Jack stared out at the barren wasteland of snow and ice and winter’s coldness. His heart ached and felt so much more numbness than it had despite the snow. He thought of the friends he could have had, the time they could have shared together; him, Tooth, North, Bunnymund; the Yeti's, the Elves, even if he'd chosen differently, Pitch, perhaps.
He laughed inwardly at the thought. Chosen differently? The grey skinned man smiling down at him from his dungeon of darkness, full of shadows and Nightmares, where Jack would undoubtedly stay, since the children would fear him, and the Guardian would hate him. He thought of the way the elegant man moved, his shadow carrying him across rooms and worlds like the wind carried Jack. He thought of Pitch’s eyes, the golden-grey of haunted hatred.
Jack frowned. He wondered what it would have been like to be feared. The children would hate him, he thought again. Of course they would. His frown deepened, bring a slight wrinkle to his forehead at his discontent. Snow days would be overcast and dark, full of gloom and sadness and frowns that would be laced on every face; trending faster than currency. Pitch would want his share in the misery of every child as well, giving him the strength he needed to end the Guardians. Jack shook his head and cast the thoughts away. He was alone again, without anyone, without friends, without kids around—and maybe that's for the best. Jack shrugged, perhaps it was.
But Jack wasn’t alone for long. The grey skinned man came out of the cold and the dark of the ice, midnight wisps of sandy darkness whirled around till the man was fully formed; his jet black hair pushed back into fully feathered spikes and his gold and grey eyes staring down his narrow nose with a coy smiles. His black trail followed him worse than a shadow, but Jack thought; how beautiful the snow looks, clinging to the darkness.
"I hoped something like this wouldn't happen." He spoke as if his statement should have been serene, but it came out dripping with malice and intent. Pitch’s lips turned up to reveal teeth hidden in secret and lies.
Jack knew what the Boogeyman was trying to do, but it still ate at him horribly. He struck, slushy snow flying directly at the grey skinned man with force. Pitch blocked with his sandy darkness and struck back, black betraying the light of the ice around the two of them.
"You think I don't know what it's like!" Pitch screamed, his hand rising unconsciously to cover his heart. Jack assumed it was also broken, or beaten, or just black with malice, because without fear Pitch would disappear, too. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to not belong to a family!”
Jack paused for a moment, watching as a part of Pitch shattered before him—an honest part. Pitch had been alone for so long, dwelling in fear and anger and loneliness. The boy imagined what that must be like, living in the shadows all day, every day—every night.
“Look, Pitch, I—“
Pitch decided then to pull his bargaining chip, bring Baby Tooth out and holding her in his tight fist, bending her wings to the shape of his fingers wrapped around her tiny body. He grimaced as the beautiful boy rose his staff in defiance. Pitch wanted Jacks staff, or his partnership—all business, Pitch was.
But not entirely, thought Pitch, and he would never fully admit it to himself. He found Jack's demeanor charming, in a sense. Maybe something more lie beneath Pitch’s cold mannerism, some sort of affection held between his bones and ribcage.
And even as he snatched the staff from Jack's unwilling hands, regardless of Jack tightening his grip at the last second and being yanked into Pitch's chest with a force of unknown power, Pitch thought; how beautiful the snow looks, clinging to the darkness.
For a moment everything was still, like the calm before the storm. Jack stayed pressed against Pitch's stomach and chest, breathing heavily and cold as ice. Pitch chuckled darkly, but his stomach twisted in uneasy knots, and he knew why; yet he ignored it, fought it and cringed away from it. But he couldn’t stop himself, and as his elegant grey hand reached up and stroked the white hair from Jack’s cheek, revealing eyes that were far too tightly closed and arms wrapped far too tightly around the taller man’s waist.
Pitch marveled in this agreement that both he and Jack seemed to have—some sort of mutual misery—and as he twisted away from the boys grip with the staff clutched firmly in his hands, he grinned smugly, asking; “how does it feel?”
Jack cast his eyes down, Baby Tooth crying out in the grip of Pitch’s strong hand. “Why are you doing this?” He asked, his brows furrowed, his fingers clenched into fists. He looked up, but Pitch was gone—vanished into thin air.
A hand crept up his spine, rounding his jaw from behind and stroking his cheek with a single finger as a voice echoed wildly; “because I know what it’s like to not be believed in, to not belong, to not have a home or a person in the world to care for you.”
Jack froze, letting the slender hand roam over his collarbone as the Boogeyman’s dark sand brought his dark figure back into shape in front of Jack. Briefly, Jack’s thoughts roamed over the man’s slightly exposed chest.
“You could have a home with me. You and I, we could be—“
“Not like this.” Jack locked eyes with the other man, his lips pressed together firmly. He knew what Pitch was asking for, had known all along.
Pitch smirked, looming over the boy whose shoulders were squared defiantly. Pitch chuckled lowly, his hand roaming back up to Jack’s face as he bent at the waist and waited for the boy to pull back—but he didn’t, of course not; ice was so unyielding—and Pitch loved that most of all. He traced the soft, pink skin of Frost’s lower lips slowly, longingly, biting his own unconsciously; melting at the touch of ice cold flesh. “Very well, have it your way then, Jack Frost.” Pitch mused softly, gripping the boys jaw in his slender hand.
The Boogeyman snatched a bruising kiss from Jack Frost’s lips, tasting snow and ice mixed with malice and fear. His stomach flipped backwards, and he felt, for once, at peace with the bitter snow. This almost frightened him, stirring a far deeper darkness, while Jack Frost marveled in the way the darkness seeped from the grey skinned mans lips into his own, and he sucked and bit at the older man’s lips till them were nearly raw with something far darker than love.
Pitch Black wanted more, but stopped himself and took the boy’s face in his hands and pushed him away forcefully, when he was nearly satisfied. He felt a coldness clenching his heart fearfully. Frost bit his swollen lips and watched guiltily as Pitch gripped his staff firmly in both hands before snapping it in half and watching the boy crumble, whether in pain or betrayal, Pitch couldn’t decide if he honestly wanted to know.
But—Pitch thought—how beautiful it looks, the darkness clinging to the snow…