I own nothing but the story.

Jack was what Bunny would call a "blue-haired boy," not because the sprigs he called hair were actually blue, but because his hair was so white the shadows darkened to a lovely hue of indigo.

He told Jack of this when the kid first tried to paint snow onto his prepared canvas.

"No, no, not black, never black!"

The bristles of badger fur hovered a hair above the ebony smear of oil paint, too close, in Bunny's eyes. "But," Jack looked genuinely confused, "How will I get the shadows?"

"Use blue, ya gumby!"

Wide eyes blinked at him, and he sighed. "Yer around snow all the time, ain't ya? Does the shade ever appear black to yeh?"

Jack furrowed his brow again, "No."

"How about yer hair? Is it black at the roots, or some other color?"

A pale hand ran through the silver locks, and understanding crept over Jack's face.

"Oh!" he laughed, "I get it!" Without another word, he dipped his brush straight into the phthalo blue and daubed it onto the canvas.

A little, unconscious sniff escaped Bunny's nose as he watched Jack's...for lack of a better term...technique for painting, but he held his tongue, turning back towards his own canvas without a remark.

He was trying to be a good teacher, but if he were being honest, he never expected to share one of his favorite pastimes with Jack Frost, of all the spirits and immortals.

Jack had shown up unexpectedly; it was only a few weeks after Easter, and he'd somehow managed to sneak both into the Warren and into his private studio space.

"Hey there, Kangaroo, have you—holy cow!" he'd exclaimed with childlike glee.

Not that Bunny could blame the kid. He didn't like to brag, but Bunny could certainly paint. Years of decorating Easter eggs by hand didn't add up to nothing, after all.

His favorite medium was oil paint, and his favorite subject: springtime. Lining the stone sides of the studio space and crowding the back tunnels behind it were centuries' collections of paintings, depicting all the fairness and flaws of the flowering season. There were landscapes, portraits, studies, all unique, all peaceful.

That's what painting was for Bunny: relaxing. It's why he did it most leading to and following the Easter season; sometimes it was all he had to keep him from pulling himself apart by the ears. Painting was his escape, his lifeline, a place where only he and his canvas existed.

Until Jack Frost showed up.

Because of course it would be Jack Frost.

In all fairness, the fact that it took this long to be invaded by Jack was what surprised him most. Jack had a habit of getting on his last nerve, and it had really only been a matter of time.

"These are incredible!" said the winter spirit, bracing his staff across his back and glancing between the rows and stacks of finished paintings. "You made these yourself? With those awkward paws of yours? How?"

"How did you get in 'ere?" Bunny had said. He didn't understand, Jack hated the Warren; he always said it had too much pollen and not enough snowflakes.

As if Bunny would let so much as a flurry float through.

But Jack surprised him. He had a tendency to wear his heart out on the sleeve of that ratty blue hoodie of his, and today it contained no mischief or any of the usual mockery they engaged in, but instead wonder and admiration that matched the expressions on the kid's face. Bunny had to call himself impressed.

The longer Jack looked, the longer he stuck around, the more so Bunny became. Jack was genuine in his awe, and by the time he'd returned to ask if he could watch the Guardian of Hope paint, he'd relaxed enough to say yes.

Here he found that Jack could be quiet with the same intensity and focus that he could be obnoxious and loud, and every once in a while, Bunny had to turn to make sure the young spirit was still there.

It was when he was scraping azaleas onto some shamrock bushes when Jack became disruptive.

"You don't have enough winter themed ones in here."

Bunny felt his shoulders rise in vague irritation, and he paused in his movements to prevent a wrong stroke. "I don't have any winter themes in here."

"Exactly."

Jack had perched on top of his staff, which he promptly leapt down from to approach his side. "You gotta have some."

Jack, standing far too close to his palette as well as his canvas, had been heading the right way for being thrown out by the hood, but Bunny humored him for a moment.

"Why? I like springtime jus' fine. It's a gorgeous season."

"So is winter."

"Is it?"

"It is!" Jack stood back, and a cold air rushed through the area, forcing Bunny into a shiver. "Winter is full of beautiful things just as fine as those flowers you're smearing onto there."

