Chapter 33 The Prince of Silver Snow

Morning dew, blue snow, and a friend with a sugar-stained grin.

—

Ydoc’s eyes open slowly—he tastes candy, pink, too much—and coughs up another clump of bubblegum onto the frost-kissed ground. His lungs burn with the memory of a song he didn’t mean to sing. And yet—

…it is morning.

The world is quiet. Not haunted, not gray. There’s no ink in the air—only a gentle sprinkle of real rain, fresh and cold, clinging to the leaves like tiny mirrors.
He sits up.

And he notices the ground.

The corruption—that terrible stretch of desaturation, the dying trees, the sickness of yesterday—is gone. Or rather… transformed. Where the rot once spread, now lies a carpet of silver snow, glistening as if sugar-coated.
Hints of blue flicker across the frost in ghost-like pulses. It feels enchanted. Cold, but welcoming.

Then he hears it—
The hum of smugness before the words ever come.

"O-oh? Is it morning already?"
Froosta's voice is a soft chime, lazy in that way only the guilty can be.

Ydoc turns, and there he is.

Froosta.
A Britter like no other.

He’s small—barely reaching Ydoc’s chest—and covered in a thick coat of snow-white fur that seems to drink in the silver-blue world around him.  A great fluffy fox tail sways behind him, vibrating at the tip like a violin string tuned too high—he’s excited. Very excited.
Soft yet supernatural.
His breath paints little clouds.

Ydoc opens his mouth to ask—but Froosta is faster.

“Ohhh this? The snow?” he gestures to the entire, glimmering world with one long, exaggerated sweep of his arm.
“Noooo~ idea what happened. Must be… uh… natural weather patterns? Teehee~”

The teehee is criminal.

He grins with all the innocence of a cat beside a shattered vase, tail wagging like he wants to be caught.

Ydoc squints, unconvinced. “You’re lying.”

Froosta gasps dramatically. “How dare you accuse a stranger!”
He puts a paw to his chest, tail fluffing proudly. “Ahem! Allow me to introduce myself—officially.”

He bows.

“I’m Froosta, Snow-Walker, Bubble-Dancer, and… well…
…just a silly guy looking for a friend.”

His voice falters just a touch at that last word.
Ydoc picks up on it.

"…Was I the friend?"
The question cuts the performance in half.

Froosta straightens.
His tail slows.
His smile doesn’t answer.

But his eyes do.

Warm. Wet. Unflinching.
As if he’d been waiting for that question for so long that hearing it broke something sweet inside him.

He doesn’t say yes.
He just lets the moment be.

The wind whistles between the trees.
The snow sparkles.
The rain, ever so gently, stops.

And for now…
The Divide feels like home.
----------

                      ++==--A friendship stitched in frost and forgotten pages.-==++

—

Froosta, with the gentlest shuffle of feet, breaks the pause that lingered after Ydoc’s gaze met his.

“I hope… you are.”

The words come like a breath—not meant for argument or performance. Just spoken softly, like a prayer wrapped in snow.

Ydoc blinks. Still blinking the dream from his eyes. His body aches, as if every inch had been frozen and then thawed the wrong way.

“How do I feel?”
He gives a dry, brittle laugh. “Like I slept wrong.”
Then, after a beat—“...Okay, I don’t remember when I didn’t sleep wrong.”

His ribs hurt from smiling.
He hadn’t meant to smile.

Froosta chuckles immediately after—perfectly matching the rhythm of Ydoc’s voice.
That sharp, off-kilter puff of laughter, mirrored exactly, down to the breath.

It’s not mocking. It’s familiar. Practiced.
The kind of mimicry that only happens when someone’s been listening to you for a very, very long time.

Ydoc tilts his head, suspicious. “Okay… wait. How long have we known each other?”

That stops Froosta.

Just for a moment.

His body freezes—not like someone caught lying, but like a snow globe stilled before you shake it again.

“All my life,” he answers. Plainly. Without theater.
“And no matter how many times we re-do this book—”

He pauses.

“—I’ll still be the warmth… when there’s not enough to go around.”

Ydoc blinks again.

Because that—that—is a lot to take in.

Especially from a creature who barely reaches his chin.
Especially from someone whose tail wagged like a toy ten seconds ago.

And yet… it feels true. So deeply true that it hurts.

The smallest snowball in the Divide. The little frostbitten thing with bubblegum and candy breath…
And he’s saying things like this.

Ydoc wants to ask why.
Why love me?
Why care?
Why wait for someone who doesn’t remember you?

But he doesn’t ask.
Because Froosta's eyes already answer:

—Because you’re mine.
—Because you always were.
—Because I don’t care how many pages are torn or rewritten.
—Because I’ll always find you again.
—Even if you forget me.

He doesn’t say it aloud. He just stands there, hands behind his back, swaying slightly in the soft blue snow. Looking up at Ydoc with a proud, awkward, wonderful grin.

The kind of grin you give someone when you finally got them back.

And aren’t ever letting go again.
------------

                  ++==--There are moments in time where a "yes" is everything.--==++

—

Ydoc gives a soft, awkward laugh.
Not fake. Just—uneven. Like a joke that doesn't land but somehow still matters.

“This is... weird,” he mutters under his breath.

Because it is.
There’s something strange in his chest—warm and soft, and weirdly heavy.
Like finding a lost puppy, curled up on his doorstep with snow on its nose.

Except this one talks. Has a tail the size of a blanket.
And clearly knows things that Ydoc doesn’t.

And yet—within the span of three minutes, Ydoc has fully committed to this absurd feeling.

“If anything hurts this little muffin,” he says with a grin,
“I’ll kill everyone in the world.
And then myself.”

He chuckles. He’s joking. Probably.
Maybe.

Froosta's smile blazes with delight. His ears wiggle. His whole tail vibrates like a fizzy drink left out too long.
Gods, he looks so proud. Like a small child who just saw his favorite flower bloom.

But then—

“Do you need help getting to Deep Lilac Town?” Froosta asks cheerily.

Ydoc blinks. Tilts his head. “...No?”

A beat.

“I didn’t really have any plans.”

That throws Froosta completely off.

His tail drops. His ears twitch.
His face goes blank for a moment, like a play whose actor has forgotten the next line.

“Oh.”
“Oh uh…”
“Okay, that’s… new…”

He looks so confused. Not hurt—just like someone who got the wrong page in a script.

And then he does something unexpected.
He tries. He risks it.

“W-would you like to come to a party with me?”
“A lot of nice people will be there. And—”
“—and some are looking forward to meeting with you.”

The words spill. Not with grace—but urgency.
Like it matters more than anything.

“And I also got a cool train we can play with together,” he adds.
His voice hopeful, cracking at the edges.

Then—silence.
Froosta holds his breath.

His hands are clutched behind his back. His eyes wide and shimmering. His foot taps without rhythm.
The winter around him seems to still, the falling silver snowflakes freezing midair—

“Sure,” Ydoc finally says. “Hopefully someone there can help me.”

And Froosta—

—gasps.

The tiny Britter’s knees nearly buckle. His hands shoot up to his face, and he makes a high-pitched squeak that sounds like someone crushing a flute made of joy.

“You… never said yes before,” he whispers.

But it’s too quiet. Ydoc doesn’t hear.
Doesn’t see the way Froosta's whole body trembles—like the world just turned back on.

He just smiles. Shrugs.

“Well… I guess I’m in a party mood.”

And Froosta?
He doesn’t speak. He just beams.
Because this time…
This time is different.