Chapter 1
Pitch didn't, as a rule, dream. Or indeed sleep at all. As one who was not human and was instead a bringer of unrestful sleep and nightmares himself, it would have not made sense for him to sleep. His only real experiences of it were those that occurred when the Sandman pulled him ruthlessly under the influence of dreamsand, and golden butterflies danced above his head, calling to him, calling to something deep within his soul. It was a sweet sweep, and Pitch somewhat loathed Sandy all the more whenever the little man chose to induce it in him. It had been a long time since his last experience with the dream sand. Many months ago, in fact, before his lair had been closed off to the world, and even longer before the hole had been reopened.
Yet, sat still as he was under a shaft of light, he could have sworn he was dreaming right now. He still felt unable to believe it, unable to acknowledge that he could possibly be awake, that this could possibly be reality, as a sudden cool breeze stirred the stale air around him, and he was finally able to breath deeply. He felt starved until that moment, starved of air and contact and beauty. It was only a few minutes later, the wind still swirling around him as a herald to what was to come, that in his world of grey and black, that there was a sudden splash of colour. The colour danced on the wind, lighter than a leaf and twice as fragile.
It also hadn't been so long ago that Pitch had wished to crush such fragility between his hands, to wipe it out from the world – because if he couldn't have something, no one could. Now, he thought, as the figure dancing on the wind suddenly barrelled into his arms, knocking the newly acquired breath from his body, that wasn't necessary. Was unthinkable even. His arms came up to wrap gently across the thin, blue – clad waist.
"You're late," he murmured, pulling the figure close and shutting his eyes to allow the sound of laughter ring in his ears.
"Liar," came the returning voice. Cool hands cupped his face, and he opened his eyes to be met with the sight of Jack Frost smiling down at him, "I'm just a little displaced in time." Then cool lips were pressed against Pitch's, and he understood. This was not one of Sandy's dreams. The old fool could never hope to recreate this kind of bliss.
It didn't make sense, in all honesty. Although, that was possibly the coil of ever – present destructive cynicism that lived inside Pitch that was speaking. Or perhaps it was simple logic speaking, showing him the statistics. Jack the Guardian. Jack-who-turned-Pitch-down. Here, in his lair, in Pitch's space, utterly saturated by his presence, arched back and more beautiful than anything Pitch had ever seen. It did not make sense.
Pitch wrapped his arms securely around Jack's waist and hips, holding the boy in place perhaps a little too tightly as he made his way deeper into the lair, down twisting paths until they slipped seamlessly into the shadows, reappearing in a secluded room. Jack shivered as they made the journey, but didn't stop his ministrations on Pitch's neck, or untangle his fingers from Pitch's hair. It was a s struggle to lay him down of the bed located in the room, less of a bed and more of a nest of pillows and blankets really. Despite what Pitch had told the guardians, he'd never quite managed to resist the urge of lurking beneath beds whenever he found one.
In the end, it was more of a general collapse, followed by an 'oof' as Jack was dislodged from his position, that brought the couple down onto the bedding. Pitch's lips immediately sought out Jack's, beginning gently in apology, before he let himself go, devouring and exploring Jack as he wished, the younger spirit arching backwards and not even bothering to hide the noises that escaped his mouth.
Pitch could never get tired of seeing him like this. Jack being in his presence like this, loving it and loving him with his perfect, cool touch and the spread of lace-like ice across his skin, making Pitch shiver and marvel at the way that even the dank grey of his shin could be made beautiful.
"You're perfect," he breathed out across the shell of Jack's ear, and the boy shivered beneath him, moaning and arching up towards Pitch, into his hands. His face always contorted when Pitch said those words; Jack had never been told he was beautiful before, let alone perfect. Silver lashes would flutter dazedly as Jack clung to him, but the disbelief was always in his eyes, no matter how many time Pitch insisted. Pitch made it his aim each time they came together to make Jack believe it a little more.
And as Jack trembled beneath him, softly at first and then violently, fiercely, his fingers tightening their grip on his arms –Jack screamed as he arched up one final time, Pitch's own voice rising to meet him as they collapsed back together onto the bedding. Looking at Jack's gaze in the aftermath, as lazy fingers traced across grey skin and frosted skin in turn, Pitch would peer into Jack's eyes and thing that just for a moment maybe he'd been able to convince Jack, even just for a moment, of his perfection.
He didn't need Jack to fit a universal status of perfection, or even wanted him to. He just needed Jack to be perfect for him. And knew that he already was.
There were several options as to what might happen next. Sometimes Jack had guardian business, and had to disappear straight away. That was usually in the winter when his power was more needed, or North wanted White Christmases to order. Those times Pitch would watch in silent as Jack left, remaining silent and still for long stretches after he had left. There was little for him to do, if he ventured out for too long the guardians would find him and everything would be jeopardised for them. It was hard enough for Jack to visit as frequently as he did, Pitch was constantly and consistently amazed every time Jack showed up without warning (there was never any warning) and crashed into his life and lair, only to disappear like the gusts of wind he travelled on after only a bare few moments.
