Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

-Robert Frost

Shadows slithered around his ankles and slipped beneath his skin. They came from everywhere, and from nowhere at all; they melted him like fire, tongues of flame against icy flesh. The darkness swallowed him whole, filling every crevice in his body and mind—poisoning his blood, infusing his thoughts with terror.

Yes, terror—that was it. He was terrified.

For most, terror is cold: an icy dagger in the chest, entrails clenched tight, shivering in want of warmth. But Jack Frost was well acquainted with the cold, too well acquainted to fear it.

Winter gave him life as much as he gave life to winter. Barefoot but never frostbitten, he had chased the wind and called snow to the earth; he had summoned ice from his fingertips, and frost from his breath. The cold could never harm him, much less inspire fear—the blizzard would not betray its maker.

Warmth, however, was an alien sensation—his skin was slick with sweat and his lungs were burning. The darkness seared his skin, banished the ice from his fingertips, stole the frost from his breath. He struggled but the shadows held him still, clouding his vision like smoke.

For Jack Frost, terror was heat.

The nightmare's architect detached himself from the darkness, relishing each desperate throe. Jack writhed as if in a bed of coals—white hair clinging to his damp forehead, brow furrowed, mouth ajar. Pitch watched his struggle, fashioning flames from shadows.

"Yes," he whispered. "That's it, Jack. Burn for me."

The King of Nightmares loomed above his victim, savoring the terror he evoked. There was nothing quite like fear—the emotion was intoxicating—and the dread he instilled in others allowed him to thrive. He would not be consumed by his own fear so long as others were afraid; the Boogeyman would always haunt the dreams of the vulnerable.

The boy whimpered in his sleep.

Grinning like a wolf, Pitch placed his hand on his chest. "There now, Jack. I created this beautiful nightmare especially for you. It would be impolite to awaken."

Jack stilled beneath the touch, but his teeth were clenched and his hands clutched at the sheets.

The Nightmare King smiled at this, running a hand through the boy's hair. "Good," he said. "Let the fire consume you. Your ashes will be mine; you will find solace in darkness."

Pitch let himself sink down onto the bed, ensconcing them both in shadow. "You are mine, Jack Frost. I know your most intimate fears and desires."

The winter spirit stiffened against him, groaning.

"Burn," Pitch urged, breath hot against his ear. "Suffer, as I have suffered!"

Jack's eyes snapped open. His breath was ragged, his body tangled in shadows—everything was black, save for yellow eyes glaring in the gloom.

"Pitch," he hissed, reaching for his staff. "I should have known."

"Wait!" Pitch cried. "No need for violence, Jack. Please. Let's talk."

"I have nothing to say to you," he said coldly. "Get off of me."

"You didn't enjoy my nightmare?" Pitch asked, panic creeping into his voice. Although still resentful that Jack Frost had denied his offer of comradeship, he was desperate for conversation; and amongst the Guardians, Jack was the only one he had any chance of reaching. All the others had antagonized him for decades—they would not be remotely sympathetic to his cause. "I thought you might like to feel warmth for once," he continued, tentatively. "It's a pleasant feeling for most."

"Being burned alive isn't my idea of pleasant."

Pitch withdrew to the edge of the bed. "I suppose I do have a tendency to overdo things, don't I?"

Jack scowled at him. "What do you want, Pitch?"

"Same old same old, Jack." Pitch sighed, relaxing. "I believed in you once. Before the children believed. You were so dreadfully alone, then, as I am now."

"I'm not alone anymore."

"Oh, I know," said Pitch with a sneer. "Jack Frost, Guardian of fun and laughter. And what of me? Am I to suffer for the rest of my days, eaten alive by my own fears?"

Jack averted his gaze. "You know I'd help you if I could, Pitch. But I'm not about to let you terrorize the kids. It's part of my job, you know?"

"Yes, yes, guarding the children of the world," he sighed, tightening his cloak of shadows. "And I am to suffer alone."

The boy looked at him with something resembling pity.

"You know what it's like to be alone, Jack. I cannot help what I am. Fear is as much a part of me as winter is a part of you—I cannot abandon my nature."

"And I can't help you, Pitch."

"Oh, but you can!" he cried, rising to his feet. "I ask not for permission to haunt your dreams—or the dreams of children, for that matter. I ask only for company, for intimacy."

He placed a hand on Jack's shoulder. "I have seen your mind—you still fear loneliness, even in the presence of friends." He paused, hesitating. "And there's something different when you look at me, isn't there?"

Jack looked up sharply, his expression betraying him.

"Ah, yes," Pitch said with a smile. "I thought so. We are more alike than you think, you know."

"Get out," he snapped, grabbing his staff. "I am nothing like you."

Pitch raised his arms in surrender. "I'm not going to fight you, Jack. You know I can't win. I have grown weak in exile."

"Then leave."

"I will not."

Jack glared at him, frost crawling up the length of his staff. The room grew colder, darker; Pitch met his gaze with unyielding tenacity.

