Sick, there was nothing else for it. Clenching the pink egg, Aster growled at his creation. The Dots weren't thick enough; some weren't round; completely wrong! A reflection of an absent mind. That's what it had to be, he was just sick.
"No! No! No! I can't think like that! Get out of me head!"
"-Get what outta your head cottontail?" The voice merged with the chilling breeze. "Is Easter finally recognizing its mascot as a grumpy kangaroo?" Aster stiffened, the insult made his ears twitch and his fur turn on end. Clenching his jaw, he twisted to meet the frost sprite who smirked with the satisfaction of being undetected.
"Rack off you little nose-biter! How about ya go and cause trouble in the Sahara? I hear they like snow up there!" he growled at self-proclaimed king of havoc. Jack made himself comfortable on one of the sentinel egg stones.
"Touchy, touchy. It's ok, Peter Rabbit" the rabbit's hair was on end echoing the image of a startled cat. Despite the thick fur he could see his muscles were tight, matched with an unnerving scowl beneath bushy eyebrows. An animal all over. That is, except for his abnormally green eyes... And the fact he could talk, somewhere under the heavy Australian accent.
"Get stuffed! Go an' annoy someone else! I'm busy" he carelessly flicked a paw away and focused back on the monstrosity in hand. Jack hopped up on the mossy stone egg, carefully wary that it could swivel at any moment.
"Little Peter rabbit has a fly upon his nose-" he sang, casually swinging his staff half-heartedly over his shoulders.
"Not that flippin' song again!" Bunnymund growled, his ears cowered in repulsion. It had echoed throughout the warren all through summer when Jack visited. He had completely-on-purpose turned the Warren into a private winter wonderland. -Much to Aster's horror.
"-So he flipped it an' he flopped it and it flew a-way" He sang flatly, teasing the giant rabbit had its merits, and it was a quick boredom killer. Unlike himself who adored mischief, the rabbit sat at the other end of the scale, hot headed, tight and work-orientated. Somehow repressing of his mischievous urges around Aster were pointless, such delightful reactions made him feel his work was somewhat appreciated.
Jack continued to hum the folk song, watching the infuriated rabbit twitch in exasperation. With a quick flick of the wrist he grasped the pair of boomerangs strapped to the back of his bandolier.
A good sign to make a quick exit. But not without a full-blown reprise!
"Clear off ya tosser!" the boomerangs sped at him as Jack caught the wind and let it carry him off to make trouble elsewhere.
The rabbit snuffed at the boy as he could hear the cries of laughter flow like wind chimes, and relaxed. He placed the paint brush in his bandolier and released the egg into the glitter river. In truth he was ahead of schedule, he had drowned himself in his work; painting allowed him time and space to think.
"Jack Frost" the name was familiar, it had been circling his thoughts for months. Not only his name, it was his skin. So pale it was almost translucent, and his smile too, full of annoying cheek. Furless and so thin there was nothing of him, bloody fragile like his snowflakes. It wasn't only that, it was those damned eyes too, blue. So fricken blue!
Aster mulled over these thoughts which were all almost alien; for all these qualities were none that a Pooka like himself should be ultimately fascinated by; or even attracted to.
Was he in heat again? It had been years since he'd experienced anything like this. His reasoning collapsed under ache when Jack was nearby. Impulsively he wanted to reach out to that chill crested cheek.
But any physical or emotional connections were out of the question, it was courting disaster almost literally; an open invitation for distraction. Impossible.
When the summer was drawing near an end, Jack disappeared without a whisper of goodbye. Aster had looked for him for days, combing continents. His head swirled into a sick mess of deliberation and fear, over and over were visions of Jack. Fading, dead, in pain, suffering in the clutches of loneliness and panic. The Moons commands were like chains and like the others, he was powerless to disobey.
Jack blew back in a few weeks later, with his nonchalant grin telling stories of Antarctica and Northern Canada. It was sheer disbelief that fought his urge to embrace Jack or punch his lights out.
Still he smiled. Completely unaware. Free.
Consciously tainting something like that would be painting an Easter Egg with your tongue. Jack Frost belonged to the world. Not to him.
