Jack quite likes his new companion, this odd, pointy fellow, Pitch Black. He finds it fun to chuck snowballs at him and braid snowflakes into his hair. He makes the funniest noises of frustration. Jack thinks it endearing really. Pitch refuses to share the sentiment.
The Nightmare King regrets the day he met Jack Frost. The little hellion of a boy had stuck fast to his side. At first, Jack had nursed a hint of fear, allowing his presence to be tolerable. Pitch was never one to turn down a free meal. But the terror soon melted away, familiarity taking its place. Now, the boy is downright insufferable. He behaved like a scruffy, lost pup and trailed after Pitch. Even if Pitch managed to loose Jack, once he returned to his dwellings, there Jack would be. The loyal puppy ever eager for fun times. Though Jack's idea of fun involved seeing how mad Pitch could get before he actively begun attacking him. So far, it didn't take much.
Presently, Jack sits to his left, idly tossing up snowballs and watching them burst against the ceiling. He's prattling about some blizzard or sledding incident. Pitch really couldn't care less. Today had not been the best of days. He had lost a few of his already sparse believers. The once fragile colonies had grown in size and stability. The settlers were no longer rife with fear or plagued by doubts. It was a brave, new world and it left no room for Pitch. So no, he didn't have a very good day.
Jack's incessant presence, a pain even in his better moods, manifests into a torture. Here is the Fates adding insult to injury, their mockery found in the laughing eyes of Jack Frost. Well, he would stand it no longer.
He is the Nightmare King. He need not suffer through the thousand aimless hours of the sprite's company. He need not endure the putrid pranks and ceaseless cackling. He has lived since Man first drew breath, older than the ever-watchful Moon. Jack Frost is a worm beneath his feet and it is time he learned his place.
Pitch draws the shadows around him. He hears Jack pause in his prattling, his attention caught. A delightful smirk cracks across Pitch's lips as he summons his ink-like portals. Jack will follow. Jack always follows. But if Pitch lingers just a breath longer, almost beckoning the boy, well, the sprite is none the wiser.
They teleport to some forgotten island near the equator. It is home to a resilient few, all deliciously supersticious and wary of the world. It is one of Pitch's favorite haunts. But more importantly, it is repressively warm.
Jack stumbles in after him. His cheeks grow paler as the warmth washes over him. He appears physically incapable of flushing red. Curious.
"Wow." Jack gasps, pulling at his collar. A thin sheen of sweat already forms on his brow. "So, uh, wow. What-What are we, uh, doing here?"
"We are not doing anything. I am here to check in on my believers." Pitch intones, shifting from one swaying shadow to the next.
The Wind, Jack's constant companion, is markedly absent. It leaves him grounded. He attempts to follow Pitch only to burn himself on the sun-washed sand. The boy staggers after him regardless, leaning heavily against his staff. Pitch commends his tenacity but scoffs at his foolishness. The boy had the self preservation skills of a gnat. No, wait. That would be an insult to the gnat.
Pitch moves along, appearing oblivious to the winter sprite's difficulties. He does check up on his believers. But it is nearing noon, and really, there is little he could do during day time. He is stalling for the inevitable. Jack had commented here and there then fell blessedly silent. They make it halfway across the island before it happens.
Pitch hears a dull thud behind him. He turns to find Jack sprawled against the heated, white sand. His clothes are soaked with sweat and almost appear to drip off rail thin limbs. He looks like he's melting. His skin bleached a bone white, he lies unnaturally still.
And there is something simply wrong with seeing Jack so still. Pitch attempts to form explanations, coherent and erudite explanations, for the distinct throb in his chest. It is the sun. It is the heat. But really, all he can think is, it's Jack. It is bright, mischievous, infinitely bothersome Jack. Always whirling about, always laughing, always making a mess. But alive, so honestly and earnestly alive. To see Jack still is to see the sun rise from the west. It's just not supposed to happen.
The pressure in his chest refuses to ease. It only grows the longer he stares at Jack's inert form. He tries to look away, to walk away. He had planned this. It is the right and proper punishment for all the trouble Jack's caused. But, he can't. He can't. He just can't.
Pitch gnaws at his lip and clenches his fist before releasing a slow, steady breath. He kneels down, prodding the boy's cheek. Jack is still cool to the touch, unbelievable.
"I must be some sort of masochist." He sighs, slipping his arms under Jack's limp form. "C'mon then. Let's get you out of here."
He lifts the boy, jostling the sprite awake. Jack blinks up at Pitch, a small and lazy smile curls in the corner of his mouth.
"Thanks." He whispers hoarsely.
"Don't thank me yet." Pitch huffs, summoning his shadows. "I plan to torture you slowly, intimately, in all the ways you fear."
Jack coughs out a laugh. Pitch had used that line over a dozen times before. It's an empty threat, they both know it.
"No, I mean..." Jack murmurs and presses closer to Pitch. "I've never been to the beach before. I don't think I've ever seen a sky so blue. So, thanks."
Pitch makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. He wants to shout, to scream, 'I almost killed you, you blithering idiot!' But he remains silent, trying and failing not to savor the cool weight of Jack in his arms. Touch is a luxury and it has been far too long. Pitch closes his eyes as the shadows take them away.
He's in trouble.
Because somewhere along the way, in their vastly convoluted relationship, Jack Frost became a constant in Pitch's life. Jack was the white noise in the background. A nuisance but he grew used to his presence. He came home and expected a chilled gust of air or a tightly, packed snowball to greet him. He expected to be trailed by fern-like frost and a dusting of ice. He expected to glance at his side and there Jack would be.
He is in so much trouble.
Coming home, Pitch lays Jack on some elevated platform. The sprite is fast asleep or in a dead faint. Either way, he is blissfully unaware and Pitch allows himself to card a hand through that snow white hair. It would be an act of affection if it had been by anyone else.
"What am I to do with you, Jack Frost?" Pitch murmurs, sincerely at a lost.
Jack only smiles in response, leaning into the touch.