There were days where Jack hadn't been strong enough.
Being lonely isn't a feeling. It is a job. A full-time occupation filled with shifts and procedures and schedules. It's clockwork. And like any job, there is training involved. Hours are spent perfecting contemplative silence. Emptying your mind is not, after all, a gift, but a skill. It takes a special kind of precision, immortal or otherwise, to separate thought from emotion. Let alone to suppress the both.
Jack Frost was alone for three hundred years.
Jack was a tenacious young man. For all his faults, none could say he was anything but determined. And so when it came to a point in his life that physical action was no longer capable of negating emotion, he realized that adhering to the rules of solitude was necessary for survival. And Jack did follow all the rules.
Keep busy. That's number one. Never allow yourself a rest long enough to let your thoughts wander to dark, inescapable places.
And he did keep busy. Jack played with kids, whether in winter or summer, despite the irritated protests of some of the other season spirits. He wasn't willing to give it up. As long as he could somehow trip them up, or make them wonder. To see that glowing smile on those pure faces, to feel the warmth that those innocent, unseeing eyes shot through him as they laughed. To make that happen was sometimes even enough to give Jack hope. Sometimes, it was enough to trick him into believing.
Of course, that wasn't enough. Kids went to school, and school was full of adults. Jack couldn't remember having ever really grown up, and he was fairly certain he mustn't have, judging by his still working instinct to keep mischief as far away from adult eyes as possible. He still got that odd flutter in his stomach when worried parents turned their scolding eyes on the kids he played with and got into trouble.
It took forty years of immortality for Jack to finally stop ducking his head and pointing his finger out in a random direction when adults discovered the mischief he had caused.
Because, of course, no one could see him. It was silly.
But when kids did go to school, Jack wasn't dormant. Dormancy meant silence, and silence meant falling into a despair that he would have to spend days clawing his way out of.
He played pranks. Bunnymund would later blame his immature jokes on a devious nature, but Jack wasn't mean-spirited. It was just that, the reactions he got from people when he scared or inconvenienced them were always the best. He savored their expressions, the way the lip curled as someone sneered in irritation, or the vague, complex emotions conveyed by the movements of the brow. He drank in the pitch of their alarmed cries, searched for that underlying, nervous timber in their embarrassed laughter, which almost always followed after.
He supposed it was born from some sort of lie that he told himself, that as long as he could instigate that high level of emotion, could perturb the boundary separating him and everyone else in that way, than they were somehow aware of him in the back of their minds. They somehow knew he was real, even if it were subconsciously. And Jack told himself these things. And most days, it was enough.
But some days, it wasn't. Jack persevered to follow the rules of being alone. He had assigned himself steps to follow, steps that he hoped would always keep him at a safe distance from hopelessness. He would not cry. Not ever. He would never let himself forget how to laugh, and would smile every day. Because as long as he always knew how to do those things, than it would never get so bad that he wouldn't have a reason to.
But there were days when he just wasn't strong enough.
On those days, Jack wouldn't try and play. Instead, he would fly. He'd fly long and hard, with the cold wind at his back and his face towards the horizon. And he wouldn't stop until he reached the ocean.
Jack would sit far from the water, in a circle of crystallized sand, and would watch the dolphins.
He'd listen to the sound of the ocean, and taste the salt breeze on his tongue as it ruffled his hair and snaked through his sweater. He'd watch the sun paint colors in the sky as the dolphins raced up and down the beach, hunting for fish in the shallow waters near the shore, slapping their tails upon the surface as they trilled in communal understanding of their purpose.
And Jack didn't feel so alone then. Those days were some of the worst, but some of the best. The days when the dolphins rushed towards him with the tide, their fins slashing through the skin of the ocean. And he would feel for just a moment, for a brief but lasting moment, as their black and shining eyes peeked through the clear water and brushed over him, that he was seen.
That being alone wasn't who he was. It was just a job.
...
A/N: So this is my take one why Jack touched the golden stream of sand, and conjured dolphins. :) Hope you liked it! And feel free to drop a review, if you like. :D Or, even if you don't.