Jack, not Jackson

Chapter 39: Hard Truths and Hot Chocolate

Jack Frost POV:

My eyes snapped open as my heart has a nightmare, tapping out it's fears in a Morse code even I don't speak. Some part of my mind must have registered the presence outside my door. Not this door, but the door in the room attached to mine. The classroom door. Silently, I get up and prepare myself for a fight.

I kept my center of balance low and grabbed my stick, which was leaning against the doorframe. this was supposed to be my office, not bedroom, but I saw no point in that.
That meant no one should know I was there. Using a small amount of air, I pushed the thick door open smoothly. As it swung open to about six inches I realized there was no threat.

Harry was sitting on the bamboo mat at the back of the class room staring out the windows I'd made from ice. The moon was nearly full tonight, so the whole room was bathed in a cool blue light.  His hair was ruffled and his clothes were showing signs of having been through a mild windstorm. Nightmare.

Understanding floods every bone in me as I see the numbness in his body language. He looked exhausted. There was a dullness in his eyes that spoke about a different kind of exhaustion.

Before I even realized what I was doing I was sitting next to Harry, adopting the same cross legged position as he had. I knew that kind of exhausted. Once you knew it, it felt impossible to escape. It almost always was.

I felt him studying me as I looked at the moon. After what I felt was long enough to show I wasn't a threat, I turned to meet his gaze. It was hard to convey emotions after so long hiding them but this was easier then most. I needed him to know he wasn't alone.

And there was absolutely no chance that words were capable of conveying that without sounding like a 2D version of truth, falling flat as soon as you reached for it.

"Bad dream?" I ask. Not attempting to soften the blow I knew the words would bring but focusing more on rising to meet the pain they brought.

My conscious screams I understand as he clenches his jaw and nods. It hurts to see how hard this kid is trying to keep the pain under a lock and key.

It makes me feel heavy that no one has helped them. The thought of all these Camp Half Blood age kids bottling up everything leeches into my powers until I struggle to keep from lowering the room's temperature to below freezing. To cope, I take a small breath and focus the ice into that.

Focusing back to the present, I sit quietly. If Harry needs or wants to say something, he has to be the one to initiate the conversation.

Forcing people to talk is the same as backing them into a smaller cage. They've spent so much time fighting it can be hard to remember what kindness looks like.

So I sit silently. Watching the moon disappear and the watery sky warm a light peach colour as the smell of mist and mint coaxes my own muscles to relax. Except my heart, that wretched muscle is happily skipping beats like a a grade schooler in love.

Eventually I get up and unlock the window nearest my room to let Himadri in it she wants to visit. Then I make Harry hot chocolate. He has got to get something in his stomach.

Harry's robes  look new even though they are two sizes too big and his glasses are slipping off his face. It's clear he hasn't thought of food in while and he looks like he hasn't slept in days. So I put a full meal potion (every nutrient a body needs to survive) and some lavender into it and slip it into his hand before he can realize I've handed him something and consciously decide not to take it.

I pad across the room before he can take notice and hand it back. As I swing the heavy oak door closed behind me, I see Harry clutching the mug for warmth, take a sip without looking away from the now yellowish-pink sky and I allow the corner of my mouth to twitch upwards.

I was aware that I hadn't planned on getting attached. This was a job. A mission. Like thousands of missions I'd had before. But i knew it wasn't. Not anymore. This hit too close to home. Felt, too close to home for me not to take it personally. I had known too many kids who'd been terrified of dying before twenty. Then they say war and became terrified they'd live past 20.

I'd failed to be there for those kids. I had been too busy being one of them.
No way was I going to fail again.
I was going to be there for these students if it killed me.

Which, I thought seriously, was looking more and more likely, going by the state of my heart. Still feebly taping its unknowable codes in my chest. That was fine with me. I had died before. I wasn't going to let it stop me.