More Than Forever, page 6
It takes him a couple of seconds to register that he’s eating a biscuit, and he’s absolutely going to blame it on Nick’s eyes and Nick’s chuckle. He raises an eyebrow as he chews. It’s not what he remembers. The biscuit tastes slightly spiced, rich, deep. It tastes like Nick. Jack doesn’t think he’s ever tasted something as good before. He wants to eat nothing but gingerbread biscuits for the rest of his life.
“This is good,” he says, instead of saying that. Nick beams at him. He has very nice teeth.
“I’ll tell Miss,” Nick says.
Jack tilts his head. “Who is Miss?”
“Miss? Mrs Claus?”
Jack feels cold. Of course. Mrs Claus. Mr and Mrs Claus. Jack’s heard the myths, the stories. He should have remembered that Nick has a wife, but he didn’t and now he’s disappointed. He doesn’t want to think about why, even though the itch travelling up his spine tells him exactly. He’s not going to put words to it, because words will make it more real. And it’s nonsensical anyway. He doesn’t like Nick that much. They don’t know each other. They’ve only met a few times. It means nothing. He puts the rest of the gingerbread man in the box to save it for later and doesn’t raise his gaze.
“You have a wife?” he says, his voice as placid as it always is, even though he feels like his whole body is dropping from something very tall. There’s a very static pause, and then Nick is ducking his head, forcing Jack to look at him. Jack breathes around the lump in his throat, which he’s choosing to ignore, and he stares into Nick’s eyes without even contemplating crying.
“I have a friend,” Nick says with emphasis.
Jack swallows. “Not a wife?”
“I’m gay. Miss is just a friend.”
Nick is very close, and it’s starting to get very warm. Maybe a little uncomfortably warm. Jack should move away. He doesn’t. He watches Nick. Nick’s stubble is long enough he could call it a beard, a mix of blond and brown hairs with a few greys in spots. His skin is smooth and lightly tanned, which is odd for someone who lives at the North Pole. Like his skin is the colour of Christmas heat rather than winter chill. Jack doesn’t move his head away. His cheeks are warm. He should move his head. Nick’s breaths blossom as clouds from his lips. Jack can feel them. They match his.
“How many friends do you have?” Jack whispers.
“Do you count?”
Something sparks in Jack’s chest.
“Yes,” he says.
“Three.” Nick’s voice is rough. Jack nods, and Nick seems to realise how close he is to Jack, because he withdraws and rubs at his face. He coughs, and whatever was fizzing between them dissipates a little. Jack rests his chin back on his knees. It doesn’t feel hot anymore.
“Only three?” Jack says, tilting his head so he can see Nick properly.
Nick shrugs. “It’s not so easy to make friends when you live at the North Pole and only get to come out one night a year.”
“Hmm,” Jack agrees. They sit in silence, not even tinny Christmas music disturbing them in their time-freeze bubble. Jack feels his body relax, muscles he didn’t realise were tight loosening. He doesn’t usually tell people things about himself, but something about sitting on a roof in the middle of the night, and something about it being Nick, makes him talk. “Pascal made me go to a party. He thinks I should meet people.”
“Who did you meet?”
“No one important.”
Nick’s eyes narrow as they flick over Jack’s face. Jack doesn’t move. It’s only fair; he’s spent enough time studying Nick, but it does make his chest tighten and his stomach swirl. It’s nice to be so thoroughly seen.
“Were people shit to you again?” Nick asks. He sounds protective, and Jack’s skin tingles with it. He breathes in, forcing the feeling down, and thinks about the question. He doesn’t know how to answer so he shrugs. Were people horrible to him? Not really, not any more than he deserves. He’s not good at meeting people, and he’s not inclined to learn how to. There would be no point. It’s not like it’s easy for him to see anyone whilst he’s hopping around the world.
“I don’t meet a lot of immortals,” he says eventually.
Nick frowns. “Why?”
