his hair is as white as snow. eyes a glittering blue that resembles a frozen, icy lake. he has the hood of a thin sweater thrown over head and a curved staff in his hands as he travels from rooftop to rooftop with the help of the northern wind loyally pushing him along.

the days are getting shorter and the weather is getting colder and min yoongi has lots to do. he makes snowflakes gently flutter down from the sky for the first snowfall of the year, a soft sheet of white covering the ground and it’s almost as if he’s brought the clouds down for a visit. frost lingers on tree branches and crystal icicles dangle like windchimes from ledges and the world comes alive with every wave of yoongi’s hand in preparation for the frigid months.  

winter is coming. it’s a busy season for yoongi and he likes to spend time doing his work from above, resting on tall buildings or simply just floating midair. occasionally, he will look down to admire the result of a perfectly crafted snowman and the curve of a smooth slope fit for sledding. occasionally, he will look down and—rarely—he will see someone looking back up at him.

not through him, but at him.

it’s on a chilly afternoon, one of the first days of winter, that yoongi locks eyes for the first time with jungkook.

jungkook: a believer.

❊

it’s nighttime and a single window is open in seoul. a dark-haired boy pokes his head outside and breathes in, eyes closed to feel the breeze passing by. and when he opens his mouth, he does what he does every night, what yoongi watches him do every night:

he sings.

and yoongi listens, with his ears and body and soul.

the boy’s voice holds the ghosts of winter’s deepest secrets, crystalized words spiraling into the air as pirouetting snowflakes and it makes yoongi wonder. he wonders, sitting on the balcony of the boy’s room just out of sight and looking up at the stars, who his believer is singing to. he wonders and prays and hopes and begs for a voice like that because then, maybe, his questions will finally reach the man on the moon.

eventually, the singing stops, as all things do. the last window in seoul closes and curtains are drawn and spring is approaching. when the boy wakes up to the warm rays of sunlight and the start of a new season, there is an outline of a fading image on the side of the glass, made with careful precision, entirely of ice.

it reads: i hope to hear you sing again next year.

it means: thank you.

❊

somewhere on the other side of the world, a snowstorm brews.

inches and inches of thick, heavy snow drops down on buildings and roads and unsuspecting citizens. it lasts for hours, days, weeks, alternating between hail and deadly winds, trapping people underground and collapsing fragile structures. the storm is harsh and cold and unforgiving and—it kills.

and at the center of it all: min yoongi.

winter spirit.

there will be no romanticizations for this catastrophe. no winter wonderlands. the limited sunlight will do little to help the situation and people will be shovelling snow in desperate attempts to rescue loved ones until their fingertips are numb and frostbite nips at their noses. cars will be stuck in driveways, waiting for the snow to be cleared, waiting for days.

this is the true spirit of winter.

❊

in the hands of children, the snow in seoul grows wings. white balls packed tightly together by faithful gloves and mittens take flight one after another in celebration of cancelled school days and carefree afternoons spent tossing snowballs.

yoongi almost forgets about these open-fire attacks sometimes; almost forgets about one of the few reasons he enjoys being associated with this particular season.

he quickly gathers a few snowballs of his own and joins in the fight. he hits a short-haired girl on the arm and she spins around, yells hey! and chases after one of her classmates who had unknowingly been standing next to yoongi. then, a flurry of white powder is thrown from the opposite side and when yoongi turns, eyes twinkling dangerously, he fires back with aggression that rivals a blizzard. the kids quickly scatter, seeking shelter, laughter ringing in the air.

they don’t question where the sudden whirlwind of snow came from. they don’t see who their opponent is.

they don’t see yoongi.

the battlefield pauses at a standstill as the winter spirit stops to take in his surroundings. here is what he knows with absolute certainty:

one: the children are having fun.

two: that makes him satisfied. it means he’s done a good job.

three: he will never truly be part of their game.

he will never truly be part of their world.

unpause. fast-forward. yoongi is long forgotten and the game continues, without him. vehicles parked on the sides of the road are sabotaged and forts are built for stronger defenses and teams are formed among the players. the stakes go up, boots being lost in the process, and—

“got you!” a boy yells out in triumph from behind him just as an airborne snowball lands on the yoongi’s back. jeon jungkook runs toward yoongi, full speed like he’s going to do a tackle, before wrapping his arms around the winter spirit in a hug, trembling with excitement as he looks up to meet yoongi’s eyes like they did that one time at the beginning of winter.

it is not the first time he’s been hit today.

however, it’s the first time the throw was actually directed at him.

the impact of the snowball striking his back causes yoongi to jerk forward. it’s a hard, solid hit. packed densely within the ball is a voice that brushes reassurances against his skin like a familiar gust of wind, a voice that says,

don’t be sad. i see you.

i’ve got you.

❊

find your core, santa clause, kim namjoon, told him a long time ago, find your core and you will find yourself.

once upon a time, yoongi did find it: joy.

but nobody told him that once he found it, he’d have to grab on to it, hold it tight so that it won’t escape. so that he won’t lose it again.

in the last two hundred and thirty-five centuries, there is not a single moment in which he remembers being happy.

—until now.

❊

“are you… jack frost?”

