His lips were fire against Jack’s icy nape—a groan escaped the boy’s freed lips, giving Pitch enough fire to continue back up to the Winter’s jaw. His hands felt like molten lava against Jack’s bare stomach, leaving red, hot trails of desire whatever and wherever they felt like conquering.
Jack groaned softly as Pitch’s tongue slid back against his own—Jack didn’t fight; he didn’t feel the need to. Pitch grinned against Jack’s lips, his hands clutching at the fabric of Jack’s tattered sweatshirt as he once more claimed the Winter’s lips with bruising force. Pitch’s grey skinned arms reached around Jack’s waist and clutched him to his chest tightly.
Jack wrapped his arms around Pitch’s neck, panting softly as he planted one, two, three softer kisses on the older man’s lips before pulling away ever so slowly. Pitch almost felt rejected before realizing that both he and Jack were becoming enveloped in a cloud of feathery darkness—tendrils of inky blackness fell around Jack’s ankles and calves, writhing and creeping up his limbs and thighs; some thinker wisps were almost half way to his ribcage, where Jack felt slightly more confined.
But Pitch marveled in the sight of the inky darkness crawling up Jack’s bare, frozen skin, thinking; how beautiful, the way darkness clings to snow so lovingly. Chuckling darkly, Pitch released the boy completely; the darkness crept back to their respective shadows and his arms falling slowly to his sides as he turned from the Winter and moved towards a darker hallway.
Stunned at the sudden disappearance, Jack began to tremble. “Pitch,” Jack called breathlessly, “wait.” His knees felt weak without the older man near him—his very bones wept; forgotten; abandoned. His extremities felt intensely warm compared to how he normally felt—icy cold, chilled to the bones; like Winter’s child.
The Boogeyman clearly heard the boy calling, but continued to walk further and further away form Frost, pulling the shadows in close to him—making him nearly invisible from where Jack stood, stunned.
Jack gasped, realizing that Pitch would fade into darkness and escape if he didn’t stop the man. So Jack ran, following after the grey skinned man, his feet tapping the pavement repeatedly till he reached Pitch’s side—where the darkness fell away and the path before them emerged, clear and resilient. Jack clutching his staff by his side tightly, eyeing the Boogeyman suspiciously. “Pitch,” he said the man’s name with disdain, “Pitch, look at me.”
But Pitch couldn’t stop looking at Jack.
From the moment Jack had appeared in his Nightmare Kingdom, Pitch had followed him from the shadows, watched him fly around and longed to share that feeling of the boy so close to him—the mischief they could create together, the beauty they could generate—the feelings of being inadequate, of never being enough; never belonging—Jack could replace those lost feelings of want with a simple kiss; a smile, a moan, a single word to ease Pitch’s aching heart.
The Boogeyman stopped when he reached a part of the Nightmare Kingdom that had been his favorite part at one point in time—but why, well, he couldn’t remember. It now opened up into an empty wasteland of ash and soot; grime, dust and some sort of dark, oily substance that clung to every empty cell and rotting, crumbling, impossible stairwells. It had once been a prison, but who knows for what—it had been here in the Nightmare Kingdom long before Pitch Black came to claim it as his own lair.
“Why did you come here, Jack Frost?” Pitch Black asked softly, a faint hint of his own surrender tugging at his voice—he had repeated this question many times, but Jack never seemed to answer. He took a seat on one of the many impossible stairwell’s steps and starred up at the boy; realizing then, just how impossibly gorgeous the boy truly was.
Jack smiled wholeheartedly, a laugh pulling up from his gut and blooming between his parted, peach colored lips. He would have answered, he should have, but he just shook his head and smiled gingerly.
His staff clattered to the ground, rocking back and forth before settling. He fell to his knees and placed his hands on either side of the Boogeyman’s face, pressing their forehead together with a final sigh. Jack’s thumb traced the definition along the Boogeyman’s jawline with a far lovelier, placid touch than the Boogeyman had ever felt—had ever known—but the grey skinned man’s melancholy expression never quite changed.
Jack Frost memorized that face in that instant. Pitch had sad, soft, golden-grey eyes that seemed to be drowning in Jack’s presence; a light frown pulled down at the corner of his lips. Winter’s child admiring the way the Boogeyman’s lips twitched just the slightest at the sound of Jack’s voice; even the way Pitch seemed to follow Jack with his eyes as he peeled their faces apart.
