Frost stood quietly by the open window. He could see the camp clearly from here, the top level in the admins' tree-like home.

Frost clung desperately to the good futures. The ones where Biffle and Sigils were happy. The ones where Henwy and Jerome sang Christmas carols so loudly, only to annoy Sigils. The ones where Florian and Rafessor talked freely, not afraid to trip over their words and just laugh. The ones where Ian joked.

The ones where Frost was loved.

Frost clung the cold, half empty mug tightly. He needed to figure out the difference between the visions, the hopes, and the memories.

A vision from a few days ago, now a memory, struck him.

He didn't know when it would happen. Frost thought it would be in months, maybe years, but it seemed so recent that he wasn't sure.

Ian was staring blankly at the ground. It was daytime, maybe noon. It wasn't winter, the glow from outside wasn't white, but a pale reddish orange. A natural color you would expect from fall.

Biffle was sitting beside him, hugging the man. Neither spoke, they just sat. Comforted by the other's presence.

Frost didn't even know if it would happen. He doubted it would. Most of Frost's "visions" never even came true. He should tell Sigils. Tell him how his actions could lead to Biffle leaving him.

Frost blinked furiously and quickly. He could hear Florian and Rafessor shouting from the level below him.

Frost set the mug on the window sill and looked around at his small, circular room. His bed was half lofted and rounded to fit the room. A long, pale, wood desk make of birch fit the curve of the room opposite of the bed. In between the two against the wall was the elevator. He was directly across from the elevator.

The shouts got louder, but he still couldn't make out what the two were saying.

Frost crossed to his bed and sat down on the edge. His dark blue, wool blankets brushed against his back and sides. The paler blue pillows that were leaning against the wall were indented when Frost leaned back on them. Frost grabbed one of the softer blankets and buried his face in it, the various visions of how the tyranny would end flashed before him, making his face grow hot.

He wanted to fix everything, but he couldn't. It wasn't his job.

Frost had to trust his friends and enemy.

_____________________
Word count: 414

A/N: ALL ABOARD THE DEPRESSION TRAIN *Repeatedly blows air horn*