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Wrapped in a fraying blanket, Sumo restlessly dreaming at his feet, Hank huddled in the armchair by the window and stared across the bleak winter landscape of his front yard. His own house was dark, inside and out—a testament to his despondent spirit. Across the street, the mantle of frost underneath the neighbors’ window gleamed with the twinkling of a thousand different lights, a snowcone of color in an otherwise gray and dreary world. The electric space heater held the line against the pervasive chill that seeped through the cracks, stretching with long fingers to occasionally brush through Hank’s lanky hair or caress his weathered cheek.
They were old acquaintances, he and Jack Frost. The nipper of his nose and the biter of his toes, Frost had painted Hank’s window panes with intricate shapes and latticework for the fifty-three years Hank had spent on this Earth… and for six of those years—too short a time, always too short—with Cole. An ever-present reminder of the ice that caused a truck’s tires to skid, and put Hank’s boy in the hospital.
Hank hated the frost.
Connor stepped down onto the empty street, the winter wind tousling his hair as an older sibling might. His clothing was too thin for the evening’s chill, yet his eyes sparkled like the stars and his cheeks blossomed with warmth. Scanning the neighborhood for his next mission, Connor’s gaze passed over yards festooned with overturned sleds and lopsided snowmen before settling on a darkened house, a deviant among the radiantly lit abodes. Ah! Target acquired! Connor cared not a speck of sleet which holidays, if any, the inhabitants celebrated—the Winter Solstice; Diwali; the revelry looked all the same to him—but if frost covered the lay of the land, people damned well better show their appreciation of its beauty and splendor by looking! Winter displayed, after all, the most splendid of masterpieces.
Scooping up fistfuls of snow, Connor’s deft fingers packed a perfect spheroid. It was but a short time later that he completed his arsenal, his first projectile in hand. Eyes flashing in anticipation, Connor aimed at the closest window, and let it fly.
*THWACK*
His pearly teeth gleamed in a grin that stretched from ear to ear, the sight and sound of the snowball fulfilling its purpose filling Connor with enormous satisfaction. Cocking his head, he admired his handiwork. Absolutely beautiful.
*WHUMPH*
The music of his mirth rang clear and bright, the peal of tiny bells in the crisp night air. The snowball collided with the window, blossoming into a fine layer of powder that dusted the glass pane. Connor reached for his stockpile and readied another snowball.
*THWACK*
A loud sound jolted Hank from his half-slumber—Hank cursed, his heartbeat racing. Sumo lifted his head slightly from where it rested heavy on his front paws, then settled back down as Hank stilled in his chair and stared around the dark room, poised to investigate should whatever it was happen again.
*WHUMPH*
Another strike, the glass rattling in the frame as the wintry missile hit the window, exploding on contact and obscuring Hank’s view with white. Laughter sounded from outside, and Hank shoved his blanket to the side and stood. He liked a good snowball fight as much as the next guy, but the damn teenagers were gonna break his window. Hank grumbled his way to the door, Sumo following resolutely behind his human. Shoving his feet into his untied boots and throwing on an overcoat, Hank threw open the door with a bang, and stomped out onto the front porch. Sumo bounded outside with a happy BOOF! His paws kicked up snow as he ran around the yard, zigzagging from tree to fire hydrant to bush to before finally careening to a stop by a lithe figure—their arm winding up to let fly another snowball. Tongue lolling out of his mouth, breath misting the air as he panted heavily, Sumo sat and looked up at the stranger with eyes that pleaded for a thorough petting.
“HEY. Stop throwing snowballs at my damn win…dow…” Hank trailed off as he got an eyeful of the kid trying to destroy his property. The young man who paused mid-throw, then let the projectile fly and turned to look at Hank with mild surprise, was perhaps in his older twenties, maybe even his thirties. It was hard for Hank to tell with the silver locks that framed the man’s bare face. Definitely older than a teenager, anyway. Dressed head to toe in white silk, cheekbones clear and sharp as crystal, he was elegant; serene; gorgeous. And clearly crazy—Hank’s eyes widened in disbelief at the sight of bare feet in the snow.
“What the hell is the matter with you? You got no shoes and no coat, and it’s fucking freezing out here!” Kid or not, the idiot was going to catch his death of cold; shrugging off his overcoat, Hank draped it over the younger man’s shoulders.
