It’s your turn to be a deer in the headlights.
You should turn away, but you’re completely frozen. Stuck. Hypnotized. Captivated.
“I can’t wait. I’m going to put it on now!” he had exclaimed after releasing you from the hug.
You had thought that he meant he was going to go to a different room to change.
And then that maybe he’d at least keep on the white shirt and put your Christmas present to him on over that.
But no. He had literally meant putting the blue hoodie on in that very moment. In that room. Right in front of you. And to change into just the hoodie.
I guess you somewhat forget how to act in front of people and proper social behavior a little if you go unseen for centuries.
You secretly don't mind it.
His old shirt and brown vest lie forgotten on the floor amongst the crumpled wrapping paper. His cloak is carelessly thrown over the closest arm of the couch. You’re holding the Santa hat, which he had tossed to you.
You can just feel the deep crimson taking over your face. Your heart is threatening to pound out of your chest. You grip the brim of the hat harder.
What’s worse is that you just can’t seem to break your gaze.
Jack Frost is standing there before you, holding the hoodie up again as he admires it one more time before slipping it on, a wide grin spread across his face.
And he’s completely shirtless.
His abnormally pale white skin deeply contrasts the dark brown of the leather belt he wears around his pants, something you hadn’t noticed before since the white shirt was long enough to cover it. The thin golden belt buckle shines in the firelight. He’s very fit, body similar to that of a soccer player. Your eyes trace the lines of his lean muscles—noticeable, but not disgustingly bulging—from his arms and square chest to the slight indentations on his abdomen that indicate a six pack.
You shiver. And it isn’t from the sudden five-degree temperature drop that took place when he had removed his final layer.
He pulls on the hoodie, his hair managing to maintain its natural spike as his head pops out of the head hole.
He looks down at his torso. He then holds his arms out to his side and looks at you, head cocked slightly to the side.
“What do you think? Does this hoodie make me look fat?”
You laugh, your trance broken. You shake your head.
“But it does seem to be missing something,” you say, holding your chin thoughtfully as you approach him. “It needs a little touch of Jack Frost.”
“Hmmm…you’re right.” He pauses, tapping his lips with the tips of his fingers as he brainstorms. He sets his hands into the hoodie pocket and walks over to the frosted window.
“I’ve got it,” you hear him say under his breath.
You raise your eyebrow questioningly.
He pinches the top edge of his left sleeve with his right hand, brow furrowed in concentration. Spindles of icy frost spring from the point of contact. They crawl up his arm, with more at the cuff and less as they progress, creating a crazy pattern of cross-hatching on the outer part of the sleeve. The longest one stops just before it reaches his elbow. He does the same thing with the right sleeve.
He then stands still, arms limp at his sides. He closes his eyes, still deeply focused.
You see matching lines of frost begin to spread from the base of the hood and down his chest, reaching across horizontally to his shoulders as well. When one meets another, they clash and break off into multiple strands, like the arms of a snowflake. They dim as they progress down and across his torso, becoming thinner and thinner, clearer and clearer until they disappear into the fabric. It ends where his chest does, wrapping in a broad semicircle on his front up to the edges of his shoulders. Sparkling blue and silver snowflakes dot the pattern here and there, enhancing but not overwhelming it.
A few more spindles pop into existence on the elbows of the hoodie.
He breaths out. You can just see a wisp of white snow in his exhaled breath, like a miniature blizzard.
He touches the top corners of the pocket, ice springing forth in a matching pattern along its edges, stretching further to the center at the corners.
He reopens his eyes, connecting his gaze with yours.
“Well? Do you like it?”
You walk up to him. He holds out his arm. You run your fingers along the fresh ice, the cold biting at your fingertips.
“It’s perfect,” you tell him, smiling.
“Good enough for an outing?”
But you’re cut off by Jack snatching up your hand and running to the back door, flinging it open, picking up his staff on the way. He puts up the hood with his free one, a thin line of more patterned ice spreading from his grip and encircling it, embroidering its rim.
It doesn’t stay on for long, though. It flies back the moment the two of you take to the sky, travelling at a speed seems like it could give a jet plane a run for its money.
“Jack!” you scream over the wind. “Where are you taking me!”
“Just hang tight! You’re gonna love it!”
After a while in flight, just as your nose and ears begin to get numb from the cold wind whipping at them, you see something on the horizon.
Hill upon rolling hill of snow gives way into a giant, snow-covered mountain. But nothing other than the snow itself is seen, no spot of brown or green peeks from underneath the thick blanket of white. Elaborate bridges of ice connect the smaller peaks that lie before the monstrosity.
Nestled within the mountainside is a building. Its domed, Russian-style roofs are a bright red, lined with gold, sitting merrily on top of bright golden walls. A warm light fills the entire structure. Just next to it, jutting from the side of the mountain, is a long wooden ramp with flight lights.
As the two of you approach, you begin to realize just how gigantic this edifice is.
Jack lands the two of you on an edge just below the structure.
You see something tall and hairy move out of the corner of your eye.
Was that a yeti?
Jack smiles. He faces you.
“I’ve never been able to break in,” he says, his voice tainted with mischievousness. “But…”
“…maybe you can. Maybe he’ll just let you in. After all, it’s bad manners to leave someone who is covered from head to toe in snow out in the cold. And he’s all about behaving nicely.”
“Who’re you talking about? I’m not helping anyone break in to anywhere. And besides, neither of us are covered in sno—”
You catch on. You start to back up and away from Jack, who is advancing towards you, the snow starting to swirl around him.
“Whoa whoa whoa, wait a minute,” you say, holding your hands up in protest.
“I have a few white Christmases to deliver still. And since I can never get past those yetis, you’re going to tell me all about it, dearest.” He steps through the snow, but it continues to rise behind him, forming a wall. He kisses your cheek, leaving a tingling sensation.
He leaps into the air and starts to fly away. You’re faced with a giant, thick wall of snow about three feet taller than you.
And the wave of snow crashes down upon you.