fade

a fanfic novelette

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Summary: The new kid's like a spirit ghosting through the high school. He's pale and serious and far too sad for anyone part of the living. And Aster can't help but watch him, this teen with the lips that never smile, and the eyes that never glow. He can't help but be drawn in by his melancholy and his angry bitterness and his hopelessness. Jack Frost, Aster thinks to himself, needs to get over his demons. AU.

WARNINGS: TRIGGER WARNINGS for: self-harm; violence; emotional and physical abuse; sexual abuse references; (very) liberal use of swear words; angst; depression; anxiety; suicide mentions/ references; dark themes; bullying; graphic depictions of self-harm/ violence/ emotional outbursts; some slash innuendos. Please do not read if you feel even slightly worried by these warnings. This is, for the most part, a dark fic.

Story NOTE: This is a gen!fic, which means no romance, but I would personally consider it pre-slash. It's also an AU (alternate universe). I do not have a beta/ editor. If you find an error, please notify me so I can fix it pronto (there may be some since the tenses kept tripping me up as I kept switching between writing intervals; I did try to fix it, though). Thank you.

Personal NOTE: I know, I know. I fell off the face of the Earth. I started uni this year and last year was pretty sucky, so yeah. But I'm still here! Some of you may recognise this story. I took it down because I wanted to complete it and edit it and change some stuff, etc - id est, this story is prewritten and complete. I've used it to jumpstart my creative side; it worked. Now I just need to get off my lazy bum and finish the last chapter of JoaWS (which I promise I have started) and figure out where PV ends. It's tough, because my writing has evolved a lot, but I refuse to be that writer that abandons work. P.S: I plan to upload this whole story to Wattpad later on, so if you see it there under the account "hands-over-ears", don't be alarmed. Please inform me if you find it anywhere else, because then it has definitely been stolen.

PLEASE NOTE THE WARNINGS.

Disclaimer: I do not own Rise of the Guardians nor do I earn monetary profits from this fanfic.

1

blue and red

"… And he called it 'Absolutely Nothing'

Because that's what it was really all about

And he gave himself an A

and a slash on each damned wrist … "

— Osoanon Nimuss

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Blue and red lights flash outside his window. He turns his head away. He turns his mind away. He doesn't want to see the ambulance as they carry away the body. The body. He doesn't want to see the police tromping about as they scribble useless notes in their useless notebooks.

His bed squeaks as he shifts slightly. He looks down. His hands are trembling.

He clenches his jaw.

The hands still.

"Jack? Jack Frost?"

He looks up.

The social worker. Of course.

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"How do you feel today, Jack?" Kind voice. Kind eyes. Kind smile. But without fail, never a touch. Never a hug. Never comfort.

"Fine," he says gruffly, scratching his nail against the material of his chair.

The therapist taps her pen against her notebook. Useless notebooks. "Jack, what you've gone through is a lot for you to handle – "

"I handle fine."

Her eyes sharpen; her fingers twitch. Jack suspects she wants to note down denial – bad coping mechanisms – refuses support – introverted but she holds herself back to look him in the eye.

Jack silently applauds her show of restraint.

"Would you tell me how you handle things, Jack?"

He drops his eyes.

"Jack?"

His head snaps up. He glares. Even that fades. Emotions fade. Like time. Like flashing blue-red lights. Like the sound of a gunshot. "How do you think?" he sneers.

"Would you elaborate?"

He mumbles something, then. Something about understanding and forgiveness and going for walks on moonlit nights.

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"Hey, Jack!"

Jack turns round. "Yes?" he questions warily.

"It's your birthday, right?" the brown-haired boy babbles.

Jack tries to remember the kid's name. Kevin? Carter? Conner? "Yes."

The boy bounces, muddy eyes wide. "Wow! I'm eight," he confides with a pout, then adds, "and three quarters."

As if that somehow makes a difference, Jack thinks.

