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The lake water is cloying in Antarcticite’s mouth.
“Antarc!” Phos insists. “It wasn’t—it was my fault, if anything, but I’ll be alright, y’see, like my legs—”
“No,” says Antarcticite brusquely, cutting Phos off. Phos’s mouth snaps shut with a click, and the force fractures their jaw, already made fragile in the winter; it splinters and cracks, and Antarcticite has to catch the pieces themself because—
Because—
“No,” Antarcticite repeats, then sighs, heavy through their mouth. The cool air billows around Phos’s face, and Phos blinks. Antarcticite gestures forward. “Come here,” they say, and Phos obliges, obedient for once.
“Sorry,” Phos mumbles, wide-eyed. Their arms dangle uselessly at their side, catching in the little light that can be seen in the winter, and Antarcticite’s mouth twists.
Shame rises high and cold in their chest, and guilt swirls in the back of their mind, achingly pronounced. There is an endless amount of things that could be said, here: it wasn’t your fault, it was mine, I should have kept a better lookout, it’s me who should be apologizing—I’m sorry—
“Don’t apologize,” Antarcticite settles on saying, at the same time that Phos insists, once more: “It wasn’t your fault!”
Again, the ache. Antarcticite frowns, brows furrowed, and says nothing. Their hands trace the curve of Phos’s cheek, their jaw, finding the jagged edges where Phos had splintered off. Phos leans in, smile sheepish, says, “Thanks.”
Their eyes droop shut. Antarcticite pushes the splinters back in, and the scene is oddly peaceful, quiet in a way that Phos never is, surprisingly. But it’s all Phos seems to be doing: surprising them. Around them the snow falls slowly, sweeping over their tracks back to the school.
Words cluster in Antarcticite’s mouth. It’s a litany of apologies, made dark with frustration, resting in the back of their throat, their tongue. “I just—” Antarcticite begins haltingly. “This is the first time…that I’ve worked with someone else,” they say. Phos opens their eyes, and Antarcticite sighs again.
The admission is bitter: “I’m just—disappointed. In myself.”
“Oh,” says Phos, then: “Oh. ” Antarcticite smiles thinly, and Phos gapes, backtracking immediately, waving the remnants of their arms furiously through the air. “I mean! That’s—oh, like, oh, I didn’t realize, not oh, like oh, whatever…”
“It’s fine,” says Antarcticite. Their shoulders tense, then relax, frustration waning. It seeps out of them slowly, suddenly hard to hold onto. Perhaps more than anything else, Antarcticite is just tired. “Nevermind,” they say. Phos’s mouth shuts and opens wordlessly, and Antarcticite taps Phos’s cheek with one finger. “Stop moving.”
“Okay,” says Phos. A piece of snow drifts into their hair; Antarcticite swipes at it easily. “I’m glad,” Phos continues after a moment, “that we got to partner up, though, and y’know, you’re my first real partner, too…”
And Phos asks, hushed, slow, “But weren’t you ever lonely?”
There were things to be said:
Antarcticite has always worked alone, but has never been lonely, not really, because winter is their job, a responsibility they’ve long grown accustomed to; Antarcticite knows this, and Antarcticite knows winter, better than they know anything else.
And Sensei has always been enough. Sensei has never been anything less than enough.
The halls of the school are cooler during the winter months; outside, the first blankets of snow have arrived. Light streams in loosely, spilling over the floors and illuminating the dust floating in the air, and like this, it’s easy to watch the world turn slowly to a stop.
“Hullo, Antarc,” says Euclase, smiling fleetingly. They yawn, hands fluttering over their mouth, and Antarcticite nods in greeting, a slow bob of their head as the others mill around nearby. “You woke early this year,” Euclase remarks.
“Winter fell early,” says Antarcticite politely, for lack of anything better to say.
“Indeed it did,” says Euclase, tilting their head. They hum, observing Antarcticite, eyes half-closed, and it’s only slightly unsettling—Euclase is too nice, as far as Antarcticite knows, to be truly unnerving.
“I—” begins Antarcticite, as Euclase says, “Thank you.”
Antarcticite blinks. “What?”
Euclase laughs softly, stepping forward. Reflexively, Antarcticite steps back, and their sword clacks against the back of their thighs, the sound echoing in the halls. “Oh, just—I don’t think we’ve ever thanked you for, well, everything.”
