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No matter how many days there are to prepare myself, Christmas always caught me out of guard.
It’s easy to forget that the biggest fan of the holiday was North himself, but the way he somehow manages to outdo his decorations in the workshop it’s a good reminder.
This year was no exception. White and golden garlands hang around each corner of the roof, with giant red ribbon bows to curve them. The giant pine tree was set in the middle of the place, already embellished with ornaments and leaving its smell all over. Christmas stockings dangle on the fireplace, and there’s so many warm lights, both inside and outside, that it brightens the snowy mountains to the point it must look like a lighthouse.
We were told to, and quoting, “wear the best attire we own.” Difficult considering that I do not own much clothing. Having seen this as a possibility (Which, rude, but oh well, appreciated regardless), North had specifically designed a wardrobe that the Yetis do not allow me to get rid of at least until the month ends. Great…
At least is blue.
The candles are usually reserved for dinner, so now they wait in the large tables covered in ornate tablecloths that nearly touch the floor. Some starters lay on silver trays and it’s been a while since the table has been set. The only thing left for the main dish is to wait for North to come back.
It’s the desolation of the workshop, however, like a scene frozen in time and with the ticking of the old clock echoing on the halls, that becomes too much.
There’s been this… itch, lately. If you could call it that. It 's odd. Like there’s something on my chest trying and failing to rip at my ribs in order to crawl out.
Christmas is a family holiday.
I’ve always known this, yes. And it never really mattered to me before.
Now though, being here, with the others… it feels like I fit in and yet stick out, all at once. A thought that’s been whispering all night long in the back of my head, and it ruins me. I want to sing the Christmas carols, yet there’s something so painfully nostalgic on their tunes that pulls at my heartstrings and it leaves me shaking on every chord. Tried baking cookies earlier but it felt wrong. As if someone important, who actually knew how to preheat the oven and make the dough, was missing.
This strange yearning that tells me something huge is waiting for me at midnight, but there’s the risk of leaving myself behind by going after it.
Christmas time is supposed to bring joy. It does bring me joy.
And yet.
Ever since the Pitch incident, it has also brought up upon me this emptiness that comes and goes every year in December. Knowing that something is no longer here, yet begging for it to come back despite knowing it never will. It will never return to what it was.
Strange isn’t it? Longing for times that never existed. Or if they did, they’ve been forgotten.
Then again, it’s not the holiday the one to blame for this homesickness that shakes me to the core. My question is, what solution is there? How do you stop thinking of a house that no longer exists? How do you mourn the good fuzzy memories brought upon by a festivity when they keep coming back uninvited?
Being alone used to help. Kind of.
It wasn’t much. Not that my ideas are that well thought of, yet being away from the smell of gingerbread, the jingle of the bells coming from the elves' hats and the soul-crushing music allowed me to just. Breathe.
Other times, it did nothing.
The second solution was to stand still.
It started more as a game. Or perhaps a challenge to myself.
How long could Jack Frost, known for bouncing off the walls and being a chatterbox, remain still?
The answer is a long time. Really long time.
Forever, if I really tried.
My best record was at the Bethesda Fountain of Central Park, mimicking the Angel of the Waters. Lasted two weeks. My limbs wouldn’t stop trembling, all numb and having this bluish gradient underneath the frost covering them up. Coated in snow from head to toe, and with little ice spikes slowly forming under my arms, it made me understand better the amount of dedication those street artists playing statue pull into their performance. Crazy work, indeed.
It also helped with shutting my brain off.
Which brings me to now.
The window near North’s office has something that pulls me closer to it whenever I visit. It turned into a safe place that, while not completely quiet, was enough to make the chaos of Christmas seem distant from far above. There’s no statue for me to mimic here. Not like my body wants to move, either. Sitting in the darkness watching the night sky was also good. Can’t remember how long I’ve been hiding up here, but no one has searched for me yet, so, a few minutes more won’t hurt.
The cape attached to my newly designed shirt has this white fur collar that makes me want to scratch my neck off every time it brushes against it. The pointy elf shoes are squeezing my feet and seem to tie me closer to the ground when floating, and the texture of the clothes is driving me insane, which is what’s most possibly going to happen once the loud and stupid old clock strikes 12 O’ clock-
“Jack?”
Bunny’s voice blares throughout all other noises of the room below. It doesn’t really pull me out of my head, no, but he’s there, somewhere out of the corner of my eye. My mouth feels too dry to even say something back to him.
It’s the way his paws reach for my hands and how he flinches like a bucket of cold water has been poured all over him by doing so what actually brings me back.
It’s surprising he spotted me in the middle of the dark. Then again, he’s a bunny. Shouldn’t be that much of a shock.
“Jack, what’s the matter?!” He gestures with his hands, not sure whether to touch my shoulders or not. He seems… worried. Frighten, even. Following his gaze, still processing what’s happening, it’s when I catch a proper look at my hand. My fingers. The same ones that were mindlessly tracing frost spirals on the window.
Now turned into ice.
Oh.
That 's… new.
“Oi!” He calls back for my attention, brows furrowed and his whiskers twitching. “Talk to me, Frostbite. What happened?”
