He didn't just come in his dreams. Or rather, dreams that quickly turned into nightmares. The Sandman had learned this long ago. It started out small, whispers in the back of his mind that were barely coherent. The voice steadily grew louder, however, no longer something able to be ignored. He'd begun to argue with the voice of his alter ego, in a silent mental debate. The voice would always laugh mockingly at him before dissipating into the depths of his mind, only to return some time later.
Just recently, however, there had been a new occurance. His alter ego was manifesting himself in the physical world.
It unnerved the Sandman greatly; it made it seem as if his alter was growing stronger, becoming more influential, a more stable part of him. He knew he could not let that happen, yet he couldn't stop it. These appearances of the boogieman outside of his dreams and in the waking world only lasted for a few minutes at the most, but they were enough to disturb him greatly. They were times that the dream bringer wished he could force that horror to go back where he belonged.
Now was one of those times.
They were standing on the flat roof of an apartment building. The Sandman had been inside when his alter decided to show up, sliding out of the shadows and making a quiet remark about the dream he was giving a particular child. It had been at that point that the Guardian had taken their conversation outside; firstly because he didn't want to wake the child and secondly, quite simply, he didn't want his alter, his opposite, anywhere near the boy.
"You really should reconsider your distribution of dreams," his alter ego, who called himself Pitch Black, told him. "Nightmares are far more memorable."
He gave his darker half a disapproving frown, crossing his arms over his chest.
"What, you don't believe me?" Pitch's voice seemed to linger on the word 'believe'. Smirking, he continued, "So many people forget their dreams, as if they didn't even exist. Nightmares, however... No, people don't forget their nightmares so easily."
That's because they're afraid, the Sandman argued via his thoughts, knowing his alter could hear. Despite this, he still formed the image of a terrified child huddling in a nonexistent corner with his golden sand. It elicits a stronger reaction from them. The previous image faded and was replaced by a smiley face, whose simple face contorted into one of extreme terror.
Pitch chose not to acknowledge what the other had conveyed, and instead looked at him with a mildly smug expression. Beginning to circle him casually, the Sandman never taking his eyes off of him, the alter personality began, "You never speak. Even to me, a part of you, you never utter a sound." Stopping his predator-like circling, he looked into the small man's golden eyes, simply asking, "Why?"
The dream bringer didn't even grace him with a mental response this time, simply forming a picture above his head of a young child sleeping peacefully in a golden sand bed.
"Oh, don't give me that!" Pitch snapped, sounding insulted. "That may be what you tell everyone else, but that isn't the real reason, is it?" Bringing himself to his full height, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lip, he spoke again. "What are you hiding, little man?"
The Sandman felt an edge of nervousness creep somewhere inside him, and immediately regretted it as Pitch apparently sensed it. "Ah.." he drawled, his smile twisting into a malicious grin. "What are you afraid of, Sand Man?"
A golden whip lashed out at his face, but he skillfully maneuvered around it, slinking into the darkness with a bout of dark laughter. The spirit of dreams kept his whips at the ready, in case the nightmare bringer initiated an attack of his own.
"Don't try to hide it," the shadows taunted him. A chuckle, then, "I always know when you're afraid."
Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention, and the Sandman's whips slashed at an empty darkness. Another disturbance, this time from the other side, and golden streaks snapped through the air, touching only empty space where the boogieman may or may not have been.
"What makes you too afraid to even speak?"
A single whip dissipating, the dream bringer put a hand to his temple. He could almost feel the other prodding about his mind, searching for the answer, the reason.
Pitch reformed a few meters away, not resisting in the slightest when his wrist was captured by the remaining whip and he was flung around like a ragdoll, his body colliding with whatever happened to be in the way. Slamming into a wall, he slumped onto the ground, the Sandman floating over him with a furious expression written on his face.
"Oh come now, Sand Man." Pitch managed to raise himself on an elbow to look his other half in the eye. "You really can't -"
SHUT UP!
This reaction from the otherwise docile creature seemed to momentarily startle him, the whip encircling his wrist again, flinging him to the other side of the roof. Picking himself up - even though he'd endured what would certainly cripple a mortal - his dark grin returned and he burst into a maniacal laughter.
This stopped the Sandman dead in his tracks, who was about to continue on with his barrage of attacks. He gazed on confusedly, as the man who he'd just pummeled held his sides in unrestrained laughter. He stayed quiet for a long while, as his alter ego finally composed himself and smirked triumphantly at him.
"I see now," Pitch mused. "You're afraid that if you speak.. it'll be my voice that comes out."
"But more than that," he continued with a grin before the Sandman could interject. "You're afraid that you'll not only speak my voice, but my mind. You're afraid that your lullabies will turn to whispers in the dark. You're afraid, that you'll let loose a nightmare at a slip of the tongue... Or maybe let your precious friends know what a monster lies beneath your golden exterior."
Seething in a silent anger, the man of sand lashed out again at his alter, only for the boogieman to fade from the physical world with a laugh that echoed in his mind. Breathing out a quiet sigh, the small spirit took a few moments to compose himself, before flying off into the night, Pitch out of sight, but most certainly not out of mind.