The moon shines full and bright in the sky tonight. Brilliant white rays beam down upon the snowy landscape, lending an almost ethereal quality to the place. The sweet scent of jasmine fills the air.
Inside, the party is in full tilt. Music and laughter ring out in joyous cadences behind glass doors and heavy curtains, but the shadowy figure standing tall on the balcony makes no move to join them. He is content to stand there, companionless in the moonlight, hands clasped behind his back and silver-gold eyes ever watchful. Shadows coil lazily at his feet, tendrils snaking across his ankles. Parties have never been his idea of fun. He prefers the peace and serenity of his Nightmare Palace to the exuberance of North's Summer Balls. The atmosphere inside is much too cheerful for his tastes.
Typical of the North Pole, the ever-present chill the in air bites viciously at vulnerable flesh even in the so-called summer days, but the grey-skinned spirit seems entirely unfazed by it. He has braved much colder temperatures than this after all, and not all of them due to natural causes. Rather, a certain white-haired female was responsible for that.
Speaking of the winter spirit, the soft sound of someone alighting carefully behind him can be heard, the sudden rush of arctic wind that blows past betraying her identity. A slow smirk curls the Boogeymans' lips, the barest hint of jagged teeth peeking though. He can hear her walk, bare feet padding towards him and dress rustling with every step she takes.
Turning, he inclines his head towards her, an impassive mask settling over his face. "Miss Frost," he greets, cold eyes gaining the slightest hint of warmth at the bright grin on her face. "Pitchiner," she responds playfully, mock bowing. One hand is wrapped around her ever present staff, frost spiraling from her grasp and onto the wood, ice bangles clicking together as she moves.
Intricate designs paint her bared flesh like lace sleeves. Frost blooms like delicate flowers on the backs of her hands while twisting ferns and decorative vines curve up her arms, glistening in the moonlight. Her gown itself is simple, strapless and a deep cobalt, ending in gentle folds just above her knees and decorated sparingly in silver swirls of frost. Her eyes twinkle, mischief dancing in the cerulean depths as silken white curls cascade in loose ringlets down the slope of her shoulders. Ice crystals rest heavily in a circlet atop her head, glittering like stars adorning her hair.
She's beautiful.
Without thinking he reaches out, cupping her cheek with one hand. Her body is frigid, the faintest brush of her skin against his leeching away the heat in his body but he doesn't care. His shadows trail along the floor around her, tickling her bared feet and creeping up her calves to the hem of her dress.
She runs her fingertips lightly along the curve of his spine, brushing teasingly against the silver embroidery at his collar before pulling away. Her touch leaves a trail of frost in its wake, clinging in vain to the fine ebony fabric of his robe before melting away and dampening the cloth. Amusement laces the winter spirit's tone as she laughs, wrapping both arms around his neck and standing on her tiptoes so she can reach him.
"Jacklyn," the Boogeyman whispers warningly, eyes glinting in the moonlight as his hands settle around her waist. She giggles lightly, glancing up at him from beneath the veil of her lashes, a teasing smile curving her lips. "Dance with me, Pitch," she murmurs. Her eyes look strange, vulnerable almost, and it throws him for a second, unsure of how to proceed.
In any case, he must hesitate for a second too long because her eyes hood over and she laughs, dancing out of his grip like sand slipping through his fingers. Her laughter is too loud, too brittle, to be genuine and his eyes narrow minutely. Shadows swell ominously around him. He moves too fast for her to react; hands clasping around her wrists, careful not to bruise the fragile, pale skin as her staff clatters to the floor.
Ignoring her startled cry, he bends down, carefully resting his forehead against hers. He can feel the gelid temperature of her skin against his and the iciness of her breath fanning across his mouth. "Hush," he breathes, closing his eyes. Gradually her body relaxes, tension bleeding out of her as she slumps against him. "My dear, sweet Jack," he sighs, "Ever so quick to jump to conclusions." His thumb rubs idle circles soothingly along her inner wrist. Huffing, she pulls away from him, bending down to pick up her staff. "I know," she replies eventually, "I just-" She breaks off there, rubbing at her eye with one hand while the other clenches at her staff like a lifeline, knuckles white. The temperature around them drops slightly, just enough to be noticeable.
A soft, fond smile graces his face as the grey-skinned man steps froward again, gently drawing her hand away from her face and threading their fingers together instead. "It's okay," he says and when she looks up at him his eyes are kind. A slow smile spreads across her face as she presses her head against his chest. "I love you," she mumbles affectionately, eyes closed. "I know," he whispers back, free hand coming up to stroke her hair. She hums softly in contentment, nuzzling against his chest. "Good."
Inside, the clock chimes twelve, an uproar of laughter and cheers and applause accompanying it. The two outside do not even notice, nor do they care enough to, content in their own little bubble and swaying gently to music only they can hear.
And if later frost spreads from her fingertips to nip lightly at his own and shadowy tendrils snake possessively around her waist, neither of them say anything. Instead they smile a bit softer, shift just a little bit closer, and the rest of the world fades away as they lose themselves in each other.