In the distance, Red Beryl is shouting their names. “I don’t—” begins Antarcticite, startled. “I don’t—need thanks. Winter is my responsibility.”
Euclase’s smile is sweet. They take Antarcticite’s hands in their own, gloved hands cradling gloved hands. “Of course. Perhaps this is too presumptuous of me,” they say, “but we’re all very thankful that you’re here, regardless.”
It feels, suddenly, as though words have escaped them. Antarcticite’s mouth opens, then shuts, wordlessly. Euclase is still smiling, still clutching their hands together, and Antarcticite’s chest tightens, inexplicably. “I just wanted you to know,” Euclase finishes, letting their hands go.
Ah, Antarcticite thinks. Their chest loosens, and wind escapes their mouth slowly, as if in release. “Thank you,” they say belatedly.
Red Beryl’s voice nears. Euclase steps away, eyes soft, one hand raised in goodbye as they turn towards Red Beryl’s coming figure. “See you in the spring, Antarcticite,” they say, and they retreat before Antarcticite can give a proper goodbye, hand half-raised in farewell.
Longing is sharp in Antarcticite’s gut, lingering uncharacteristically where it had once been easy to ignore, the feeling swollen in their throat, their mouth.
The clack of their heels, as they turn away, echo loudly in the hallway.
The year Antarcticite is born, winter comes slowly.
Sensei is the first thing Antarcticite sees when they wake for the first time; the ice, second, and snow, third.
And the things Antarcticite learns, in order, are: their name, of the others, their history, and of the winter that had borne them. Following winter: their job and their responsibility, the idea of it sliding neatly into Antarcticite’s mind.
Winter is not a heavy burden; the snow is gentle, and alone with Sensei, Antarcticite is content.
Phos is almost preternaturally clumsy, and lazy, beyond that. For the first time in their life, Antarcticite finds themself questioning Sensei’s decisions.
“Please help me,” Phos whimpers from inside a snow pile.
Antarcticite narrows their eyes. They lean on their sword, considering. “No,” they decide, finally. “If you can’t even plow snow properly, I don’t know how I’ll be able to teach you anything else.”
“I’ll learn!” Phos whines, dragging their words out long. The snow pile trembles. “Eventually! If you would just—help me—”
Antarcticite sighs, watching the snow pile tremble again. A small bit of pity rises in the back of their mind, unbidden, and they frown, half-annoyed. It only takes a single well-placed shove to free Phos’s head, though the rest of them remains encased in snow.
Phos blinks up at them, looking surprised, snow clinging to their eyelashes. Antarcticite stares down at them, somehow equally surprised.
“I…” begins Phos. “...I wasn’t actually expecting you to help me.”
“Neither was I,” says Antarcticite, honestly. The image is ridiculous; the whole situation is ridiculous, truly. Antarcticite squats, placing themself at just below eye level with Phos, and Phos peers down at them. “But you should do the rest yourself.”
Phos sighs, eyes trailing elsewhere. “Maybe I’m just not cut out to do this,” they say, and Antarcticite frowns again.
“If you really want me to,” says Antarcticite, rising, “I’ll do it. Though you were the one who said you’d like to do some hard work this winter, after all.”
Phos grimances. “You’re right,” they mumble, “but I don’t have to like it.” Again, the snow pile trembles, and again, Phos lets out a high-pitched whine as they struggle to escape. Antarcticite moves back to the side, leaning against a pillar in silence.
It only takes another minute. Phos’s arms burst through, followed by their legs, in a small explosion of snow; they roll backwards, and the rest of it collapses with them, sloughing off their body. It’s looks incredibly ridiculous, foolish in a way that only Phos could be, but Antarcticite offers a hand anyway. “That wasn’t so hard, was it,” Antarcticite murmurs.
Phos blinks up at them, dazed. “It was,” they say, but they take Antarcticite’s hand, anyway.
Between the foolishness of the situation and the fact that they’ll have to re-do the snow pile later, Antarcticite feels perhaps a small inkling of pride, equally foolish in its existence. Phos is still dazed on the ground; Antarcticite hauls their partner up to their feet, and the feeling vanishes, though the traces of it remain in the back of their mind, its presence undeniable, and Antarcticite allows themself to save the memory for reexamination, later.
Padparadscha awakens in the middle of one winter, deep into the night.