A smirk teased the corner of Bunny's snout, and he said, "Like what?"

Another temperature change occurred as Jack began to list, "Snowflakes, first of all! Every flake has its own unique pattern. How many of your flowers have that honor? Snow in general, really. It beautifies everything it touches. Then there's frost, and icicles. Have you ever heard the music the icicles sing in sunlight? It's the finest thing you ever will hear."

Bunny only ever heard the sounds of pain when it came to ice, but he smiled and let Jack continue.

"Then there's the sky. Everything's crisper when it's cold. The sky is bluer, the air is fresher, the stars shine brighter at night. Tell me I'm wrong!"

"None of that can be appreciated if everyone is inside, tryin' ta avoid the cold," Bunny said.

"All the same," Jack's voice had risen an octave, "There's a lot more to winter than a white canvas."

"If it's all that," Bunny began to paint again, "Why don't ya paint it yerself? I've got blank canvases; have at it!"

There was a moment of silence, long enough to make Bunny look over, only to see Jack's nervous but excited gaze staring at his with an intensity that rivaled the Man in the Moon himself.

"Would you teach me?" he said, his voice smaller.

Again, Bunny was surprised. He'd have thought Jack would jump right in with the usual swaggering attitude he did everything else in life, his chin up in that defiant set he'd come to know. Instead he was asking for guidance, and not just anyone's guidance, Bunny's guidance. Perhaps it was a trick, maybe he was pulling his leg, but Bunny softened, placing his brush down and saying that of course he would teach him.

He came to understand, after the first few moments of frustration and minor annoyances, that Jack was really an astute learner. He listened to Bunny's tips and coaching, asked questions, really thought about what Bunny was saying to him. It was a wonder to experience; Bunny had no idea that Jack could be so attentive, or, as the daylight hours passed from morning to afternoon, so pleasant to be around.

"How do you get all those details?"

"Ya start out with vague shapes, and then slowly add the finer details on top of those. Oil painting is all about layers."

"Where do I start painting?"

"Always the background. Paint the things furthest away first, 'cause yer usually gonna paint over it, anyways."

Jack listened well, and Bunny soon found that he really did enjoy having another person to paint with. It was different, and not at all unpleasant.

"How do I get those textures that you do?"

"Try an' change the way ya hold your brush."

"Which way should I hold it?"

"Experiment!" Bunny smiled, recalling his early days of painting, "See what ya like, see what works. Oil paints are forgivin', so ya don't need to worry about making mistakes."

Often the mistakes proved to help the painting, something Bunny had to stress to Jack whenever he got frustrated. The session, as time went on, turned out to be a learning experience for Bunny, too, because he found that no matter how frustrated Jack got, he never once tried to give up, or call in quits. Bunny admired that.

Slowly, a painting depicting frosted windowpanes and a cold night in a winter-choked forest emerged from an otherwise bleak canvas. Having finished his own painting a while ago, Bunny stood back and watched Jack work away, admiring the tenacity more than anything. The boy had really wanted to learn, and frankly, he wasn't doing a terrible job.

"Now don't forget to back up," he said, "If it don't look good from a distance, ya gotta fix something up close."

Jack immediately retreated several meters. Bunny chuckled, and the winter spirit turned.

"What?"

He shook his head, "Don't mind me. Carry on."

Jack pursed his lips, but eventually went back to his painting, using a gold to light the inside of a snow dusted cabin. Bunny nodded. Jack was doing well, but there was certainly plenty of room for improvement. However, he found that he could stomach the idea of inviting Jack back for a session again. Perhaps he could even share some of his personal techniques, ones he created as an oil painting shorthand. The more he thought about it, the better of an idea it seemed.

Bunny had enjoyed having Jack for his company; he still couldn't get over just how good of a student he was. He'd thought that Jack was more of the put-a-thumbtack-on-the-teacher's-chair sort of person, and this other personality served as a pleasant surprise.

He couldn't help but voice the thought aloud; his good mood was starting to leak into his conversation voice. "I can't believe how good a student ya are'."

