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It started the way most stories like theirs do: two college students, both majoring in some form of visual art, crossing paths by chance on campus one chilly December morning. One, the brunette with a fresh canvas tucked beneath his arm and a supply bag laden with charcoal, paintbrushes and other tools, ran late for his restoration class. Had anyone known about the prosthesis that replaced half of his left leg, they probably would have warned him not to actually run across icy pathways with it.
It was 9:42 AM on a Tuesday morning when Hamish “Hiccup” Haddock lost his footing on a thin sheet of ice, losing grip on his brand new canvas and nearly falling and breaking his nose.
Enter one photography major - the albino from the Middle of Nowhere, Maine, yawning widely and scratching through his messy silvery-white hair as he crossed campus with a sugar-laden cup of decaf. He didn't actually have a morning class that he was running late to. No, his excuse to traipsing around the campus was simply that he enjoyed the cold weather. New York didn't quite hold the record in comparison to the blizzards back home, but it still made him feel welcome to have the crunch of snow and ice beneath his sneakers. As luck would have it, his morning walk was perfectly timed.
It was 9:42 AM on a Tuesday morning when Jackson Frost bolted forward on sure feet to catch a scrawny little auburn-haired young man before he could hit the pavement.
Emerald green eyes darted up when the freckled boy realized he hadn't hit the ground, and when the most intriguing shade of icicle blue stared back at him, he immediately started blurting out apologies. Jack, nearly dumping his coffee in the rescue mission, helped him stand and straightened up himself. He lifted the cup with half a smile and announced that it was okay, the 'instant human' survived, so no harm done.
Jack mentioned that he hadn't seen the brunette around campus before, and was he new?
Hiccup informed him that no, as a matter of fact, he was a sophomore thank you very much. Names were exchanged, followed closely by awkward silence, and again by the sudden realization that oh man, he was late for class and mid-terms were just around the corner. With a stuttered 'thank you for saving me from making friends with the sidewalk,' the art major gathered up his canvas again and took off, albeit a bit more carefully.
A pair of eyes, their true color hidden by blue contact lenses, followed the scrawny boy as he disappeared into the lecture hall. The doors closed, and with a smile and a little shake of his head, Jack adjusted the strap of his camera. He turned back down the path to continue his morning walk, hoping that he would stumble across the little Hiccup in his routine again soon.
It was Christmas Eve that very same year, at 11:59 PM when Jackson Frost met with Hamish “Hiccup” Haddock beneath the mistletoe at a party off campus. Three weeks after their introductions, time that certainly hadn't gone by without interaction (Jack managed to badger Hiccup's cell number out of him and there was definitely no way the brunette could turn it down when the photography major showed up in his anatomy class with a cup of half-caf latte), there they stood. Face to face, nearly nose to nose at that.
Mutual friends had been keeping tabs on them, watching their meetings, Hiccup's best friend finally decided enough was enough and dragged him along to the party, in cahoots with the energetic brightly-clothed girl that Jack spent a lot of his free time with to make sure the two of them wound up in that very predicament.
“Uh,” Hiccup stumbled verbally that time.
“So,” Jack ran a hand back through his hair, awkward at the most inopportune moment.
It was Christmas Day at 12:03 AM, after several shifting moments of stuttered single-syllable utterances, that Jack Frost and Hiccup Haddock shared their very first kiss. (It was 12:05 when they shared their second, with less clashing teeth and bumping noses and more actual lip lock.)
They became official in the most subtle way humanly possible. Of course, this meant that naturally everyone on campus knew about it; the freckle-spotted art major, born and raised in Buffalo, and the white-haired aspiring photographer with an insatiable fascination for all things winter-related, would probably be making headlines if Astrid Hofferson wasn't in charge of the small scale campus newsletter. (Hiccup's best friend may have shoved them together, but she wasn't about to sell the poor kid out.) It went about as well as any relationship can between two spirits like them. Alike enough that they clicked, with just a few differences.