"But you're fifteen already!" He blushes, then. Horribly. His entire face purples with embarrassment. "I mean – not already. You're still young! And new! You only got here last month, right?" He stills. A frown replaces the smile. "But why? Nana Lena says babies are left here 'cause their parents can't care for them. You're not a baby." He squints as if trying to decide if Jack's scrawny form qualifies as a 'baby'. "Where are yours?"

Jack turns and walks away. He doesn't need this. He just wants –

He doesn't know.

He doesn't know what he wants.

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"Jack, honey, come meet Mr. Jode," Nana Lena says, beaming. "He's graciously offered to foster you."

Jack eyes the man. Tall, somewhat podgy. Thinning hair and thinner lips.

Nana Lena bends her head to look him in the eye. He is short; she tall. And Mr. Jode taller still. "What do you say, dearie?" Concern writes itself into existence in her voice and her eyes and even the way she holds her body.

Liar. He scuffs his wrecked shoes and twists the edge of his shirt. It's black. He likes it. What do you say? she'd asked. He says nonono, please no, I don't wanna go, please-don't-make-me.

Instead, all that he says is, "Whatever."

Another beaming smile. "Wonderful! Now, Mr. Jode, if we could discuss … "

Five weeks later finds Jack back at the orphanage, and Mr. Jode behind bars. And if Jack screams more at night or flinches more or says less or eats less … well, no-one says anything.

And nor does he.

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"Do you know why you're here, Jack?" Kind voice. Kind eyes. Kind smile. Same routine.

"No."

"Can you think of a reason?" the therapist asks patiently.

"No."

A soft sigh. Is he wearing her down? Finally? "Mr. Jode – "

He bolts up without asking and leaves, the door swooshing closed behind him.

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Nana Lena peers down at him as he shovels gruel into his mouth. Her face is pale. Almost as pale as his.

He ignores her and scoffs another spoonful, wanting just to leave, wanting just to go –

wanting –

She slowly sits down next to him. "Jack."

It is early. No-one else is in the kitchen yet. Outside, the grey clouds rumble.

He is nearly done eating. Then he can leave.

"Jack."

Another spoonful.

"Jack." A hand on his arm. He freezes. A hand on his arm.

Then, a voice that is warbled with age and sincerity: "I'm so sorry, Jack. I didn't know. And I'm worried, Jack. You eat so little, and you disappear for ages – "

But she is speaking to an empty room.

He's already left.

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The wind is howling. He doesn't shiver. His grip tightens on his skateboard, and then loosens as he sets the board at the top of the hill. The road stretches out before him, a veritable black lake against the grey sky.

His feet find their footing, and his left foot gives a push, sending him rolling down the street. The wind screams as he shoots past it, flying down the steep hill with no fear.

With no fear. With nothing.

His clothes plaster against his body, revealing thin legs and thin arms. His lips crack from the lack of moisture.

And there is no-one to witness as he loses his balance and falls forward, slamming into the tar road. No-one to witness his lack of disconcertion. No-one to note his bitter expression.

No-one to wonder why Jack, one of the best skateboarders around, tripped. To wonder why he doesn't seem to mind.

Doesn't seem to mind the scrapes and bumps and –

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"How are you today, Jack?" his therapist asks with little hope.

He ignores her.

"Your father had no right to do what he did, Jack. No parent should ever treat their children like he did you."

He ignores her.

"And Mr. Jode – " she hesitates, then leaves that topic alone. Ah. So she does learn.

"And your father should not have taken – "

He blocks her out. He isn't listening. He hears nothing.

He ignores her.

It is what he's good at.

Ignoring noise. Arguments. Ignoring the smell of alcohol and smoke and –

and –

and –

and semen.

Yes. Even that he can ignore.

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The bulb flickers. Jack pauses, the shaver clutched in his hand. Not that he has anything to shave. But he likes the action of it. He likes the shaving foam. It reminds him of snow and peace and cold winds.

He licks his lips and resumes shaving, mockery that he makes of it.

His eyes are a pale blue, his skin pale, his hair pale.

Everything about him is pale and faded – faded like the sound of a dying gunshot.

In his grip, the shaver shakes. The razor glints.

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