“I can’t go anywhere warm, and most immortals like the warmth.”
“Why can’t you go anywhere warm?”
“Socially, because the humans would panic if frost showed up in the heat. Physically, because if I overheat, I die.”
Nick’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’d rather you not die.”
“Me too.”
They look at each other. Jack doesn’t want to look away. He likes this new way of talking to someone. He likes the way Nick listens to him. It feels very low-pressure. Jack likes Pascal, but he always feels a little like Pascal is about to give him unsolicited advice. Which he does. Often. Nick doesn’t do that. He waits. Jack finds himself smiling at the bubbling in his chest.
“So, where do you go throughout the year?” Nick asks.
Jack shrugs. “I travel.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
Not at all.
“Sometimes?”
“But not all the time?”
Jack doesn’t wince, because he has more control over his face than that, but the way Nick just seems to know stings. He doesn’t want to talk about the times he doesn’t enjoy it. He doesn’t want Nick to know that he spends most of his time alone in a cave. He doesn’t want Nick to know about Slide. It’s pathetic, and Jack likes the way Nick looks at him now. He doesn’t want Nick to look at him with pity.
“What do you do, when you’re not delivering presents?” he asks, to change the subject.
“I work,” Nick says. Jack looks at him for a long moment, waiting for more elaboration. Nick sighs. “I design toys, and think of ways to trick adults into thinking they designed toys. I liaise with the department heads to make sure everything is running smoothly. I check the list. I fix my suit. I tend to the reindeer. I work on the sleigh. I evaluate how the drop went, and what I can do to improve it. I work.”
It's a lot. Jack frowns. “Do you ever take a break?”
“I’m taking one now.”
“What about when you’re not doing all that?”
“There’s always something to do.”
Hm. It sounds exhausting. Jack looks out at the world beyond the time-freeze. He’s not entirely sure how it works, how the time all settles itself, because he’s never there when Nick leaves the roof. Maybe that’s just another thing that Nick has to do. Another job. Rearranging time. Nick has so many jobs that mean something to him, and Jack is stuck with one job that he doesn’t need to do, that forces him to wander the world alone for the majority of the year. A lump forms in his throat and he forces himself to breathe through it. When it’s apparent that just breathing won’t make him feel better, he gives himself a small shake.
“I tried working last year. And then I tried not working this year,” he says, because for once talking seems to be less painful than thinking.
“How did it go?”
“I don’t know that there was that much of a difference.”
“I’m sure there was. You wouldn’t exist if there was no reason for you to.”
The lump is still there, and now there’s pressure in his head and he needs to stand. He needs to move. He can’t be sat here, with Nick being perceptive and wonderful and saying things like that. He shakes his head
“Sometimes stories don’t have a reason,” he says, more to himself than Nick.
There’s a pause.
“What will you do this year?” Nick says. Jack doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to think about it, because thinking about it makes him hurt. He stands up abruptly. Nick doesn’t seem fazed by the sudden movement. He doesn’t move from his spot on the blanket. Jack can see where he’s been sitting, the ice mixing in with the fabric, making it stiff. He moves to the reindeer, holding his hand out for one of them to sniff. He likes the fleeting heat that comes from their breath.
“It’s been twenty minutes. You should finish delivering presents to this kid,” he says without turning back to Nick.
“There’s two in this house.” Nick’s voice sounds like he’s laughing. Like he’s having a joke with Jack. Like he enjoys spending time with Jack. That thought is painful too.
“Well then you better hurry,” he says.
He can hear movement behind him, and then Nick is standing next to him, his chest broad, his smile radiant. He’s holding the box of gingerbread men out to Jack. Jack takes it carefully, making sure he doesn’t touch Nick’s bare hand. Nick looks like he wants to say something, and then, because it’s Nick, he does.
“I’m glad you came tonight.”