Two months after their first actual date, Jack showed up at Hiccup's dorm room with a rainbow flag painted on one cheek and clad in the brightest colors that clashed horrendously with his pale skin and hair. His loyal sidekick, Ana, stood beside him and stood out even more than usual. When the brunette took to asking him why he looked like a Willy Wonka experiment gone horribly wrong, Jack announced the local gay pride rally and that Hiccup should go. Because it would be “fun.” That was the very first time he ever said 'no' to the fun-loving albino.
In the middle of month four, they had their first real fight. Neither one of them could actually remember now what it was about, only that it involved strewn papers, accusations made out of frustration, a handful of hurtful words that didn't actually mean anything, and a slamming of doors that half of Alexander Hall could hear. Two days, exactly 48 hours of silent treatment later, Jack began hiding post-it notes everywhere he could think of. He slipped them under the door of his boyfriend's room, stuck them to the white board on the outside, tucked them between the pages of his sketchbook.
Each note said something different, something special. They ranged from little things he noticed and loved about Hiccup, to simple things like 'I'm sorry' and 'I love you.' Because he really, truly and honestly did.
Hiccup finally came around and Jack apologized for 'being a gigantic ass,' an occasion followed by their very first discussion of what the words 'I love you' meant to both of them. The brunette never told his companion that he saved each and every one of those notes, tucked them away safely in his desk drawer for a rainy day.
Just before their six-month anniversary, Hiccup finally told his boyfriend how he earned himself the prosthetic leg. It was a tender subject that they never touched, Jack never pressed for information about it, and for all accounts and purposes it was the Fight Club of their still-growing relationship. The story wasn't long, nor was it tedious, but it had the brunette pushing back stubborn tears and trying to hide his face because he was the one who didn't really dump emotion on people. All the while, Jack curled his arms protectively around the boy he loved, dipping his head and kissing his freckled cheeks and murmuring to him that he was beautiful and perfect and oh, oh how he loved that Hiccup of his.
“You know,” he broke an hour-long silence that night, still cradling his love close to him. “There's nothing wrong with you. You're just a snowflake.”
Hiccup's reply was flat, unamused. “Yeah, that makes me feel loads better; you just compared me to a frozen speck of water. Thanks, Jack,”
“No, no, come on, Hic... It's scientifically proven. No two snowflakes are completely alike. They're unique, and some are more beautiful than others,” that smile, the one the brunette melted for. “Like you.”
The six month mark had the brunette starting work on a painting, a piece he resolved to finish by the end of the school year. Jack was graduating that year, after all, and he wanted to make sure he didn't send the boy off with nothing to remember him by. It was a piece that had all of Hiccup's attention, depicting his boyfriend as the infamous Jokul Frosti from Norse mythology. (He had always been a sucker for that kind of stuff.) Jack was so enamored with winter, and it suited him beautifully – he looked utterly out of place amongst the warm summer sun, always shifting uncomfortably and finding a shady place to rest. Of course, part of that was his albino sensitivity to light, but still.
Inspired, the art major had the piece all sketched out by the end of month six, week two. It still made his heart swell to imagine that they'd been together that long.
Things got so busy by the end of their seven-month date, both boys had little time for side hobbies. Hiccup's painting was set aside, hidden from the photographer's prying eyes because it was a surprise darn it, and he was nothing if not stubborn. Jack let it slide easily, considering he had been secretly compiling a photo album full of shots he thought of as memories for the both of them. Some candids, some intentionals, all of them things that reminded him of Hiccup or actual images of the boy. The albino was completely and utterly smitten, and he absolutely did not feel the need to hide the truth. At every turn, he was offering cheek kisses and giving little love bites to the very tip of that adorable freckled nose. Hiccup never protested, though his cheeks always glowed that brilliant shade of red no matter how used to it he became.
Hobbies, however, did not include each other. Because they always, always made time for each other.
It was a sweltering night in late May, the beginning of nine months together, that the pair touched skin for the very first time.
