Chioniphobia

Self Portrait

Pitch does not love.

He certainly has never been in love, but as far as warm feeling for his fellow spirit, there is a distinct lack of such in his heart colored the same as his name.

So when Grim shows him a picture she's painted of him, he supposes another soul might have been touched at the gesture. Not so him.

"It's fairly accurate," he says.

"It's entirely accurate. I used memories of shadows and silver to get the shade exactly right."

"Mm. Any particular reason you used me as a subject?"

She rolls her eyes. "Because we're friends."

"Is that so?"

"Well, I consider you my friend, although the feeling's likely not mutual," she admits.

He regards the picture again.

"A good enough likeness."

"'Good enough?' Good enough for what?"

He shrugs, and she scoffs.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The amorini seem to enjoy attempting to ambush him.

Cupid's attendants ordinarily ply their trade on any mortals unfortunate to be in their path at the moment, but when the Nightmare King enters the scene, all attentions immediately turn to him as the blasted cherubs make a collective agreement to use him for target practice.

He ignores them, as much as he's able, dodging gold-tipped arrows and casting glares behind him. Fortunately, they've caught him in a forest- the clusters of trees offer him some cover from the sporadic yet fixated assault.

"You might have a little more luck with the leads, boys," he calls out.

As way of answer, yet another golden arrowhead flies towards him, burying itself in the trunk of a nearby tree.

Pitch wrinkles his nose and turns to make his way out of the wood.

He notes that there's a small mound of freshly turned dirt nearby- a crude grave, likely for some family's recently deceased pet.

"It's a cat, if you were curious."

The Boogeyman looks up to answer her, and-

swish

-he hears the arrow let fly just before it hits its target.

Grim sees his eyes widen, though thankfully she doesn't seem to catch a glimpse of the arrow before it disappears.

"What is it?"

He shakes his head, as if he's one of her mutts trying to rid itself of water.

"It's nothing. Some pest biting me."

She grins. "The love bug, perchance?" she jokes, fluttering her nonexistent eyelashes outrageously.

He snorts. "When hell freezes over, perhaps."

She laughs, and doesn't see him shoot a scowl back toward the wood.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The thing about the amorini's arrows is that they can only compound on what they are given. Pitch has no warm fuzzy feelings to conflagrate into some great flaming passion. Instead, the arrow he was struck with leaves little more than a faint warmth in its wake. Currently, he feels rather affectionate toward Grim, or affectionate by his standards. He has no desire to show it in any fashion, so his relatively warm regard of his not-friend does not affect their relationship in any way. The effects of the amorini's arrows are temporary unless there's a basis for them to work off of, and due to his sudden affliction of sympathy towards the Reaper he does not wish to hurt her feelings by being her friend when he knows it won't last.

He finds a feather, long and black, lying on the ground. A raven's, or perhaps a crow's.

It's rather like one of hers, he observes.

Pitch knows it's ridiculous. Grim hasn't had wings for eons now, and when the effects of the arrows wear off he'll probably find the feather in his pocket and toss it aside.

But he picks the feather up anyway, hides in his robe next to his heart.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It should've worn off by now.

The thought keeps coming back to him. He'd been shot years ago, but the warmth from the arrows stubbornly lingers. His affliction has turned to an infection.

It doesn't affect him, for the most part. He wages his war against the Guardians. He distracts them, lures them all to the North Pole, steals the teeth while they're fussing over whether he constitutes a real threat (ha!), gloats at their devastation. They rally, and they battle, and Pitch murders Sandman without a second thought. There's a burst of rage from the boy, the supposed neutral party, and Pitch looks up at the sky and cackles in amusement.

It's only later that night when the thought comes to him, preceded by:

Grim will mourn her brother's passing.

Why should I care? he thinks. Why should I care?

He shouldn't. He wouldn't, but the warmth in his heart has condensed and hardened to a burning coal, charring his insides with the ridiculous worry that she'll be sad, she'll miss him, she'll blame me, she'll hate me

I don't care, he tells himself, pulling out the feather from his pocket. I don't care.

But the feather stubbornly refuses to slip from his fingers, and in the end he places it back next to his heart.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Pitch gives her the feather.

"Why were you carrying this around?" she asks. "Did it remind you of me?"

Yes

"Why should it?"

Her expression is hurt, as she turns away, and the warmth in his heart scorches him, scalding his insides with what feels awfully similar to guilt.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Pitch isn't entirely sure what happens between Grim and the overgrown rabbit. As far as he's aware, they've had some sort of falling out, and now Grim is avoiding the lagomorph.

He isn't terribly concerned about the state of her outside friendships, but against his will he does care about Grim's emotional wellbeing, and he goes to check on her. She'd had several different hideouts and lairs over the years, and is subject to jump from one to another without giving notice, so he isn't terribly shocked when he shows up at her latest address and it's abandoned.

He knows it's the correct address- the walls are covered in paintings, all in her style. One in particular catches his eye. It's partially hidden by a screen shoved in front of the wall, but he glimpses the distinctive shade of blood-red, a wisp of shadow-black hair, and so he shoves the screen aside.

It's a self-portrait, larger than un-life, Grim dressed in a scarlet gown and crimson cloak. Nothing terribly out of the ordinary, save for the large gash running across the painted face.

The mark is made by her scythe. A self-inflicted injury of sorts, he thinks, and nearly laughs aloud at the thought. Then he feels guilty for wanting to laugh.

Pitch replaces the screen, and when he does find Grim's latest address, he makes no mention of the scarred portrait.