Jack can’t help himself. He smiles. Nick is glad he’s here, and glad they spent time together, and it feels like a gift. Jack knows he would be blushing, and he twists one foot against the roof and bites his lip to try and control himself. Nick is smiling too, a soft smile that makes him glow. Jack holds the box close to his chest and walks towards the edge of the roof. He glances over his shoulder when he gets to the gutter to find Nick still watching him with that smile.
“Have a good year,” Jack says, hoping that Nick understands that it means more than that, and steps off the roof.
year six
. . .
JACK
Jack is going to a house party, two weeks after he should have left for the colder weather. The weather is turning, frost is being replaced by morning dew, and he is warm. Too warm. It’s late in the evening, late enough that a little frost can be excused, and he’s walking to the party with Pascal, and he shouldn’t be. He should be crossing the ocean to get to the southern hemisphere. But he isn’t. He’s walking along a street in London on his way to a party with other immortals.
It's Pascal’s fault. Well. His and Nick’s. The two of them, making Jack feel like he should be making an effort. Making an effort with work. Making an effort with people. He’s hot and late and irritable. And he’s wearing clothes! He tugs at the trousers that are too tight on his legs and the t-shirt that is suffocating his torso. If he faints in the middle of the party, he’s going to be annoyed.
“We’re here!” Pascal says. He’s still wearing about three scarves, and Jack wonders if he’ll ever see Pascal without them. The house in front of them is a Victorian terraced, with a small, neat front garden and music pulsing from the red front door. To the rest of the world, it’s just a house. Just a house filled with normal humans having a party. Not the house of an immortal who has lived for thousands of years. Jack’s never met her before, but Pascal keeps insisting she’s lovely.
They knock on the door and the lovely immortal opens it with a wide grin. She’s wearing an odd mix of toga, 1920’s headwear over her vibrant auburn hair, and Ugg boots. Jack is hit by the warmth of her as she stretches her arms out and envelops Pascal in a hug. She smells of roses. Jack feels frozen to the spot, unsure where to stand and where to look. He’s never met Liliwen before. He knows very little about her. He doesn’t know if she knew he was coming tonight. He scuffs his toe on the floor. He feels hot.
“Pascal! You remember that little café over by Hyde Park, don’t you? The one that did those little croissants?” Liliwen shouts. She’s so close and so loud and Jack wants to run away. He could. She doesn’t seem to have noticed him yet. Instead, he stands as still as he can and watches.
Pascal doesn’t seem to be having any problems with Liliwen’s volume. He laughs, hugging her tightly back. “Of course!”
“I told you so, Cleo!” Liliwen calls behind her. Someone calls back in disbelief. Liliwen turns back to them, gesturing with sweeping arm gestures. “Come in, come in. Oh! Jack Frost! How absolutely lovely! I’ll open the back door. I’m Lee!”
And with that she disappears into the house. Jack doesn’t want to stand still for too long, frost already seeping from his toes. He has to make sure he doesn’t touch anything. He doesn’t want to leave icicles, or to break anything. Pascal either ignores his obvious discomfort or doesn’t care because he doesn’t even look at Jack as he makes his way through the house. Jack follows because he can’t just stand in the doorway slowly getting hotter as the hallway fills with ice.
He feels mildly sick as they make their way along the corridor. There are a lot of people in the house. He recognises a couple from brief meetings, but no one that would want to spend any significant time with him. Jack stares at the floor, an uncomfortable itch running up his neck. He doesn’t know why he’s here. He should have ignored Pascal, like he has every other time Pascal has tried to get him to socialise. He didn’t like the dinner party Pascal organised. Why did he ever think he’d like a house party hosted by someone he’s never even met?
He's suitably annoyed at himself as they walk into the kitchen. It’s a large, open space with French doors at the back that are wide open. Lee has disappeared. Jack is just contemplating leaving when Pascal grabs his wrist and steers him towards a man standing by the doors.
“Sisyphus! I didn’t know you’d be here,” Pascal calls. The man turns and smiles at them.