At exactly 9:42 PM, Jack's kisses turned insistent and Hiccup's arms wound tight around his boyfriend's sweat-tacky shoulders, and they moved together as though they had done it all their lives. With desperate breaths and slow, intentional brushes of fingertips, the aspiring photographer memorized every dip and curve of his love's body, mapped every little freckle, pressed his lips against skin as though he would never see it again. The melody of his name dropping from Hiccup's mouth was nothing short of beautiful, his fingertips digging into pale shoulders as his back arched away from the bed in a silent plea.
It was perfect. Everything, absolutely everything was perfect. Jack had his little brunette, his perfect little Hiccup, and the art major had his Jack – the one person who saw him for who he was and loved him anyway.
The end of June came far too quickly.
“I'm not leaving New York,” Jack promised, so many times. His plan was to graduate, do some freelance photography if he could (he had already scored an internship with the local paper, and a couple of big name hipster magazines were chomping at the bit to get some of his work between their pages) and stay in his studio apartment until his boyfriend graduated.
That was what kept Hiccup from panicking, from worrying, from convincing himself that once Jack left the state again that would be it. He would forget all about the scrawny freckled boy from college and move on with his life. For the most part, those fears were kept at bay by tickling neck kisses and whispered promises in post-sex euphoria, their only intruder the moonlight streaming through Hiccup's window.
When Jack approached him the day before graduation, though, there was no spark in his eyes, usually so full of life. Hiccup's heart sank when he was told the news; a family emergency had come up, and he had to move back home to Maine. He didn't know if he would make it back to the state. It was time to start over, to move on with their lives at long last, and the reverie of a perfectly imperfect love was shattered forever in the back of both of their minds. Hiccup forced himself not to cry, because he never cried in front of his boyfriend if he could help it. Jack wound his arms tight around the brunette and let the tears fall unabashedly – a trait the other had always found admirable.
It was June 16th at 4:36 PM, a miserably wet and rainy Thursday afternoon, when Jack Frost and Hamish “Hiccup” Haddock said their final goodbyes to each other.
Hiccup never picked the painting back up. He packed it away with the rest of his belongings in the preparation to return home to Buffalo for the summer vacation, and it was impossibly difficult for him to move at anything but a depressed snail's pace. The brunette avoided Astrid, avoided Ana – they both looked at him with pity, and he didn't want to see the truth in their gazes. His heart weighed heavy in his chest, where it was once alive and alight with memories of a gorgeous smile, unkempt snowy-white hair and beautiful eyes that held him captive mercilessly. He hadn't asked to escape.
For the ten months they spent together, Jack spent twice as long faking his smiles to anyone who actually knew him. It was surprisingly easier to be genuine to complete and total strangers, and everywhere he went for the year and a half after college held lots of those. He didn't stay in Maine for longer than twelve months, but he didn't go back to New York. In all honesty, he couldn't. It made his heart ache still to think about Hiccup, his freckle-dotted face, slightly crooked teeth and a smile that tilted the opposite direction. Bright emerald eyes, always thinking, always creating in the back of his mind, and that mess of auburn hair that turned gold around the edges when the sunlight hit just right.
The photo album he had put together was tucked away somewhere, to collect dust. Somewhere back home where he could leave it (where it would be safe) while he traipsed around the states, gathering new photos, new memories, meeting new people and never sticking around long enough to know them. He found himself on more than one occasion, collecting little things that reminded him of home. River stones in Missouri, seagull feathers from the shores of Lake Erie, shells from South Carolina. Things that he thought were colorful like Ana, sturdy like Astrid. Beautiful, like Hiccup.
He was very much not over the brunette.
It was the very end of his senior year in college. June 16th, a cheerfully sunny Friday, and Hiccup Haddock spent the entire morning packing up his dorm room for the last time. Everything had gone surprisingly well, all things considered. His art improved, friendships rebuilt, and to everyone who didn't know any better, everything was back to normal. Graduation meant a possible internship – his professor had even given him an incredible recommendation at one of the largest art galleries in the state. All he had to do was finish a painting good enough to be considered for display.
Exactly what he would paint, Hiccup still didn't know. Each time he began working on a sketch the inspiration would quickly slip away from him, the book would flip closed on unfinished skeletal models with no faces.
