Clears throat
So uh... how are ya'll? Good? Good...
Nervous chuckling
Thisinnowayexcusesmylongabsense but I'lltrytoatleastcomebackwithsomeoneshotsmorefrequently
kthxread
He can't hate him-
He could never hate him.
At the end of the day, Jack Frost could never hate Pitch Black. He couldn't hate him because he understood, with every fiber of his being, the reason. The thought process. The building anger at everything and everyone was familiar; he knew it well. Its ugly head was... familiar.
Because, he knew what it was like to be hated but necessary. That fact used to give him some small comfort.
Fear and winter are necessary. It not for fear, the human race would have killed itself by now in its own stupidity and blind, misplaced bravery and courage that only now a fool would tow about. If not for winter, the world could never rest. It would run itself to death, one day.
So, when Emily Jane would send him to keep his equivocal grandfather company, he never minded much. Even now, here he sits next to the fallen King of Nightmares himself, one who should be his mortal enemy. They tolerate each other's presence because they understand one another. Jack almost hates himself for it. A sinking feeling would set when he was with Pitch, and yet he doesn't say a word. Sometimes, he wants to scream at him.
They were like friends. They'd never admit it, but they were. They'd spent many a Hallow's Eve party together. They'd spent more a quiet night racing through the streets of a quieted world, and even more in the lair, with the golden words of stories long forgotten by all else swirling around and in their heads.
...
He wanted to yell at him. He wished there was a more outrageous reason that he could be angry at Pitch for. But there wasn't. He understood what was there.
He feels Pitch slouch over next to him; they are near shoulder-to-shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he sees the taller man's chest deflate. Jack gives a world-weary sigh that carries more weight than his physical age should carry and allows himself to lean onto Pitch's shoulder. They remain there; the passage of time is ignored as the light that filters down from the hole above wanes in and out of existence as the celestial bodies overhead march on.
A mutual sadness for the things that they had lost laced the air like a toxin, and the pair, despite all that had happened could still find a comfort in the understanding of one another.
Sometimes, Jack thinks idly, he's not sure where he ends and Pitch begins. And in some ways, it makes him feel less alone.