As quickly as it appeared, my hand goes back to hide under the bluish winter cloak. Looking at Bunny right feels far more daunting than ever.
“I…”
Why am I shaking so much? It’s not like my body can feel the cold for me to react like this. At least not anymore. Steam keeps coming out of my mouth with every breath, and hugging my legs closer to my chest only seems to worsen it. It’s getting harder to even find my voice, and yet it comes out so unfamiliar once I do that it can’t possibly be mine. So small. So weak-
“...I’m not ready for midnight yet.”
It was the truth.
And it hurts. So, so much.
Nothing else was said after that. Not like there was anything else to say, despite begging my head to think of something. So much for being a chatterbox, huh?
A bit unsure, Bunny sits down on the other side of the window bay. He brings up one of his legs, without noticing the fast tapping of his other foot against the floor. He’s wearing this rare suit thing. I don’t even know how to describe it, yet it reminds me so much of both the soldier type of uniform seen in the nutcracker toys around the workshop and the most royal-like attire of the little prince. That one in which he’s holding the sword. My favourite drawing of the whole book, to be honest.
It 's so colorful to the point that it's ridiculous.
And yet somehow, perfectly charming for him.
It would make me laugh if only my throat wouldn’t feel like I’ve swallowed glass.
“... Me neither.” he whispers back, and that’s what made me look at him; the hope behind those green eyes now showing a sadness that didn’t really suit his face and I hate it. Now it’s him who avoids my gaze.
He closes his eyes as he sighs, resting his back against the wall and crossing his arms as well, his expression turning sour.
I’m not the only one, then?
My hands kept moving under my cloak as if he could even see it, my doubt slowly transforming into a whisper as I spoke:
“Does to you.. feel like.. missing something that you.. don’t really remember..?”
Bunny calmly opens his eyes just to stare at me in a funny way. Whether that’s because he believes I’m losing my mind or for how bad my question was phrased, it’s a mystery.
“I think I know what you mean.” He chose his words carefully. Normally, the jerk would not let me live that down. He’s being gentler, and it’s infuriating how much it actually works to stop the twitching all over myself.
“... And yeah.” He adds, softly. “It does.”
He stares at the window ceiling. The starry night gets lost in the snow falling at a quick pace. He has more of a puzzled expression now, and it makes me wonder: how much of his past does he keep under the rug? Would he tell me if I dared to ask? Probably not.
“What do you do with it?”
There’s a beat of silence before Bunny shruggers at the question, making a face.
“Let it be, I suppose.” He admits, straightening his back as he turns to look back at me. “Otherwise, I’ll never get over it.”
My fingers play back and forth with the rim of my shirt. They still have the crystal-like transparency on them, cracking around the joints and making Bunny grimace at the mere sight, yet they’re not shaking anymore, so that must be a good thing. He gets closer, nonetheless. His ears flutter and seem torn between lowering flat against his head or staying upright.
Bunny opens and closes his mouth, and he has to stop himself with one hand from going back to the rapid taping of his foot. He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, until he finally voices what’s on his head:
“... Want to talk about it?”
There’s nothing more that I want right now but to talk about it. Finally, with someone who understands, or at least it seems like they do. But the thing is… How? Where do you even start with something like this?
“I can’t.”
It 's pathetic.
Why is it too much?
Why can’t I just let it be?-
Bunny hums at that. Even when pulling the hood full of white fur over my head, it feels impossible to avoid his green eyes. Being invisible right now didn’t sound so bad anymore.
“Alright.”
In an instant, he shifts his weight to not only get closer, but to rest next to me against the wall. He decides to lay his own head on top of mine, and shivers from ear to toe the moment he does so, yet does not pull away. On the contrary, as if fighting his own instincts, he gets closer, to the point where the warm greyish coat of his neck is pinching at my face.
“I ain’t leaving you, though.”
What the-?
“Bunny, you’re shaking.” He tries not to, but his fur stands on end the moment my hands push him back. All my efforts are in vain, however, since he remains motionless at my side. “You’re gonna freeze at this point!”
He's always hated the cold, after all. So why was he being so stubborn now?
“I don’t care.” He mutters, closing his eyes as he rests his chin on my head. “I’m not letting go until midnight. Not when you’re like this.”
He catches my hand turned ice, and that’s enough to give me goosebumps and to make him shudder. It makes me feel the burning of the frostbite, and by how he squeezes it, he’s feeling those, too.
But there’s also softness. The one coming from his paws. The heat so distinctive of summer to the point it convinces me he’s gonna melt me. The scent of chocolate intensifies with each and every one of my breaths.
“So get used to it, Frost.”
He pulls me closer, using part of the cloak to cover us as his thumb starts to brush my frozen hand in little circles.
“You don’t have to.”
And yet.
There’s this need to just stay put. To let myself fall apart in here.
“But I want to.”
… Perhaps it’s alright if I do so.
The sound of the soon-to-be party comes back to me, making the second floor vibrate with it. The clock keeps moving forward, every second tempting to strike 12.
But it didn’t feel so dreadful anymore.