A sigh, one of millions that seemed to keep spilling from his lungs, fanned out as the brunette began pulling drawers out of his desk. Notebooks, sketchbooks, pencils, charcoal, a ragged old stuffed dragon toy. Smiling crookedly at the childhood memory, he tucked it all away in his suitcase and turned for one last sketchbook...when something caught his eye.
A piece of paper, sticking out from between the pages. Looking as though it was torn out of a notebook in another life, still pristine. Had he not touched this book in awhile...?
His heart felt thick in his throat. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew exactly what he would find when those pages were parted again. Curiosity won out, and trembling fingers tugged the paper free of its confines. Idly, he pulled up the cover of the sketchbook, setting it onto the desk as his attention turned to the simple words on the scrap.
'Sorry for being a big gay butthead.'
Though the words were more familiar than he wanted to admit, he still puzzled over them. Over the handwriting, the way the letters slanted and spoke in a voice he recognized. A voice that belonged to pale lips, eyes that ensnared in an earth shattering kind of way. A voice that partnered flawlessly with effortless laughter still ringing in his ears. Hiccup's heart tripped in its rush to catch up with his brain, eyes darting down to take a good look at the first page in the open sketchbook.
Jack.
His heart beat so loudly in his ears, it drowned out even his own racing thoughts. Without a second thought, he turned the page.
A new drawing of the very same young man, rough and just a little too unfinished, flourished over the paper. Nimble fingers curled around a camera (if he recalled correctly, Jack was so proud of that thing; he put it together himself) and his eyelids were closed in a frozen smile. Beneath it, another scrap of paper was taped to the page, this one with smaller handwriting and a longer message. He heard it being spoken aloud and Jack may have been sitting right beside him, had he known better.
“I like candid shots the best. You catch people off guard, but you really get a better picture than just a fake smile or some predetermined pose. If you're lucky, you'll get something so natural and beautiful they won't even realize they did it,”
“...How many have you taken of me?”
“More than I will ever admit, even under penalty of death,”
Hiccup really had meant to be cleaning and packing. What he wound up doing that warm, sunny afternoon was significantly different. (Though still just as productive.) He spent more time than he kept track of flipping through that book, each drawing different, each one labeled with a piece of paper covered in Jackson Frost's handwriting. By the time he reached the last page, the brunette was relieved to find that he did manage to finish one of the doodles. It was a “candid” of sorts, now that he thought about it. His (ex) boyfriend lay on his stomach, tufts of hair sticking up in their usual unkempt fashion, eyes closed in a peaceful sleep as he hooked one arm around the pillow beneath him. Bare skin against sheets, one hand resting beside him, his fingers half-curled. The memory felt warm and surprisingly light in the artist's heart.
The note below it simply read, “I love you.”
His own writing beside it, “I love you, too.”
He closed the book, setting it aside carefully and rubbing one palm against his eyelid.
It was June 16th at 5:38 PM when Hiccup went in search of the canvas, of the painting he had started so long ago. At that moment, he knew exactly which piece of art would be submitted for the gallery to display.
New York had Jack's shoulders tied in knots from the second he got on the train, all the way up to the moment which found him standing outside of the art gallery he was scheduled to be at. He stared at the door, doing his damndest not to judge. It was small, but ornate and highly stylized. Just like the zillion other galleries he’d been to. But the magazine wanted the pictures, and who was he to say no to a perfectly good paycheck? This kind of thing was what being a freelance photographer was all about – sure, he got the shoots and jobs he absolutely loved doing once in awhile, but at the end of the day he was a slave to the highest bidder. That day, it just happened to be Not Quite Time magazine.
In August, the city was far too hot for his tastes. Jack pushed the doors open with a sigh, slipping into the blissfully air-conditioned hall and escaping the brutal sunlight before it could do much damage to his sensitive skin.
