Aster watches.

Jack's been hanging around the Warren a lot lately. Since the whole episode with Pitch he's officially been given a free access pass to all of the Guardians' respective domains, but barely a week goes by without the mischievous winter spirit dropping in – sometimes quite literally – on the Easter Bunny.

Easter is over and done with for the year, and usually Aster likes to take the time to travel during this period – 'going back to nature', North calls it, not entirely inaccurately. But what with actually having a regular visitor this year (specifically one who can and almost definitely will ice over the dyeing brook in a fit of pique, or simply on a childish whim), he's found himself putting off his usual trip again and again, until he's not very sure he's even going at all.

He finds he doesn't mind quite as much as he probably should.

Today, Jack's amusing himself with messy experiments while Aster tends to his egg blossoms, playing around with various fusions of Aster's watercolour paints and his own snow to come up with a new, simplified form of paintball. Luckily he's had the foresight to remove his trademark blue hoodie before beginning; his normally spotless coat is spattered with what seems to be the entire visible colour spectrum, accentuating the long, lean torso usually kept hidden beneath unnecessary clothing.

Aster's never understood the need for non-protective gear himself, not when he's always had a fine, well-groomed coat to be proud of. He thinks Jack shouldn't need it either; his sleek white fur is incredibly unusual, but hardly anything needing to be concealed. But then, Aster's always been a traditionalist at heart.

The other rabbit – no, Pooka – swings his now multicoloured legs carelessly from his perch on a high branch overhanging the dyeing brook, laughing brightly as he lobs the occasional pastel-coloured snowball at passing sentinel eggs. (It's going to take some getting used to even thinking that word again; Aster hasn't had occasion to refer to his old brethren in centuries.)

(He still can't quite believe that he's not alone anymore.)

Aster is neither blind nor stupid; he knows that he cares for Jack much more than he should. But it's been so long, after he's been on his own most of the year every year for millennia, and do traditional courtship practices even matter anymore when you're the last of your kind?

It is not fear of rejection that keeps him silent; he is old but far from oblivious, and he's certain that if he asked, Jack would be more than willing, his for the taking. But Jack is young, barely three centuries old and inexperienced for all his years, the markings on his fur not even filled in yet. Aster is torn between needing to preserve that innocence and wanting to claim it for himself. Ordinarily the tactician in him would despise such indecision, but somehow this is a step far more important than any he's ever taken before. Maybe it shouldn't come as such a surprise; after all, this is Jack, the troublesome boy he cares for much more than he should.

So Aster watches, and says nothing.

The wind plucks gleefully at Aster's fur as he bounds and zips over the rooftops of Burgess, allowing the adrenaline to climb along with his exhilaration, tempered with dignity. Jack shows no such restraint, whooping with abandon even as the breath is forced from his lungs in shallow pants, and he somehow manages to keep up with his older friend through it all.

The few children still awake are perfectly used to the carefree sound by now; Jack returns to the town as often as he can, although this is the first night he's asked Aster to accompany him to visit the Bennetts. And after putting Jamie and Sophie to bed, Jack had challenged him to another race.

Aster can't help but note the differences between their motions; his own movements are heavier, tight with combat experience and controlled with far more precision than Jack's, who possesses a naturally wild, sprawling grace he can never hope to match. Jack allows the wind to carry him forward to match Aster's effortless, loping gait, and they share a fleeting grin before he puts on a burst of speed that leaves Jack laughing and scrambling to keep up.

It would be so easy, so very easy to become addicted to this.

Jack usually sticks around after his Burgess visits, watching Sandy at work before retiring to North's workshop for the night. But it seems there's something different about tonight, both of them heading back to the Warren without really meaning to. Aster opens a tunnel and allows Jack to enter first, too caught up in their easy banter to really notice where they're both going until they're both standing together in the dark.

This is unfamiliar territory, every prior visit taking place only during daylight hours. A part of Aster thinks it would be a good idea, a good night to test the waters. The rest of him promptly quashes that part with a firm stink eye until it sheepishly pipes down.

Jack eyes him in what he obviously thinks is a subtle manner.

"Getting kind of late, cottontail." It isn't even eleven yet. "You mind if I crash here for the night?"

Aster shouldn't agree. He shouldn't get to keep Jack. He shouldn't allow Jack in any deeper than he already is. And he certainly shouldn't want any of these things.

He does a lot of things he shouldn't do.

They argue a little before settling on sharing the nest – Aster can't possibly refuse the lad when he realises Jack's never slept in a proper nest before – and he does his best to drop off quickly, keeping to his side as well as he can.

Jack drifts off first, burrowing into the soft, cosy bedding, instinctively seeking out the warmth of his nest partner. He seems to be a pretty active sleeper, fidgeting and rolling into every available space until he's essentially taken over the entire nest, limbs splayed out in a manner which really shouldn't be endearing but is, MiM help him.

Aster would shove him off, but Jack's warm, warmer than he has any right to be, and really it's just too much trouble to move. Too much trouble to lift a foot, maybe even too much trouble to ever get up again.

Aster considers the possibility of being forced to remain here, limbs tangled with Jack's for the rest of eternity. As his eyes crash shut, he dimly registers that the prospect doesn't bother him quite as much as it should.

Mornings signify new beginnings. Jack certainly seems to think so, too. More than once Aster thinks he looks like he's about to speak up, maybe ask him a question, but he never does. It's a dangerous game, one the boy doesn't even realise he's playing.

Aster gruffly but kindly forestalls him before he does get it out, pointing him in the direction of a few villages that could do with a good snow day and hurriedly sending him on his way. If Jack looks a little hurt just before he enters the obliging tunnel, it's probably for the best.

Aster watches him leave, and does nothing at all.