“Ah, wait—”
“Ah, ah, ah. I don’t wanna hear it. Let’s get you inside first and get you warmed up. Then we can talk about you trying to break my window.” Hank’s tone was stern but not unkind as he walked, his hand firmly but steadily guiding the stranger up the steps and into the house. Sumo followed, and Hank shut the door after them.
Connor wasn’t the least bit nervous when the apparently awake and angry resident came storming out due to the barrage of snowballs. It was also of no concern when the mountain of a dog (Saint Bernard, one of his favorites) stopped in front of him—more often than not, animals noticed and reacted to his presence. No, what was slightly worrisome was the thrum in his chest and the warmth in his cheeks as he stared into icy blue eyes set in the rugged face of a bear of a man. That wouldn’t do at all; Connor had an image to maintain. And then, the man actually touched him! Wrapped his cloak around him, walked Connor into his home! Actually talked to Connor! This never happened. It was bizarre, simply bizarre.
Stepping into the home with the man on his heels, Connor came to a stop in the middle of the room; as the man walked into another part of the house, he called out to Connor over his shoulder.
“I’m gonna grab some towels and shit for you to dry off and warm up. Stay there, and don’t touch anything!”
Connor looked about with interest at the items displayed on the walls and shelves. One of the pictures had fallen over, its face down in the dust. Long fingers reaching out, Connor lifted it gently and turned it upwards. A small child beamed back at him, all blue eyes, brown hair, rosy cheeks, and gap-toothed smile. Connor looked about and frowned; there weren’t many toys or childrens’ books in sight. The front yard had been bereft of lopsided snowmen with jagged smiles, of angels shaped with tiny arms and legs in the snow; no overturned sleds, nor lost, frost-covered mittens. It appeared that no child currently lived there, after all.
“HEY.” The man had returned, his arms full, a scowl scrunching his features. Dumping the bundle onto the sofa, he swiftly returned to Connor’s side and reached out, clutching at the picture in Connor’s hands. “First the snowball, now the picture… Why do you never do what I say?”
The picture was reverently placed upright on the shelf once more. Marched over to the couch and pushed into a sitting position in the midst of the towels—the dog directed to keep a restful watch at his feet with a pointed finger and a firm ‘Sumo, lay down’—Connor was too amused to be angry at the rough treatment of his person. He sat lightly atop the overstuffed cushions with his legs crossed, his hands resting prim in his lap. It had been such a long time since he last interacted with anyone, and the man was… intriguing. He could indulge in this flight of fancy for a while longer. The snow wouldn’t leave without him.
“I apologize for overstepping, Mister…” Connor’s eyebrows lifted expectedly, his head tilted.
Muttering to himself under his breath, the man sat down heavily into the cushions of an overstuffed armchair across the room and gazed at Connor. “Lieutenant.”
“Mister Lieutenant?” Strange, but who was Connor to judge?
The man squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose; a small groan escaped his chapped lips. “Call me Hank.”
“Hank, then.” Bending forwards to lean towards the floor, Connor ran a hand down Sumo’s soft, furry back. His fingers caught under the dog’s chin, and Sumo was promptly rewarded with a lazy scritching. A gentle smile blossomed on Connor’s face as a heavy sigh rumbled from below. Connor looked up to see the man— Hank—watching him. Hank’s cheeks flushed as he caught Connor’s gaze, and Connor heard “—’ing twink” and “—my own damn house” muttered underneath Hank’s breath.
Clearing his throat, Hank glanced briefly at Sumo’s snoozing form before turning a scrutinizing eye on Connor. “Alright, spill.”
Connor cocked an eyebrow, his brow furrowed slightly in confusion. “Spill what?”
Hank gave Connor a look. “Har, har. Who are you, and why are you outside alone at this time of night, in the freezing cold—no fucking shoes or a coat—throwing snowballs at people’s houses? You think I want you to break my window?”
“My intention was not to break your window, Hank; however unfortunate, that would have simply been but one possible outcome.” Connor inspected his nails with disinterest. “Statistically speaking, there's always a chance for unlikely events to take place.”
“Breaking my window because you lobbed a fucking hunk of ice at it isn’t an ‘unlikely event’, you prick.” A note of irritation began to creep into Hank’s voice. “Besides, that doesn’t answer my question as to why.”
