2. Youth
Ah, youth. What he wouldn't give for just a few days – hours, minutes, moments – as a boy again. These old bones hadn't travelled faster than walking pace in more than half a century and it was nigh impossible to remember what running felt like.
He'd been almost eighteen when it happened, fifty-eight years ago – a freak accident that nobody could have predicted; he'd been walking along the pavement, chatting quite cheerfully to one of his friends, and a car had hit a patch of black ice, swerved out of control and mounted the pavement – he'd felt a massive wave of pain sweeping up from his legs, heard someone scream, and the next thing he knew he was waking up in hospital with the doctors telling him he'd have to use a walking stick for the rest of his life.
He was devastated, of course. How could he not be? He'd spent his whole life climbing trees and fences and running through the woods and using his agility to his advantage in the annual snowball fights. He'd been angry at first, and since it had been only sheer bad luck there was no justifiable outlet for his fury and he spent his days in hospital simmering silently.
Then Jack had come to visit, sneaking through an opened window with an armful of books and a pack of cards; he hadn't wanted Jamie to spend a single moment bored. The poor Guardian had never expected his best friend to snap as soon as he saw the other boy – the almost-eighteen-year-old had yelled and spat vicious insults and pinned the blame solely on the winter spirit; it was Jack's fault the car had swerved off the road, Jack's fault he was in hospital, Jack's fault he'd never run or jump or climb again.
Jack had turned tail and run; Jamie's last memory of the immortal had been of his utterly broken expression and the silver streams of reflected moonlight that he'd glimpsed as Jack turned to flee. Jamie had immediately regretted his words, and even moreso when the state was hit by the worst blizzard in over two hundred years. Just a few days later, the storm still raging, Jamie had turned eighteen and he never saw Jack again.
It wasn't that he'd stopped believing in the winter spirit, because how could he ever have not believed in his best friend for almost a decade? At first he'd thought that Jack was just avoiding him, but then Sophie had approached him with a sad look on her face and asked him if he could still see Jack. He'd been confused, asked her what she meant; she'd told him that Jack was standing right beside her.
Much to everyone's surprise – Jack's especially, if what Sophie said was true – Jamie had burst into tears and apologised interminably for everything he'd ever said and done and thought. His sister later told him that Jack had been frantic, trying to tell him to stop, that he understood his outburst, that he'd forgiven his friend ages ago, but his pleas fell on deaf ears; the poor spirit had tried to comfort him, but his icy hands just passed right through Jamie's shoulder.
Even though Jamie couldn't see him anymore, Jack was there throughout his life, making his presence known. Jamie's hat had been plucked right off of his head at his graduation, snow had fallen at his wedding, an icy but still comforting chill had gripped his shoulder at his mother's funeral and he'd received a beautiful ice sculpture when his first child had been born.
Jack still visited every winter to play with the children of Burgess; Jamie could always tell from the excited giggles of his grandchildren at the first signs of snow, and the messages left on his frosted bedroom windows. It was a comfort, to know that his best friend was still there, that he still remembered his oldest believer, but at the same time Jamie felt like crying - he'd never see Jack's face ever again, never hear his voice, never even notice his presence if he didn't announce it with a blizzard.
Oh, to be young again, just for a day, an hour, a moment.
A/N: This due to my headcanon that, whether you believe or not, past the age of eighteen the Guardians are invisible to you.