“Hello,” they say pleasantly, limbs rising, unfolding. “You must be Antarcticite.”
Padparadscha stands slowly, shirt falling open. In the infirmary’s dim lighting, Padparadscha’s implants gleam and catch, as if to beg, look at me, look at me.
“Yes,” Antarcticite replies, curt, and Padparadscha smiles. “It’s the middle of winter. Rutile is asleep, unfortunately.”
Padparadscha hums, red lashes dipping low in consideration. Antarcticite blinks, shuffling forward, and continues rearranging the shelves. “That’s quite alright,” Padparadscha says, moving to the windowsill. They stretch one hand forward, observing it against the silhouette of the moon; it falls back into their lap after an odd second, the old resin rising up in a chalky cloud. “It doesn’t seem as if I’ll be awake for very long, anyway.”
The jellyfish jump in their bowls, as if in protest, and Padparadscha laughs quietly. Their glow lights up the room, pale purple muted against the fading resin on Padparadscha’s cheeks.
In the winters, while Rutile is asleep, Antarcticite takes over their duties in the infirmary.
This includes, of course, Padparadscha.
Rutile’s notes are meticulous, as they always are: this winter it is chrysoberyl, only half a step down in hardness, and ruby, the first remnants found in nearly half a century. There are notes on the margins, in Rutile’s neat, cramped writing: attempt two thousand and twelve.
“Your resin,” says Antarcticite, picking up a bowl. “I’ll re-do it for you.”
“There’s no need for that,” Padparadscha says half-heartedly. They run a finger over their own arm, then squints at the rising dust. “Well—I can do it myself, really.”
“It’s fine,” Antarcticite says, half in insistence. “I needed to do it sometime, anyway.” They kneel before Padparadscha, and Padparadscha lets out a soft huff, a lilting sigh.
“Does Rutile put you up to this?” they ask.
Antarcticite almost wants to smile. “Of course,” they say. In truth, there are others: if not Rutile, then Yellow Diamond. And if not Yellow Diamond, perhaps Jade, or even Euclase.
Old longing stirs inside of them, deep in their chest, buoyed by something else—Antarcticite doesn’t want to put a name to it. It’s easily quieted, but Antarcticite frowns regardless, taking Padparadscha’s leg in hand.
“Hmm…”
“It’s no trouble,” says Antarcticite, after a moment. “...If that’s what you’re worried about. You seem to be beloved, even among us.”
Padparadscha’s foot, in Antarcticite’s hand, twitches. “I see.” They’re looking away, at the jellyfish, at the hallway, at something perhaps farther than that. Antarcticite watches in silence, and Padparadscha glances back down, meeting Antarcticite’s eyes evenly. “Thank you,” they say, smiling again.
Antarcticite tilts their head in acknowledgement, letting the quiet settle over them. They brush over Padparadscha’s legs in broad strokes—it’s strange, oddly intimate in a way that it never was while Padparadscha was asleep.
“Say, Antarcticite,” says Padparadscha, breaking the silence. Antarcticite lifts their head; Padparadscha’s eyes are startlingly bright, even in the darkness of the night, their mouth curving lightly. Like this, Antarcticite can almost understand Rutile’s obsession, however fleetingly.
Or perhaps Padparadscha was simply meant to be loved. “Yes?”
“Are you the only one here?”
Antarcticite pauses, hands faltering. “It’s just Sensei and I during the winter, yes.”
Padparadscha shifts, resting their chin in their hand. “Haven’t you ever felt lonely?”
In their head: no, no, maybe, maybe, maybe. Yes.
Antarcticite inhales, long and deep—fits the air inside their body, lets it go. “No—” they say, startled. “I’ve never—”
It hardly matters. Padparadscha’s body slumps over, their eyes sliding shut easily. Antarcticite’s grip tightens, then loosens on the resin brush, and that is that.
“No,” says Antarcticite shortly. Phos blinks, eyebrows raised, mouth shaping into a wide ‘o’, and despite everything, affection rises gaudy in Antarcticite’s chest, Phos’s particular brand of obnoxiousness curving their lips. The last piece of Phos’s jaw slides smoothly into place, the resin smearing beneath Antarcticite’s hand.
“Or at least,” Antarcticite amends, turning to move on in the snow, “not anymore.”
Oh, may we meet again in a better life.
Take care of winter for me.