But sometimes, precious, rare times, Jack stayed with him, sprawled out beside him or half on top of him, totally peaceful and sleepy, content to do nothing. Pitch knew just how rare that was for the frost spirit and he revelled a little in the fact that it was around him that Jack was able to relax so. He didn't mind even if Jack wanted to sleep afterwards, but sometimes they stayed up and spoke. About anything and everything, although things related to the guardians were skirted around as swiftly as possible. Pitch that for a moment that that night would be one where Jack would sleep, as the boy's eyelashes came to rest delicately on his cheek and his breathing slowed, but then words emerged from the pale mouth.
"I don't know how long I can stay for…" came the quiet voice, and Pitch sighed. "I mean…I can stay for the night maybe…" a pause, "…maybe a little less. I promised Jamie I'd visit, and I can't…you know, can't tell him where I've been so-" there was a pause, and Pitch dared to look down at Jack, only to see tears crystallising on his lashes. Pitch sighed, but didn't move to comfort him.
"Jack, you know you can't tell him, for your own sa-"
"I know."
The words were short and clipped, and almost shit Pitch up. But he felt like although Jack said it, he didn't really know in the way that meant he'd accepted it; "Jack, I'm the Nightmare King. A lack of power does not change the fact that I am fundamentally opposed to them, and wish to destroy them. That's the way it's always been, it's what I am." Please understand, Pitch pleaded in his mind. Jack stilled for a moment, before,
"Were you ever anything before?" Jack asked, his tone slow and sleepy and he curled up closer to Pitch. He had nothing but a blanket acting as coverage, the item tossed carelessly over his hips to keep him decent. Pitch pulled the blanket up absently; tucking it around Jack like one might a child, even though the act was fussy and likely counter–productive, as Jack would not appreciate the heat. Jack didn't seem to mind however, and curling fronds of ice spread to decorate the slip of fabric, and he let out a happy sigh as his eyes drifted closed. He was not asleep, Pitch confirmed, just sated. Pitch's lips twitched up at the thought, before he pondered upon Jack's question. It was an unexpected and off question, nothing he had expected. Certainly it was nothing like the topics that had come up before.
"Before what?" he asked softly, allowing his hands to trace across Jack's forehead, around the shell of his ear and finally spreading into his hair, inducing a low sound not incomparable to purring from Jack.
"Before you were the King of Nightmares," the Guardian mumbled. "Tooth said…when we spoke about teeth…that we were all something before we became guardians. I know it's sort of different for you, since you're not a guardian exactly, but I just wondered."
It made Pitch pause, actually. It wasn't something he'd ever given thought to. He surely had a beginning, somewhere far back, but the further he looked the less clear it became, until all that lay before his eyes was a mass of writhing black that made him feel like he was being pulled apart from the inside, his stomach lurching sickeningly until he retreated back from in, rooting himself firmly in the present. He knew that memories faded the older you grew, and he was certainly older than most. But this felt different to a simple faintness of memory, more than just forgetfulness.
Going back that far felt like losing himself altogether.
"I…don't know. I'm not sure I was anything before," Pitch told him, not entirely honestly. "Fear has always been in this world. And I too have always been in this world, from the very beginning."
But that doesn't mean I wasn't somewhere before this world, doesn't mean I didn't sail across the skies, didn't ride in a dark galleon chasing the moon across the sky –
It was so long ago. And he couldn't really call it memories. When he described it as a jumble he really did mean just that; this wasn't minor confusion or disorientation, this was true disconnection from his own self, as though his mind was a thousand fragmented pieces fighting and clawing at each other, with no sense of self or purpose greater than blot it out, it's too bright, blot it out make it go disappearswallowitwhole-
Pitch shuddered, violently enough to disturb Jack, who cracked open an eye to send a concerned look in Pitch's direction. The Nightmare King was breathing deeply, heavily, "Are you ok?" he asked, pushing himself up on his elbows, both eyes now fully open and filled with concern. "Hey, you…you don't have to answer if you don't want, I…" Jack trailed off, looking upset. Pitch wanted to reassure him but honestly, didn't know what to say. He couldn't explain it, Jack wouldn't understand. How could he? They'd already established his memories; Jack knew full well what he had been and what he was. Pitch doubted he had nearly as much knowledge of his own past as he did Jack's.
"It's fine. I'm fine," Pitch tried to reassure Jack, running a hand over his shoulders, his back, pulling him close. The blanket had fallen down again but Pitch was unconcerned by it now, only caring about pulling Jack close. "My past is one better left untouched," he murmured quietly, fingers threaded greedily through white hair, "you needn't concern yourself over it."
Jack stirred restlessly in his arms for a moment more, before going still. Pitch breathed out softly, and allowed himself to relax back down. He hoped this would be the end of the matter.