Connor shrugged playfully. “Why? Because it’s winter, Hank. Winter is fun.”
Hank’s gaze towards the shelves and the picture with the face of a little boy frozen in time, whose life was teetering precariously in and out of existence. “Winter is horrible. It’s dark, and it’s cold, and it’s without mercy. Winter is cruel.” Connor couldn’t help but notice Hank blinking rapidly up at the ceiling and then wiping his eyes with his sleeve.
“Winter is a force majeure, Hank.” Connor’s lips pursed in a thin line, his eyes narrowed. “It obeys the laws of nature. Frost forms on lakes, on rivers, on the ocean. Ice floats, cracks rocks. Sheets of sleet, cicles of rime. It cannot stop.”
Hank scoffed. “Oh, yeah? What would you know about winter and the laws of nature?
That was it. Connor never revealed himself to humans, never—but this man, this infuriating man, who could see him and yelled at him and touched him—spoke about his domain with ignorance, and derision, and now was openly mocking Connor. With a flourish, Connor waved a hand; a flurry of snowflakes cascaded down from the ceiling, the ice crystals dancing gently through the air currents to land softly on the carpeted floor. He smirked, eyes shining with a silvery light as Hank sat in stunned silence.
“Quite a bit, actually.”
Things began to click for Hank in a way he would have thought impossible not even a minute ago; the get-up, the bare feet, the affinity for snow—and now, Hank could swear he saw the pointed tips of ears poking through the man’s silver hair. “You—you’re—are you… Jack Frost?” Hank’s jaw couldn’t drop any lower as he stared at the young man, his eyes too brown and warm to adorn such a cold face.
Hank immediately withdrew his opinion as a haughty glare from those warm, brown eyes pierced him to the core. “Well, Connor, actually.”
“...Connor Frost?” Out of the corner of his eye, Hank inspected the half-empty bottle of Black Lamb whiskey sitting on the kitchen table—he didn’t think he had drunk that much after dinner. This was getting more ridiculous by the minute.
Apparently, the other man agreed. “Don’t be absurd; humans assigned me the name of Jack Frost. I’ve been known by many different names throughout the ages; as of late, however, I’ve been rather partial to Connor.” Connor smiled, so warm and real, and Hank’s heart skipped a beat. Connor couldn’t possibly be Jack Frost; couldn’t possibly be the embodiment of winter, the reason for the cold and ice that caused the accident a month ago; couldn’t possibly be a monster responsible for the deaths of so many… for the possible death of Cole. Hank choked back the sob that desperately tried to claw its way out of his throat.
“But… why?”
“Why ‘Connor’?” Connor sounded puzzled. As if he didn’t know what Hank was talking about. As if Hank’s pain meant nothing.
“Why Cole? If you have such power, if you can call and dismiss winter at will, why is death and destruction the only thing it brings? Even with self-driving cars, do you know how many scenes of horrific accidents I’ve been called to that only happened because of the snow and ice? And one of those accidents took my boy away from me! He’s in the hospital right now, and they don’t know if he’s going to live or die, or remain in a coma for the rest of his life!”
Connor froze, taken aback. He could hear the pain in Hank’s voice, but Connor knew that even if all the parties involved couldn’t have done anything different—short of not driving in unsafe conditions in the first place—winter simply was; there was no malice of forethought, no ill intent. And on the other side of the coin, just as the world’s inhabitants were cursed when visited, so too were they blessed. Without winter, the soil would not be nourished by the melting snow; plants could not store up their energy for new growth; disease would run rampant through unchecked mosquito populations. There were many plants and animals that didn’t only survive in colder climes, but thrived. Best of all—in Connor’s humble, unbiased opinion, of course—winter was beautiful; the ground covered with a blanket of snow, icicles draping from trees and man-made structures like diamonds. The other man only needed to be reminded of the good brought by the winter season.
“Hank. The water here today is the same water that's been here since the birth of the planet. It exists everywhere, remembers all—it is eternal. The only thing that changes is the form it takes.”
Connor cupped his hands, spreading them out around a massive snowflake that formed rapidly out of thin air—the crystalline structure as clear and smooth as if carved from a single block of ice. The snowflake shone with a golden glow from within, a dazzling gleam illuminating Hank’s face with the memories carried through the ages in each droplet of water.