“i have many names,” the winter spirit says, amusement in his tone. it’s always interesting to talk to humans, he muses, it’s been too long since he last interacted with them, since someone last believed in him. since he last had someone to talk to in general. “i’m known as jack in the west but you can call me min yoongi.”

the boy nods, eyes wide, not quite understanding but making sense of it anyway. “were you the one who left the message on my window?”

yoongi feels the corners of his lips lift up into a smile, perhaps the first smile to pass his face in years. he raises a hand and draws lines in the air, fingertips glistening sparks of ice at his command to form letters, and creates magic for jungkook to see. for jungkook to believe.

the message this time reads: thank you.

it means: thank you.

and the words fade almost immediately, shimmering away into the air, but jungkook’s mouth hangs open as if he’s just uncovered the universe’s greatest secret. he turns slowly to face yoongi and it takes him a few tries to get the words out but when he finally does say it, the sentence finds its way into the winter spirit’s ears, weaving through his lungs and settling into his heart, the star on top of a christmas tree, like it belongs there.

“will you—come back to my room with me? please?”

so yoongi makes it snow in jungkook’s bedroom and jungkook hums a soft melody that puts yoongi’s magic to shame and together they cause havoc in the boy’s home. but winter isn’t the gentle blossoms of spring or the healthy rays of sunlight in summer or the crisp, colourful changes of fall. winter is reckless and playful and tranquil. winter is yoongi’s hand clasped around jungkook’s when they’re drinking hot chocolate and jungkook burns his finger. winter is believing.

yoongi may never know who jungkook had been singing to all those previous winters, but as he sits on the dark-haired boy’s bed, he wonders: when did jungkook start singing for him?

it’s a different experience to actually be part of the audience when the boy sings rather than simply listening in from the outside. there is something soft, something fleeting, about the way lyrics take shape in jungkook’s mouth and how they transform into art when they’re released for the world to hear.

yoongi looks around the room and here, in the fairy tale that is winter, is where he finds what he’s been missing out on all these past years:

brown eyes, dark hair, bunny teeth, and a voice that makes snowflakes fall.

❊

but even snowflakes can’t fall forever.

❊

every time yoongi visits jungkook, he brings the cold with him.

jungkook is wearing an oversized sweater that looks like it could consume him and he shivers so hard that yoongi almost mistakes it for a seizure the first time it happens. yoongi sets his staff aside and brings the boy into his arms when the sniffling gets bad and jungkook curls up against him, seeking a warmth that the winter spirit cannot offer because jungkook is human and yoongi—isn’t. his touch only freezes and it takes him too long to realize that just being in proximity to the dark-haired boy is harmful. deadly, even.

he places jungkook down on the bed tenderly, draping the blanket snugly over him and turning the heat up to an uncomfortable temperature. they wait like that for a few hours, yoongi sitting and jungkook lying down.

they wait, but it’s more than just waiting. it’s yoongi desperately trying to cure his first believer in two hundred and thirty-five centuries and it’s jungkook, curious, fighting off his sickness to learn more. they are beside each other, physically, but so far apart; a mortal and an immortal, reaching out and trying to grasp at something that was not meant for them to take.

yoongi leans over to press his lips against the boy’s forehead, jungkook shivering at the contact, before he picks up his staff and moves toward the window. there is only one way for yoongi to help jungkook in his current state and he knows what it is he has to do.

the boy shoots up out of bed when he realizes yoongi’s intentions and latches onto the spirit’s arm. “wait—you don’t have to go—”

but yoongi gently shakes off jungkook’s grip and smiles again. he thinks of rare moments and locked eyes and the soft melody of a boy’s voice that made snowflakes dance on dark, winter nights; thinks of snowball fights and snowstorms and his center, his essence, his core. he looks at jungkook and thinks of joy.

yoongi wants to tell him it’s my fault, wants to tell him you’re sick because of me and you won’t get better if i stay, wants to tell him i’m sorry and hug him for being the only one out of nine billion people who still believes in the spirit of jack frost.

aloud, he says, “thank you.”

and means: goodbye.

❊

yoongi brings the cold with him when he visits. when he leaves, he takes the cold with him as well.

jungkook gets better. he waits by the window, night after night, searching for a glimpse of white hair and crystal eyes and a sign that the magic he believed in is still real.

yoongi does not return.

❊

there are no open windows in seoul during the winter this year. no singing voices and no invitations of entry for the winter spirit.

yoongi gathers the clouds up in the sky and swirls his staff. autumn is nearing its end and as the temperature begins to drop over the next few days, yoongi once again starts the necessary preparations for snowfall. lakes freeze over and frost is welcomed on grassy hills and crystals shape themselves on sidewalks, causing unsuspecting victims to slip with a step of the wrong foot.

he spends his time working from above, watching over seoul as he shapes perfectly aligned icicles onto rooftops and tree branches. there are boys and girls running outside to be part of the first signs of snow, to create forts and gather materials to build snowmen in anticipation of the snow days to come.

from below, yoongi will occasionally feel eyes looking up at him. he is not entirely sure if they actually see him.

he does not look down.

after all, winter is coming and min yoongi has lots to do.