His eyebrows curled into furrows and he hopped back deeper into the warren, his hobbling eggs in tow, like baby ducklings.
One of the braver egglings met him at the door and worked its way onto his large white foot, rubbing itself into the fur.
"'m fine" he muttered, scooting the tike aside.
The interior of the hut was much of a reflection of its outside; completely created from the overgrown nature. He went to the back of his cupboard, the doors and much of the furniture was carved, hand-made by Bunnymund himself. He scratched about, tossing away clay utensils. In each inlay a carving, various designs of flowers and eggs, sometimes even a rabbit or two.
Empty of what he was searching for he turned to the lower cupboards.
"I know it's here, now where did I put the little bugger- Ah ha!" he held the glass bottle up in triumph, the only present he received from North each year, his prized Orange 'Dream' Liquor. He held the bright electric liquid in the light; golden sand rolled about the base of the glass.
This particular brew was special; infused dream sand that Sandy had kindly donated. Bunnymund and North often had drinking parties in the months between Easter and Christmas, and it would be effortless to drink North under the table. A couple of kegs would not give him even the hint of a slur to show for it, it was reasoned down to his extremely large BMI. One bottle was all he needed of this stuff to guarantee a goodnight's kip.
He tossed a glance out to the warren, the last of the sunlight hung on the edge of the trees. A perfect sign for a clear night.
"Why not?"
"Crikey" he cupped his forehead, cradling the searing pain coursing through it. It usually took an orange dream to put him out but another couple for repercussions the next day. He balanced his head enough to feel the weight in his stomach that wanted to re-greet him. Luckily, or closely to it, his throat was hoarse, from what he couldn't quite put his finger on.
Water. Water first, thinking later.
He fumbled to his feet, catching his foot on the table. Cursing he went for the door, it flew open with shove from the shoulders. It was cold airs outside, like an ice bucket to the face. Jack had probably been by, the tosser, he would scold him later, water first. He steered as best he could for the river. He collapsed, cringing he dunked his head under the water, allowing the cool to seep into his skin, behind his ears. The water made the pulses echo in his head, like the sentential stone eggs were dancing in his ears. He swung his head out enough to take a sip. He breathed to relax his senses, taking a swig of water.
"Pffftt! What the-?" he spluttered as he choked out the last drops of water. He rubbed the burning sensation at the end of his face, catching sight of his paw. Paler and furless, five digits, almost even... In awe-some horror he followed the sight up his arms and across his chest; the rest of himself was the much the same. It carried a rustic tan much unlike snowflake and almost hairless like he had been shaven in his sleep. Perhaps he had, and he knew exactly who would try. His teeth ground together as his imagination painted scenes of Jack and a razor, giggling away while he was out cold.
"I'll kill 'im" he growled back at the river, it growled back but not as the Pooka he was familiar with. His face was no longer his. Ears sat on point where they were left and a mop of similar shade hair that only fell short above his eyebrows and green eyes were the only things of recognition. His nose wasn't pink anymore. Nor his chin white but the rustic color of his body. He looked almost, human.
He paved over them with his fingers.
"Bugger Me!"
The image massaged his face, its felt peculiar, like kneading wet clay. He brushed the fur on his head away from his eyes, revealing his tattoos, blue flower petal shapes imprinted into the, "Blast, what's the word again?" Skin. Panicked instincts made him check everything; only his tail and ears were of recognition but everything else…
What had he done last night? An aching head told tale a dream wasn't an option, and even if he was what had he done in order to have such a vivid nightmare?
"Pitch?" No, Pitch's apparitions were dark, bleeding evil not…Science-fiction strange. There were a dozen other visions Pitch could have conjured up to break him. So this meant,
"Its home brewed" he muttered as he mustered up a jog back to the hut. Absent-mindedly he sniffed about but his senses were somewhat dulled in this form,
"What good are 'ese then?" he muttered as concentrated harder on the scents around him, he could make out the whiffs in the air, but not from inside.
He followed the aroma outside, catching the waves of oranges becoming tinged with alcoholic fumes, soon spying a small clay cup nesting amongst the grass shoots.
"Orange Dream, huh?" he muttered sniffing the rim-side of the clay, "Well there's only one place they make ya"