There was a smile in Jack's voice, "Oh yeah?"

"Forgive me for sayin' so, but I always thought ya'd be one a those students who tormented yer teachers."

Jack laughed, and what he said next made Bunny freeze, "Oh, I never went to school when I was alive."

Bunny blinked, and Jack kept on painting. "Wha?"

Jack continued on, unaware of the change in Bunny's tone, "I needed to help manage the home. There was never time for school. My sister got to go, though!"

He said that last part as if to provide some comfort to Bunny's shock, but Bunny didn't take it. "Do ya.." he said, "Do ya even know how to read?"

Jack stopped his brush, but didn't turn, "Of course I do. I can read in twelve different languages. I'm going on thirteen right now."

Again, Bunny blinked in surprise. "How?"

At this point, Jack turned, apparently annoyed at Bunny's judgment, "Look, there's a lot I happen to know. I like learning; I think it's fun. It's not like I did nothing for three hundred years."

It felt like a shovel had been thrust through his rib cage following the statement, and Bunny released a huff, "Oh." Many feelings hit him at once as he was reminded of the newest guardian's past, most of them centered around some form of guilt, guilt, guilt, guilt.

Jack stopped talking as well, also put out. He had this look on his face, conveyed through a widening of his eyes and a small bite of the lip, a look that read, "Oh my, I shouldn't have said that, how do I go back, how do I make it better?"

But it wasn't Jack who should be making it better, it was Bunny, and how could Bunny possibly make three hundred years of isolation all better? What could he possibly do?

The silence that surrounded them was smothering.

Then Jack, merciful, sweet Jack, said, "I think—I think the painting is done."

He stepped to the side, and after a moment, Bunny stood up, studying the boy before turning to the painting. With careful eyes, he looked it over, squinting every now and then to get a feel for the composition and contrast.

Eventually, Bunny stepped back and smiled, saying, softly, "Not bad. Ya've done a good job."

The boy grinned.

"It's certainly better than some of my first paintings, I'll tell ya that."

Jack scoffed, "Ha! There's no way that's true."

And with a snap, the awkward moment was gone, but Bunny was sure to keep from forgetting it. "I'm serious," he said, "I think ya got the potential to be a real nice painter," he looked the winter spirit, his friend, in the eye, "I would love it if ya could come by now and again, so I can teach ya what I know."

There was a moment where Jack stood agape before the biggest beam Bunny had ever seen broke out across his face, "Are you serious?"

"I said I was, wasn't I?"

For a second he thought that Jack was going to grab him into a bear hug, but the boy restrained himself at the last second, bouncing a little on his heels. Then he took a breath and said with a smile; "I'd like that very much."

So it was decided. When he could, when Bunny wasn't busy, he'd come over, and together they would paint until Jack had the skills to create the masterpieces Bunny prided himself in. It would be a good way for both of them to get to know the other, and spend time that didn't end with the two of them butting heads in verbal matches of wit. While neither of them said so, it was clear that they each were looking forward to it.

Jack left soon after, likely to cause a blizzard or two on some unsuspecting towns. Bunny watched him go, watched him fly towards the setting sun, his blue rooted hair tinged gold at the tips. Only then did he wonder how the boy had gotten in here in the first place.

Shaking his head, he turned back to the painting, now drying on its easel, the varying shades of blue, orange, and white on proud display. Jack hadn't done a bad job. It was an admirable first try.

Bunny thought back to their conversation. Twelve languages, going on thirteen. All learned in the three hundred years of loneliness and neglect. He wondered what else Jack had learned in that time.

He stood, moving to wrap up the palettes and place the dirtied brushes in the buckets of cleaner. Jack hadn't been bad company. Bunny even found it enjoyable, and had enjoyed himself perhaps more than any of his past painting sessions. Not much to his surprise anymore, he found that he really did want to get to know the kid.

He looked at the painting once again, then at his own painting, glancing between the two. He smiled, deciding that he wouldn't mind seeing some more winter settings among his many springtimes.

End.

Thank you for reading! May your day be pleasant!