“Jack—“ Pitch began, his voice soft and longing.
“When you came to the Artic, the Man on the Moon was talking to me.” Jack said confidently. “For the first time since…” Jack paused, starring off blindly—remembering his plummet into icy cold water, the desperate pleas of his little sister, the constant nagging of promises forgotten in that one, single instant.
Pitch perked up at that, but only slightly. He stayed in his hunched over position, starring down at Jack and his awkward position. His weight resting on his toes, knee’s bent with his thighs pressed together just so, making the Nightmare King dream of—
Pitch tore his eyes away scornfully and scoffed, trying to hide his blatant embarrassment. “Oh, and what did he want?” He sounded disturbed, mirroring something closer to disgust.
Jack scratched the back of his head, shrugging. He appeared coy about the subject, saying; “He just said your name.”
Pitch scoffed. “And that’s supposed to mean what to me?” He asked, repulsed, his lips loose and hanging in an unsatisfied expression. Pitch rolled his eyes in an uninterested manner and looked away from Frost; and that was one of the hardest things he could’ve ever done in his entire lifetime.
Jack looked to the spaces in between them indignantly. The space seemed much farther that it actually was, and Jack felt more lost than ever before. He rocked back on his feet and stood, then turned away from the Nightmare King. “Yeah, I guess it’s best you don’t know…” He whispered, unsure if Pitch heard him or not as he pulled his hood up over his head and slung his staff over his shoulder.
He began to walk away when Pitch found that he couldn’t bare to see Winter’s child vanish without so much as a second glance. He couldn’t bare to see Jack walk away from him. Pieces of his so called heart shattered in the footsteps of Jack’s retreating form.
Jack held his head high and proud, trying to fight the urge to turn around and run to the Boogeyman and tell him everything—surrender to the Dark King. He could go back to the North Pole and create blizzards with enough force to cover entire continents—to smother his rage and breaking heart. He could visit Bunnymund and paint eggs in the Warren, hell, he could accompany Tooth and her Fairies and visit the sleeping children, dreaming peacefully due to the Sandman—or tossing and turning due to the Boogeyman’s captivating nightmares.
Jack Frost growled. No matter what, Pitch would always be Jack’s destiny.
The Boogeyman was breathless watching the boy walk away—feeling a sense of panic taking over every bone, every cell in his body. He grabbed a fist full of shadows and drew them over him like a shroud, disappearing beneath a cover of darkness. Jack stumbled backwards as Pitch crept out of a shadow just in front of him, shrugging off the darkness with hunched shoulders and an unwavering purpose riddled across his expression.
Pitch stood proudly, defiantly, starring down at Jack Frost with gritty intent and pushing the boy against a railing Jack didn’t know was there. Jack peered behind him, feeling as though he might lose his balance—only realizing then just how high up they had gotten in the Kingdom and just how hard Pitch was pressing against him. “What the—“ he began.
But Pitch acted first, pulling the cold boy into his grasp and landing a hard kiss on his lips, filling the hole in his heart with an odd warmth while Jack Frost, in turn, was filled with a breathlessness that rivaled that of drowning. And Jack knew more about drowning than anyone.
Tongues mashed together, fighting and lashing, lips pulled eagerly, biting and sucking, groaning eagerly; and muted, artic hands worked their ways across a bare, grey chest and stomach. Jack moaned while Pitch’s warmer hands moved over his collarbone, and Pitch—becoming far too enthralled with the sounds echoing across his realm from the boy—pulled away slowly, but not completely. He reclaimed Jack’s lips once, twice, three more times, just light enough to leave Jack breathless once more.
“It’s you.” Jack whispered, pulling Pitch back in for a forth time, feeling privileged in the act and gasping for life-giving air hastily. “I asked the Man on the Moon for my purpose.” Jack looked up into golden-grey eyes, who starred back wildly—kissing him once more, more passionately again. Pitch knew what he was going to say, and Jack didn’t even need to say it to break Pitch’s heart into a million lovely pieces. “He said your name.”
Pitch grinned cockily, his heart rupturing from within his ribcage despite his calming demeanor. Stroking the side of the pale boys face tenderly, he whispered; “Oh, Jack. I’m almost positive, if the Man on the Moon said anything about me,” he paused, breathing in the scent of Jack Frost—the icy, cool, fresh scent of air, —“it wasn’t meant in the context of romance.”
“I believe it was.”
“Then prove it, Jack Frost.”