“Pascal darling! Of course, you know me. Never miss a party when there’s free wine.” He holds up his glass as evidence. Jack would like some wine. White, obviously.
“Have you met Jack?” Pascal says, pushing Jack forward. Jack has a moment to scowl at Pascal before Sisyphus looks at him with interest. Jack schools his features. He has to be polite. Pascal told him he made a bad first impression. Even Nick agreed. This is his chance to be better, to work harder. He thinks about smiling back.
“No! Jack?” Sisyphus says, looking somewhat confused.
“Jack Frost.” This is where Jack should smile. Hold out a hand. Not that Sisyphus would take it. No one likes touching Jack, if they can help it. It’s too cold.
“Oh, of course.” Sisyphus takes a long sip of his drink and doesn’t hold out his hand. “Lovely to meet you.”
There’s a tense pause that Jack thinks he's probably supposed to fill, but he doesn’t know how, so he just stands very still, tilts his head, and watches Sisyphus instead. He has thick thighs, broad shoulders, and curly blond hair. He looks a little like Nick, except without the shimmer and sparkle and warmth. He seems nice enough.
“So, you managed to get away?” Pascal asks. Sisyphus laughs.
“Technology is a wonderful thing. There’s currently a very small and very dedicated robot dragging the rock in my place.”
They both laugh. Jack would laugh too, if that were a thing he did. And if it were a remotely funny joke.
Jack wants to run away. Pascal pats Sisyphus on the shoulder. The touch is so strong and deliberate that a lump forms in Jack’s throat. He doesn’t often get touched, and when Pascal does it’s only out of necessity. It’s not friendly tactility. Jack takes a deep breath.
“Ah. I see Keanu is here. Excuse me, gentlemen.” And with that Pascal leaves them standing by the open back door. A soft breeze floats in, momentarily cooling Jack’s skin. He should step outside really, but the frost on the ground may look strange to Lee’s neighbours and he doesn’t want to get her in trouble with the humans.
“So, Jack.” Sisyphus turns to him, and Jack raises an eyebrow on instinct. Sisyphus doesn’t seem to notice. “You must have been to the top of a fair few mountains. Ever been up Annapurna?”
This is where Jack needs to have conversation. He coughs. The floor around him is glittering.
“Once, in the late 1800s.”
“Oh, you must go soon. It really is wonderful around April.”
If Jack could blush, he would.
“It’s a little hot for me then.”
“Ah. Yes. You must have gone in December?”
“January.”
“Right. Right.”
There’s an awkward pause. The rest of the party is loud behind them, people drinking and laughing and talking in a completely unreserved way. Jack hates it. Hates them. He shouldn’t be here. He should be walking across the ocean. He’s hot. So hot. He should leave. He should go home. He should drop his clothes off at his house and disappear. No one would notice. No one would care.
Nick’s shining smile flashes into his mind. Nick would care. He thinks. Not that Nick is around. But Jack is sure he’ll notice in December, when he visits their roof. Jack desperately wants to have good news for Nick. To tell Nick about the immortals he met, immortals that would love to be friends with Nick and Jack. Not that they’re ‘Nick and Jack’. They’re Nick. And Jack. Jack doesn’t like where this train of thought is going, so he coughs.
“I tend to like to stay at home during winter.”
Sisyphus raises his eyebrows, looking interested. “Oh, you have a house?”
Jack nods. “In the Pennines.”
“Oh lovely! A quaint cottage I would bet!” Sisyphus looks like he’s really excited. Like Jack is succeeding at this conversation thing. Like maybe he’ll have more than two friends. Sisyphus takes another sip of wine and moves closer to Jack. “I must come round for tea.”
Shit. Jack swallows.
“You’d be very welcome, but I’m afraid I don’t have much in the way of tea making facilities. Or a roof.”
Sisyphus frowns. “Oh dear! Are you having renovations?”
“It was a choice. I can’t drink tea, and I need the rooms to be cool.”
“Dear boy! Of course!”
