it, as it is soft, hushed. You hear it in the foliage above you. Looking up into the white and green pines, you see no animal, no waking squirrel nor strangely misplaced bird. You close the book in your hands, setting it on a root as you rise. The snow gives small crunches as you walk quietly to the edge of the pond and turn. Glancing the tree over, a shade of royal blue catches your eyes.
"Hey!" you call, trying to see what it is. It doesn't move as you steadily inch forward. The figure is more than just blue, you note, making out a shade of white much darker than the surrounding snow: the pale skin of a hand, calves, and…feet?
"Oi! You in the blue!" you call again. The human, you decide upon, moves slightly, as if shifting positions, turning away from you. A groan is heard. Annoyed, you bend down, scoop up a snowball, and chuck it at the blue part you assume to be the person's head. It makes contact with a satisfying muffled crunch.
Instantly, the figure flips around, facing you. His head whips up, the top of his hoodie flying off to reveal snow white hair and dazzling blue eyes. His eyes narrow, taking in the sight of the fading sunlight. He reaches for a nearby branch, hooked and shaped like a shepherd's crook. At his touch, it glows an ethereal blue. Glancing down from the sky, his eyes lock with yours and he jumps down from near the top of the tree into the snow cloaked grass. The distance is at least ten feet.
He saunters over to you, unhurt. For some reason, in the back of your mind, he looks familiar. When you notice that his feet are indeed bare, you ask him, "Aren't you cold?"
He freezes in his tracks, his face a portrait of shock. Schooling his emotions, his eyes roam over you, making you feel as if he can see through you. Under his breath, or as you assume it is, since you can obviously hear him, you hear him mutter, "Can you see me?"
His eyes return their gaze to yours, their romp over your body over. Instinctively, you take a step back, suddenly terrified of the wicked glint in his eyes. Resting on your back foot, you slip on the slick surface of the ice, falling forward. You brace yourself for an impact that never comes; the boy catches you, one hand on your wrist, the other arm wrapped around your torso.
You fall silent as he sets you back on solid ground, wondering why he is chuckling under his breath. It is then that you realize you have to look up to see his face. He is at least a foot taller than you. Catching you staring at him, he grins, showing teeth that sparkle like freshly fallen snow, making you blush. He probably doesn't even realize the effect he has. Red rises on your cheeks and your nerves fire up around his touch, making you shiver. One look at his face, and you can tell he knows. Damn.
"Name's Jack," he says. "Mind telling me yours?"
You tell him your name, watching him smirk mischievously.
"Lovely name, Snowflake," he nicknames you, alluding to the snowy designs on your coat, or maybe the frosty ones on his hoodie. "Why hang 'round here?"
He is entirely too close for this conversation to be civil, but for some reason, you don't want to push him away. He screams danger, but you don't push him away. Instead, you think for a second, wondering how much you should say. "Hmm," you mutter low in your throat. "It's beautiful here."
His eyelids lower as he shakes his head, smiling. This is obviously not the answer he was expecting. "Why are you here alone?" he clarifies.
"Maybe I wanted to get away from the city." He nods, releasing his arm from around your waist when did it get that low? You immediately miss the arm. "I'm new here. Everyone notices the new. No one seems to notice me here."
His sinful grin turns into a sad smile, plastered to his face, understanding, as if he knows what it is like to be in a strange place without any friends. Friends were never a constant for you, and over time, you stopped actively seeking to make them. Nowadays, new is seen as unnatural, resulting in stares and discomforting comments. Dropping the flirtatious act, you turn the tables around. "Why are you here alone?" Without any friends, you imply.
"Well, I consider you to be a friend of mine—"
"Acquaintance seems more likely, given we've just met," you interject."
"—but other than that," he continues, "Not many people notice me. At least, not people who are my age. Kids do, though." How could someone not notice you, you wonder, astounded. He moves his staff as an unconscious gesture, bringing your attention back to its blue glow. It pulsates, going from the gray of a rising sun's sky to a royal hue.
"Why does your staff glow?" you blurt unthinkingly. Your question brings Jack back to reality, away from his forlorn gaze into the distance. He lets go of your hand, holding the staff in both of his, contemplating.
"Oh, umm," he hesitates. "Batteries! It runs on batteries."
"Right," you drawl, seeing through his lie. "Batteries definitely work in weather 20 degrees Fahrenheit."
"And every sane person definitely reads a book out in the same temperature," he retorts, walking over to it. When he bends down to pick it up, you take a gracious look at him, humming in approval. "Nicholas St. North and the Battle of the Nightmare King," he reads out loud. "You read the Guardians?"
You nod, even though it's only the first book. "And I've seen the movie—" As you mention the film, you figure out why he seems familiar. You haven't seen the film in years, but the resemblance is blatantly obvious. Whispering under your breath, you just barely voice, "Jack Frost."
"Sorry?" the boy in question asks, the sly smirk returning to his face when he hears you say his name.
"Jack Frost," you say again, louder. "It explains why you were in the tree, why you don't have frostbitten toes or fingers, why your staff glows." You think out loud, your voice quickening in tempo.
"Right, but you also believe in me to see me." It's a statement, not a question. The next thirty seconds results in the two of you staring at each other. He's real he's real he's real is the movie right he's real he's sinful he's real he's real he's coming closer he's real he's dangerous.
"Right," you return, not revealing your internal conflict. Looking at your watch, you notice that it's almost time for dinner back at the orphanage. Almost never have you stayed out this long. Your lodgings are 30 minutes away, and dinner is in 5. Jack sees your worried expression, book still in hand. Hastily, you shuffle through the snow, taking back the book and packing it and the towel you placed over the root into your bag, abandoned since the moment you sat down this day. "I have to go, now."
You swing your bag over your shoulder, the well-used satchel resting comfortably around your hips. Running out of the wooded area, you call, "Bye!"
Just as you're about to enter civilization, you feel a hand on your wrist and an arm wrap around you from behind. Jack's staff crosses in front of you as he catches up to you. "Need a ride?" he asks, lifting you into the air. He pulls you close before you could reply, leaving you helpless as you are forced to direct the Guardian of Fun where to go.
Hello, everyone. Firstly, to the new people, please note that the chapters after this one will be updated once weekly on Sundays/Mondays. You can tell the updated chapter apart from the previous chapter from it being in present tense instead of past tense and from the upgraded quality of writing. Secondly, to the people who have been with me for the past two years, thank you. There is only one chapter left to write, and it's a doozy. I recently lost motivation to write it, but my sister encouraged me to start again. Therefore, I'm updating this.
Thank you all so much for reading.
-Z