A human eats and a human drinks. A human sleeps and a human dreams.

To cease any of these activities would be to die. Oh, humans. How pure, unblemished and innocent, to have their sustenance be mere food and water, mere rest and imagination.

Pitch envied them the simplicity of their victuals. He envied also the Guardians, for the simplicity of their needs. Wonder, memory, hope, dreams… fun.

How liberating it must be, to find life and pleasure in things that brought life and pleasure to others. They could never realize just how unjust it was, to be cursed to feed purely on fear. Even if he one day stood up and resolved to be so-called 'good' – Pitch scoffed at the thought – he could not thrive in such a state. To be good would be to starve himself. To be good would be to suffer and crave and need and refrain and resist.

Because fear… oh, fear was exquisite. Nothing could ever compare to fear. It came in different flavors, some sharp and sudden like spikes of freezing ice; some were slower, building, sordid and heavy like an injected drug sluggishly pumping through his veins. Some were laced with dread, others with horror, even others with that delectable tang of helplessness. Some required only the most minimal of efforts on his part…. But then, some required meticulous attention to reap… Pitch tried to remain altogether indifferent towards what sort of fear he took, but if he were honest with himself, he would admit that he preferred the sort of fear which carefully stewed for endless days and endless nights. He preferred… playing with his food, you could say. Tease with little licks of nightmares, and slowly slowly ohsoslowly build the terror until they collapsed in his hands and yielded to him completely.

Pitch sucked in a delicate breath and released it just as silently. He needed to calm down, relax, gather his thoughts together. Justify this to himself.

You see… fear differed between different humans as well. Pitch smirked. If he even counted as human. Which he didn't, of course he didn't, but that didn't change anything.

The act of bringing terror was sometimes routine; the satisfaction he claimed by doing so certainly filling, but not special, not… intimate. He liked to think himself above petty human-like weaknesses such as obsessions, but nonetheless, he found himself here. Here, where he should not be, at the very lake where he should never have gone again.

Of all the people to fix on… it had to be him. The very person as ungraspable as the wind, as free as the skies. Pitch should have kept away: Jack wasn't like the other feeble humans he'd fixed on before. These other people, he could invade their nightmares until he utterly broke them, and then ended them forever. Jack Frost? He couldn't do that to Jack Frost – without fail, the other Guardians would be after him, and he had not the strength to take all of them yet.

But he'd never had to resist like this before.

Hissing from behind his clenched teeth, Pitch dragged his nails down the trunk of a tree, ignoring the bite of their splintering. How much easier it would be if his hunger didn't rely on fear. The pitiful Guardians, how lucky they were.

But no; no, Pitch had no such luck. He was starving and nothing else tasted quite right. Nothing but the fear from this one person… And as soon as Pitch had perceived Frost sleeping abouttime-awholeweekandnorest-damnwinterspirit he'd tracked him to this lake and now…. Now he held back.

Beautiful disgusting golden dream-sand spiraled over Jack's closed eyes, and a small smile had lit upon his face. Pitch sneered. So oblivious. Sleep made everyone so vulnerable.

It would be so easy to transform that dream into a nightmare. Everyone has betrayed you, Jack; are you even surprised?… oh, poor poor Jack, how tragic – it looks like even Jamie doesn't believe in you any more. Fitting, though, isn't it? You were never worth believing in anyway.

But no. He couldn't interfere, because he couldn't risk getting the Guardians involved. He couldn't let them know that he was now armed with new tricks, new knowledge. He definitely couldn't let them know his power was mounting – it was still much too early.

But maybe… maybe just a taste. Something small enough that Jack wouldn't even suspect him. They still thought he was victim to his own Nightmares, after all. Surely it couldn't hurt?

With measured steps, Pitch circled in closer, the shadows stretching out behind his heels.

His spidery hands extended and swirled amongst the dream-sand, but not changing it, not yet. So much temptation…

You don't want the Guardians involved. He'll know, you know he'll know it's you, he doesn't have nightmares, the Sandman protects him, and if he becomes fearful in a dream, he will know it's you. He will tell the Guardians.

Pitch's half-lidded suddenly snapped open. Or will he?

Jack, for all his devotion to fun and games, had never just spilt all his secrets to someone. He wasn't a little boy that tattled to his parents; he was anything but! Three hundred years of loneliness inevitably developed independence and a reluctance to rely on others; Pitch personally could testify to that. A fragile, budding friendship with a few Guardians couldn't banish such a mindset so easily!

No, Jack wouldn't tell, not at first at least. He'd try to figure things out on his own, he'd try to fix it himself, he'd…

A twisted smile curved at Pitch's lips. His eyes fluttered shut. In that case…

No harm for a single taste.

He chuckled. Perhaps he should not envy the humans, or the Guardians. They never got to feel this pleasure now, did they? How shallow were their emotions: all but fear, that is. How limited they were, how fallible. Victims of their own weak feelings.

For Pitch, things could truly become very simple. Fear, and fear above all things, ruled.

Licking his incisors, Pitch entered the dreams of Jack Frost.