"I am not a threat to you," Pitch whispered, resting his hand on Jack's thigh; he was cold to the touch, an elaborate sculpture carved from ice. "You are beautiful, Jack Frost, and there are none in this world who intrigue me as you do."

The boy shuddered. Pitch could taste the adrenaline, the anxiety, the delicious fear he inspired; the aroma made him giddy, and perhaps foolishly bold. "After all," the darkness murmured, lips pressed against his throat, "what goes together better than cold and dark?"

"The others will find out," Jack said, voice quivering slightly. "I don't want this, Pitch."

"You are a terrible liar," he replied, slipping a hand beneath his shirt. "You know my shadows protect us from prying eyes." Nails scraping at cold skin, Pitch pulled their bodies together. "This will be our little secret," he rasped, tongue tracing his exposed collarbone.

Jack's staff clattered to the floor.

He tasted of snow and adrenaline, of loneliness and desire; sharp teeth and shadows assailed him, seeping through his clothes like water. "Fuck, Pitch," he gasped.

The shadows crawled inside of him. Pitch banished the clothes from his body, leaving him exposed and bare; he moaned at every touch, unaccustomed to such affections.

"Tell me how long you've wanted this, Jack," Pitch whispered against his neck. "How long have you yearned for my touch but denied yourself the pleasure?"

Jack arched his spine, acutely aware of warm hands parting his thighs. He was frightened and confused and he was certain Pitch sensed it; but he was also desperate, overwhelmed with new sensations. In his centuries of living he had never indulged in sexual pursuits—at least, not with a partner. Until recently he had been invisible to all mortals, and other spirits seemed to take little interest in him. Well, save for Toothiana, but he could hardly imagine…she would never… A wet sensation on his chest shattered his reverie—Pitch was biting, sucking, devouring him. "Oh, please," he begged, grabbing fistfuls of black hair.

"Answer the question," Pitch said with a smirk. He let his hands slide down the boy's legs, earning him a frustrated groan.

"A while," Jack panted; and as the words escaped his lips phantom hands beset his body, touching him everywhere at once. He balled his hands into fists, pulling at Pitch's hair. "I've wanted this for a long while," he gasped.

"Well, if only you had told me sooner, dear Jack. I can teach you much of heat and pleasure." Black tendrils moved inside of him, sending fire to his toes and fingertips.

"Oh god," he moaned.

The Nightmare King pressed a kiss to his navel. "Look at me, Jack."

The boy was disheveled and desperate, an absolutely beautiful sight—mouth gaping red, eyes electric blue. The smell of anxiety was thick in the air, and Pitch inhaled deeply, relishing the scent. In a matter of minutes he had unraveled Jack Frost—he was raw, like an exposed nerve. Seeing him so vulnerable was exhilarating, and Pitch felt in control—powerful, even—for the first time since his defeat.

Jack met his predatory gaze and could hardly suppress a shudder.

"Are you afraid?" he asked, licking his lips.

"Just a little," he confessed as the shadows snared his wrists.

"You're trembling," Pitch observed with a wicked grin. "The great Jack Frost, afraid of the Boogeyman after all. Do you burn for me, Jack?"

"It feels like I'm on fire," he confessed, hips bucking as the tendrils writhed inside of him. "I need more," he gasped, body straining against darkness that bound him.

"But I thought you didn't like fire," Pitch teased, fingers circling the base of his arousal.

"I was wrong," he nearly sobbed, voice laced with desperation. "Please, Pitch."

"So needy," Pitch cooed, running his index finger up the length of Jack's erection. "What is it you want me to do to you, Jack?"

"Fuck me," he whimpered.

"You're going to have to be more specific, my dear." Pitch withdrew his hand and the tendrils grew still in turn. "How do you want me to fuck you?"

"Put your hand back," he snapped, gritting his teeth in frustration.

"Say please."

"Oh, for the love of…please."

Pitch smiled, and began to stroke him—long, slow, agonizing strokes.

"Come on," Jack whined. "You aren't even trying."

The tendrils began their dance anew—writhing and thrashing inside of him—burning him from the inside out. "You want me to try, Jack?"

The phantom hands clawed at his skin, leaving no inch of his body unscathed; they groped and grabbed him, stroked and scratched him as he cried out in pleasure and pain. "You want me to try?"

Tendrils slithered around his neck, tightening; Pitch felt his fear, tasted it, savored it. Jack struggled in vain, growing dizzy in want of oxygen; he bucked his hips at every touch, shaking violently all the while.

"Do you like that, Jack?" Pitch purred, tone dripping with desire.

"Yes," Jack rasped, "Oh god, yes."

"Then I want to hear you scream," Pitch said, loosening the tendrils around his neck. "I'm going to make you come, Jack Frost, and you're going to scream for me."

Fire devoured his entrails and spread to his limbs; Pitch's strokes were hard and fast and his tongue was wet and warm. The sensations overpowered him, imbued him with fiery lust—yellow eyes watched him unfold, revealing some sick desperation, some loneliness, some violent hysteria that lived within him. Jack opened his eyes and saw only white—not snow, but searing flame. The King of Nightmares had reduced him to embers and ashes.

Jack titled his head back and screamed.