Art galleries were his least favorite kind of work, but the money aspect kept him going. He found himself even then looking over the paintings, scrutinizing them, and mentally telling a boy who was not there just how much they sucked in comparison. There were a few he could truly enjoy, but the rest? The albino shook his head, checking in at the front desk and offering the uptight woman his press pass and ID. Though, he was pretty sure it was his grateful smile that won her over, as he caught her swooning a little when he headed off.
Lifting his prized camera and playing with the zoom for a moment, Jack let his mind wander and took a deep breath. The familiar smell of art supplies, of finished canvas work and even fresh paint where some of the newer pieces rested, brought back a rush of something he had been trying to mask for two years now. Two years! He was better than that, he was Jack Frost, a free spirit who hadn't been tied down to any place or anyone for the last twenty-four months!
Except for that one brunette with eyes like the forest, and freckles for days.
His throat tightened and he pursed his lips, leaning to catch an angled shot of a row of paintings. A few shots, an interview with the curator, and he could be back on his way. He didn't like the feeling of being in New York again, not even a little bit.
It was purely by chance that Jack happened to catch a flicker of something familiar out of the corner of his eye. After all, there weren't many winter scenes available for his viewing pleasure in the middle of the summer, so he stopped to check out the work of art.
What he saw made his breath catch in his throat.
Because there was absolutely no way that it wasn't a glorified portrait of him. Hovering barefoot above the snow, pale skin and the very slightest shimmer to his clothing. That was his hair, his nose, those were his eyes and his fingers hooked around the handle of what could have been an old shepard's staff (if not for the hook at the end). He couldn't find words to describe the beauty in the depiction, how the snowflakes swirled up around the painted figure, dancing with an invisible wind and the light glimmer of magic.
Jack's breath was completely stolen from his lungs, fixated on the technique he felt he should recognize. Determination drew his gaze down at long last, bright blue eyes locking onto the tag where the title (Patterns of the Snowflakes) and the artist name were printed in bold.
It always amazed him how quick he was to cry. Saline welled up in his eyes immediately at that name, at the one he kept, the one he used to hate so very much. “Hiccup Haddock. Buffalo, NY.”
All he needed to do were finishing touches. Little things, tiny details that bothered him the longer he stared at the painting. Honestly, he was an artist; what did they want from him? Hiccup – for that was his name, his only name now – only slowed in his pursuit of the stubborn curator to double-check his featured work. Just in case, in case he was wrong.
He was not expecting his heart to nearly stop beating.
Jack could barely hear the slightly-limping footsteps coming to a halt behind him, over the thundering in his ears.
He didn't know where the impulse to turn around came from, but he finally did tear his gaze away from the name that dragged back so many memories. So much that he thought he had locked in the dustiest corner of his mind, never to play in high definition for him ever again. The photographer told himself he didn't want to see it anymore, didn't want to remember, and turned away to avoid the onslaught of a dream he didn't mean to end. Tears still stung in his eyes when they acknowledged someone standing behind him, staring.
And when he realized just what was happening, he stared right back.
Time froze around the two young men, trapped in muffled silence that stretched on in forever in every direction. Hiccup's chest hitched as he tried to remember how to breathe. Jack's jaw clenched and relaxed, fingers going slack and tongue feeling too thick to speak.
So much they wanted to say.
So much they couldn't put into words.
At long last, the albino took a shaking breath. His voice didn't crack until the very last word when he said, “I see you're still part dwarf.”
Just like that, the stasis was broken and Hiccup's stomach turned in somersaults. He must have swallowed at least thirteen times before he came up with a response. “I see you're still an over-emotional dork,”
He didn't even trip over his prosthetic when he launched himself forward, earning the impact of a camera lens to the gut and nearly knocking Jack over backwards for his effort. It didn't matter. Arms wound securely around the albino's neck, he buried his face against the other's shoulder, and he shook with sobs he'd held in for nearly two and a half years.
Jack's reaction was practiced and immediate. One arm wrapped around the brunette's waist, the other hand coming up to tangle fingers into that mess of soft hair, and for the first time in what may as well have been forever, everything was perfect again.
It was August 21st at 2:58 PM, when Hiccup Haddock and Jackson Frost fell in love all over again.