“That… that’s Cole.” Hank’s voice was no more than a whisper, his eyes unable to tear away from the images that were portraying different scenes from the little boy’s life… a grinning Hank plopping his bucket hat on top of Cole’s head as they fished in a small boat… Cole squealing with wide-eyed glee as he raced his father down twin water chutes at the amusement park… Hank’s arms wrapped tight around Cole as they perched precariously in their bright blue plastic toboggan, zooming down the snowy slope of the largest hill in the neighborhood…
Hank sat there, openly weeping as the ice crystal burst into a flurry of diamonds and snow dust, taking with it the reminder of happier times. Moving awkwardly to leave, Connor stopped at the door as Hank called after him. “Connor, wait! Will you stay? Please? Just for—for a little while?”
Hesitating for only a moment, Connor turned back. Leaning over Hank’s chair from behind, Connor placed a hand soothingly on the human’s shoulder. “Just for a little while” he murmured gently, and waved another golden snowflake into being.
Closing the door to Hank’s house behind him, Connor stepped out onto the freshly fallen snow and breathed in the crisp, cold air. He had left the other man asleep in the chair—blanket wrapped around him, Sumo curled around his feet, tears long since dried. By the wee hours of the morning, Hank shared so much about Cole that Connor felt he knew him as intimately as one of his own family. If there was anything that Connor could do, he would do it. With a sudden swirl of snow, the winter wind lifted Connor off his feet and carried him towards his destination: Henry Ford Hospital, where Hank had mentioned visiting his son every day.
It was easy enough to find Cole’s room through the outside windows, and even easier to walk past the guards and staff that could neither see nor hear Connor—though they did shudder with a sudden chill or sneeze into their elbow as Connor passed them by. Connor slipped quietly inside the dimly-lit room, and made his way over to the bed on which Cole was laid. Brushing Cole’s hair back, Connor placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, imbued with all the magic and wonderment of winter he could muster.
The little boy shivered slightly in his thin hospital blankets, then relaxed into an easy slumber. His breathing eased around the tubes in his nostrils, and his pale face flushed with warmth. Connor nodded, pleased, and turned to the windows to leave pictures frozen on the glass for Cole to marvel at when he awoke. As he began to draw a wintery scene that featured a creature looking suspiciously like a Snow Sumo, a nurse walked briskly in and picked up Cole’s medical chart.
As Connor paused to wait for the interruption to the creation of his artistic vision to leave, a small voice interrupted the quiet, startling the attending nurse into dropping the chart with a sharp gasp of surprise. “Where’s my dad?” Sitting up in the hospital bed, rubbing his eyes sleepily and yawning, was Cole.
Sprinting to the door, sneakers squeaking with each step, the nurse called out excitedly to the other staff stationed outside.
“Call Lieutenant Anderson right away!! Cole’s awake!”
As the staff gathered around the hospital bed to reassure and comfort the young boy, Connor smiled. His heart skipped a beat as he realized that Hank would be there soon, and this time, he would be crying tears of joy.
Connor checked in on Hank and Cole periodically during the weeks that followed. From the hospital, to therapy, back to their home, the Andersons were followed—sight unseen—by a lithe figure that danced on the wind. He wasn’t going to go back, intent on returning to his abode with only bittersweet memories, but when Hank whispered “I don’t know what you did, but thank you…” out into the night, and pressed his lips into Cole’s hair, Connor could no longer stay away. The following morning, Hank ventured out into the snow to tempt Cole back inside with the promise of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, only to find his son—with the ‘help’ of Sumo—locked in battle with a snowball-throwing, no-shoe-wearing, silver-haired deviant named Connor. The afternoon found them bundled up together inside on the couch, sipping hot chocolate and watching ‘Frosty the Snowman’—much to Connor’s surprise and delight.
And if Connor promised to visit Hank again the following winter, and the winter after that, and if they grew closer with each passing year—close enough for soft caresses and tender kisses in the dark, for hearts to etch themselves into the layer of frost that covered the bedroom windows, for a family of two to become a family of three—that was nobody’s business but Connor’s and Hank’s and Cole’s.
And, of course, Sumo’s.
/the end