quixotic: Fandom | Ava's Demon (Our kind of love always dies)
The Windmill Lover ([personal profile] quixotic) wrote in [community profile] quixotism2012-12-04 08:27 pm

[fanfic] [rise of the guardians] Listen to the wind blow

And if
You don't love me now
You will never love me again
I can still hear you saying
You would never break the chain.

Jack found him in the deepest, darkest corner of the Earth, hollowed and gnarled, like a hand curled over a stomach wound. Jack knew wounds, knew how they festered. Knew that his touch was both balm and killer. Jack knew, but he felt bad about it anyway. He tapped his staff on the ground, before sitting down, his fingers wrapped protectively around it.

Pitch was dangerous.

Pitch was fear.

Pitch threw everything out of balance.

Pitch ... was Pitch.

And so he waited.

"Come to gloat?" The voice hissed at him, like a listless breeze. Jack considered this, oddly thoughtful, before replying, "No."

"Pity, then," Disgust was easy, perilously easy for Pitch. What else do you have to lean onto when all other emotions ran dry? His center was fear. Disgust hid fear, aided, notched it onto your bedpost when nothing else helped.

Jack was too old for these kind of games. They never interested him anyway, "No."

There was a pause, unsure and confused. Jack tugged the hoodie over his head. Pitch had his bedposts. Jack was allowed this. His fingers drummed against the wood and he almost whistled from the agony of an un-wintry silence. Shadows crept out, like hesitant tentacles, rubbing against cold stone and frost blankets. Jack almost laughed, let them touch his sleeves as if to pull them back and find the trick.

"Pitch, you're being silly. We won, remember? Now stop groping me, geez."

Another disgruntled hiss, to which Jack just threw a look at the darkness before. Finally, Pitch stepped out, looking immaculate (or tried to. His shoulders weren't as imposing as before), "Hello, Jack."

"Hey," Jack's smile was loose and easy, to crumple and tread on, like snow, "Long time no see."

"How long has it been now?" Pitch brushed some frost from his sleeve in disdain, "Four years?"

Forty, but Jack replied, "Does it matter?"

"It matters," Pitch snarled at him, "It will always matter."

"I've lived three hundred years the way you have. You can either count them or let them go, Pitch," Jack said, not the least bit bothered.

"So you're here to lecture me. Like a proper Guardian."

Jack had to stop, to digest that comment before he let it go with his customary nonchalance, "No. I'm still snowballs and funtimes."

Pitch looked disgusted. Jack counted it as a win.

"It's Halloween. You didn't come out. I thought I'd check up on you. It's not like you to miss your favourite time of the year," Jack mentioned casually, twirling a snowflake in between his fingers (everything is fragile, breakable, but stronger, too strong to be in the hands of a boy, someone said once but he had already forgotten)

(jack you'll break it)

(no more tricks)

(you're going to fall)

(and you'll be an expression to us all)

"I wasn't in the mood this year," Pitch miffed, sitting down, pulling his knees close, shadows seeping into the cracks, like poisoned water.

"Just saying, it wasn't the same without you," Jack pointed out.

"... I see," And he probably did. Pitch still exists, must exist, will always exist. When Jack skipped out on a few snow days, he felt empty. Emptier still, because he was not noticed and yet he was. It's hard being unnamed.

"We don't hate you," (they tried. Sandy's the only one who does, but Jack doesn't, can't, blame him for that), "We're not okay with you, but we don't hate you."

"You want to hate him. Fear me. You want to feel something from me," And Pitch's eerily silver eyes, like newborn frost on a window, scraped under Jack's fingernails pinned him, but Jack simply threw his head back and laughed.

"You know how I feel about everything, Pitch. The only difference here is I'm doing the right thing about it."

Pitch blinked owlishly, much like his Nightmares. Jack got up, brushing cold from his knees, "Food for thought."

With that, he called to the wind, take me home, take me away from here and let himself be whisked away, as Pitch made his bed.