Jack didn't think he had what others did.
Before all things he knew existed, or the reason Jack came back from a bottomless, watery grave; before his first believer, or his Guardian status, or knowing his own name… there had always been the wind. Been there to carry him, across the shorelines of frozen lakes, gusting him upwards and skimming his toes atop the highest elevations where the clouds were made of ice crystals. The wind somersaulted him across the giant snow drifts he blew into existence and the miles of black ice he could create with just the lightest tap of his finger. And when Jack felt his freest, the biggest grin spread and tightened his forever-young face, peals of childlike laughter rushing out of his lungs.
The wind had always been there, cradling him from the imminent danger of falling (and he need not fear the drop from the endless atmosphere, from the stars, heading straight from the ground below; because falling could be just as exhilarating… because he knew, he knew deep inside himself that the wind would not betray him).
Jack flew across towns, cities, across countries, sending the joy of snow days to all children and reveling in their pleasure. Joined them in the mischievous and lighthearted nature of snowball fights, and summoned the winter frost, intricately labyrinthine and fern-like, to cover bedroom windows and the dying leaves. All because… he had the wind to guide him, from place to place, sometimes pushing bitter cold against his rosy, dimpling cheeks, tugging and flapping at his dark, ratty clothes like playful teasing.
In a way, it soothed — building like soft, breathy pressure, drifting ethereal within his silvery hair like fingers, ghosting a sensation as if someone hovered their mouth right against his. Call him a fool, but Jack would unconsciously purse his lips, just to anticipate a frosty nip on his bottom lip. Even if it didn't sting or redden like a mortal's.
The wind could not speak to him. The Man in the Moon could not either, but it didn't mean the wind wasn't alive. Just like the Moon, so perceiving and mighty in his silence. And just because a person could not see the wind, it didn't mean it didn't exist to anyone. The wind had been a symbol of reassurance— that others would believe in Jack one day, too.
Even when they could not actually see him.
He found that most couldn't grasp the idea… but, he did not control the wind. Jack Frost was no one's master, and could not bend something so powerful to his very will. The wind understood him, treated him like an equal, sought him out and found inside Jack something innately similar: the abyssal font of careless youth, Jack's raw emotion.
But above all… that Jack was alone.
Such a curious thing, the wind to have shown such kindness — when it would be held responsible for so much devastation… the cruelty of mother nature, the erosion of the planet…
Maybe he had been wrong.
Jack had exactly what he needed, that others had.
Something like… a home.
And it was here, even now — Jack would ride the wind's back, whooping and cheering, planting his bare feet on his staff as he zig-zagged the air currents. In his heart, deep inside himself, he knew he was thankful for his first friend. And he would call over the loud roar, high, high above the snowy rooftops and the clouds, "Let's go!" before gasping, breaking another toothy smile, and giving into that familiar, amiable tug on his clothes, the night air crisp and chill, tingling the surface of his immortal skin.
"Jack's not the wind's master. He's its lover."