Chapter Text
Raven is Winter.
Well, that is, in Garfield’s humble opinion.
Now, she’s not hot cocoa or carols ‘round a warm fire. No, not quite like that. To Garfield, Raven embodies the true frigidity of her season.
Like his first freezing January in Midway City, Raven is bitter Michigan weather. She’s cold, biting wind, snapping abruptly for his throat when he asks if she wants breakfast. Harsh and piercing, her tongue cuts his confidence, and her narrowed eyes pass merciless judgment.
She's glacial. Slow, rigid, and so fucking terrifying.
Terrifying at the best of times. He’s witnessed how her anger unleashes something—some ancient power from within her bones. On the battlefield, she’s a blizzard. Icy magic seeps from her fingers, pouring out to punish the unjust. She’s a powerful, swarming storm. Something the corrupt can only succumb to.
Raven is seldom raw, but when she is, she’s wind-whipped and shivering. Gar’s only seen her so desolate once or twice—times when she allowed herself to be thawed just to be left in a puddle.
And suddenly the air is stinging his lungs.
He’s never cared much for the cold, of course. He misses melting under midday sunbeams peeking through a lush jungle canopy. Nowadays, there’s only gray sky hanging over dead oak trees. Raven’s the grumpy fog refusing to budge, no matter how hard he tries to shine.
Huffing to himself, Gar glares up at the stuffy cloud that’s ruining what would be a perfect day. Who does she think she is anyway? She’s frustrating, and prissy, and snobbish, and…
…Snowing?
Oh, and he’s never seen beauty like this. For once he’s lost for words, lost in navy waves of flowing fabric. Meditative crystal floats before him, suspended in midnight sky. Her closed eyelashes catch a dusting of ivory powder, and his must too because his vision is going all dreamy like the soft, blurry focus of an eighties movie. She’s a serenity so innately familiar that he almost forgets he’s never seen snowfall before.
She’s the chill up his spine and the cold that colors his cheeks.
Familiar and foreign. Intimate and intimidating.
She’s the winter woods lining Dayton Estate: trees to which he would escape when the conditions indoors were much too cold. Cautiously, he approaches the grove, bundled in thick layers. What was once his summer sanctuary from the harsh hand of his mentor has now transformed into a bewitched, eerie wood. Bare branches reach down like claws, set to seize his soul. Tapered hanging icicles cling to their bark just barely. One misstep is all that stands between the boy and a punctured heart.
Shrouded in darkness, the forest sighs a haunting stillness. Flurries of frost swirl whispered warnings in his ear. The wood is dangerous and sacred, and he knows this... yet the lure of the moon drags him in every time.
Navigating those woods is like shoveling snow. Like the heaping piles he’d be tasked to clear from the manor’s long driveway. For hours on end, he spades away, hoping to make some headway. The work is tedious. The snow does not like being stirred.
And for some reason, nothing can deter him.
Inch by inch, he trudges along, slowly clearing the path, and as he digs, he searches the slush for any indication of success.
Some shovelfuls reveal small rewards: tiny smiles, little laughs, and lingering glances. Occasionally, he unearths something rare. Chance confessions catch him off guard. Heated blushes reveal the snow isn’t so cold...
For each buried treasure that Garfield uncovers, he digs up double trouble. Angry black ice sends him sliding across the asphalt on more than one occasion. He spends more time on his rear than his feet.
It’s on his rear that Gar often wonders when he’ll finally bow out. He could always take what’s left of his dignity and head back inside. Let someone else shovel that old driveway. Maybe he’s tempted to walk away, but then he hears a faint whisper of giggles drifting down the road…
And so, it seems Winter wants to play just as badly as he does.
That’s all it takes to get Garfield up on his feet trailing after the sound, playing along with this twisted game.
He’s persistent. Because if this is a game, he intends to win big. He’s going to clear the path if it kills him (and if Winter turns up her nose and stomps her feet, well, that’s just part of the fun.) He’ll weather the cold and shovel this stubborn snow... and he’s almost giddy to know that she won’t make it easy for him.
Raven’s playing too, after all.
She’ll let him exhaust himself digging. Let him prod and pry. Then, just as Gar thinks he’s finally finished the mile-long drive, he’ll feel ice pouring down his neck. Within minutes, the blacktop will once again be covered in a blanket of fresh snow.
And despite everything, that wanting chill will flutter up his spine once more.
Gar’s tried to deny his fondness for Winter, telling himself that his shivers are not exclusive. Everyone’s body reacts to the cold. Everyone thinks the snow is beautiful.
He can’t be alone, and yet, for some reason, he feels utterly exposed with his shallow breath on display.
Surely he’s in the majority because Gar’s positive that most people must also be intrigued by the mischievous glint of ice in the moonlight. Most people must also have that unfiltered desire to rip off their gloves and watch the snow melt in their grasp…
…
He’ll try to forget. Try to focus on the warmer months. He can’t want her so badly if he’s too busy sweating.
By July, her frost will fade to memory, and those mortifying desires will melt away too. They’ll go back to Beast Boy and Raven. Back to bad jokes and rolling eyes. He’ll convince himself that he’s finally grown numb to her.
And they’ll be fine. And they’ll be friends.
But one night, when the temperature drops, they might find themselves alone. He can picture the scene with her discovering him by the rocks or him rescuing her from a party. Between hushed phrases, the atmosphere will shift just so, and the first leaf of autumn will cascade to the ground.
It’s no big deal. It’s only one leaf. It doesn’t mean anything.
But as one leaf becomes two, and then three. Seven. Twelve. The panic will set in.
He’ll dispose of the evidence—sweep the leaves under the rug—because he promised himself that he wouldn’t fall with them.
Deep in his soul, Garfield knows his cause is lost. It’s only a matter of time before he’s freezing and hopeless and wholly wrapped up in Winter again.