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It’s never usually loud in The Warren. Sometimes there will be a crack of a snapping branch or the shuffling of shrubbery as his little ones run about, but that is what everyone else hears. To Aster, his home has the loveliest, most soothing soundtrack he’s ever heard.
The flowers, the trees and everything else growing down here with him, they’re as boisterous as a pack of rugrats on a sugar high: roses, tulips, daffodils, dahlias, periwinkle, orchids, snow peas, frangipanis – the list of flora is as endless as the colours they dress themselves in. Each bud has its own personality, their own tune and their own way of keeping him company. Aster looks out for each and every one of them; they're the only kits he'll ever have now.
He’s sure to keep his ivory Snowbirds hidden behind a tall wall of his biggest and brightest Sunflowers, shy sheilas that they are. His Sunnies are more than happy to be of help, growing tall – taller than him, some years. They smile down at him and the little ones, cheerful guardians whose character glows as bright as the start they're named after. He keeps his Morning Glory in full view of the sun, encourages them into sleep whenever it disappears; they're a tad afraid of the dark and Aster's learnt it's easiest to let them slip into slumber before they become too panicked. Their violet is one of his favourites; it’s that deep, royal purple human leaders go nutty for. He whispers to his Tulips every morning, ears pricked up so he can hear their songs sung back to him in a chorus of tittering laughs.
He’d spent most of that day encouraging those that would lay for him this year into full bloom. The older ones of the mob giving the youngest something to stride for when they’d produced the first batch of egglets for the year.
And didn’t that just bring a tear to an old Bunny’s eye? Seeing those ruddy egglets running about with their baby legs and watching as they curiously nudged at anything they could reach?
It was towards the end of the afternoon that Jack had popped in.
“We can’t have you stressing too soon,” he’d said with that slick grin that Aster’s grown so fond of. His fingers had slid into the fur around Aster’s neck, sliding smoothly up so Jack was holding the back of his head and giving it a hearty scratch that made Aster purr, “Easter’s what, a bit more than a month away? You can relax!”
So they had.
They’d wrestled, gossiped, raced and laid about like two bums in the sun. They’d devoured chocolate beverages crowned with various toppings and marshmallows, mostly because Jack could never pick one or two and seemed to prefer warring with a gut ache to having to deny himself the opportunity to eat rainbow sprinkles with custard, whilst attempting to draw a smiley face with a slightly sweetened cream without getting it on his fingers (Tooth was going to hate him for letting Jack ruin his teeth).
But things soon died down. His home’s song has petered off into a low hum as each of the flowers had drifted off. There are but a few that prefer to stay up late, but they are understanding in his and their sisters’ need to rest. They’ll only call Aster if he’s needed, their song a deep, melodious baritone that makes even Aster's eyelids droop. Within his burrow, his new, tiny egglets are resting in their various nooks and crannies, tucked away safely by the pooka himself, with Jack leant casually against the doorjamb, watching with an arched brow and a kind, soft smile.
Jack had tucked himself into Aster’s nest then, calling for Aster to join him as he’d fidgeted and gotten comfortable. He’d wiggled like an unearthed worm until Aster had curled up beside him, grumbling despite the smile brightening his face.
It’s muggy in The Warren tonight. It's tipped into autumn upstairs and it seems as though the heat of summer wishes to cling to his land for as long as possible. Aster finds the moisture in the air catching on his fur, making it clump and making him feel sticky. It’s as though he’s run to the North Pole and back without any breathers.
Usually he’d be tossing and turning, making a fuss when all he wants to do is snore the night away. But Jack’s frosty presence makes it bearable tonight, he must admit. Despite his backside feeling as though he’d bunked with North again (he doesn’t wish to repeat the encounter; the bloke had rolled over and nearly crushed him. Not to mention that even without blankets it was still like sleeping beside a bloody furnace), his front is chilled pleasantly.
Jack had declared it necessary to throw off his sloppy joe early into his stay. He will have trouble with the heat for a long time to come. It will grow easier as his number of believers grows slowly, one by one. Not that Aster’s complaining. He’s spent many a day daydreaming of his Frostbite’s form. The wiry arms and legs, his thin, torso, sharp chin and elbows and the boy’s long toes and his knees which are littered with healed over nicks - he could draw the young spirit for a week straight and not tire of it, if he got past the staring stage. He’s built like a bird; small, wiry, delicate seeming bone wrapped tight with a layer of muscle so lean that Aster wonders how Jack manages to lift that staff of his at all. Aster’s very appreciative of Jack’s hipbones. He likes to nip at them and the other spirit’s collarbones. He doesn’t like the valleys that appear between each of Jack’s ribs when he’s busy bending and breathing though… The ‘blown over by a stiff breeze’ saying may be true with his Frostbite, but Aster can’t help but want to fatten him up a bit. Make him more solid.
For now though, Jack is a wiry, little shit and has a bare, spindly arm twisted around Aster’s waist. His fingers curl amongst the fur just above the Pooka’s tail. Jack sleeps like a growing vine, wrapping around anything he can and grasping at it. He has plastered himself to Aster’s front, the fingers of the hand curled between them wound into the tuft of fur crowning his chest.
If the Pooka’s at all honest, he’d been worried that he’d freeze when he’d started sharing a bed with Jack. The kid is a winter spirit and Aster’s preferred weather conditions include searing heat that lingered within him long after the sun has set. His Frostbite amuses himself summoning blizzards and icing the ground under everyone’s feet, and basically being a bothersome bugger – though Aster now realises that his frosting the windows isn’t on purpose, no matter how much he still grumbles every time it happens.
Aster’s glad that isn’t the case though. The kid’s a comfort he wants to hold onto for as long as he can. Figuratively and literally. He smiles, just a slight tug at the corners of his mouth, as his grip on the snoozing spirit tightens momentarily. He finds himself enjoying how Jack murmurs against him and nuzzles closer in return.
He can’t help but hone in on the sensation. He closes his eyes, breathes deep and lets himself sag into Jack’s embrace, into the smell of freshly fallen snow. He can’t help but breathe in his Frostbite’s scent, let it simultaneously warm and cool him from the inside out. He’s surprised the lad’s nose isn’t itching with how deeply it’s dug into his fur, but he won’t pull Jack away. He seems content enough as he continues to snore quietly. He rubs a paw up Jack’s back, cupping a thin shoulder carefully as he takes note of Jack’s breathing; he can feel the tiny breathes, burning cold as they find their way to his hot skin. It comforts him in ways he cannot express.
But that isn’t Aster’s most favourite of Jack-Habits. Especially of those that happen whilst they’re alone at night, curled around each other like they are now. Jack has – for a long time now, Aster recalls with a slight flick of a giant ear – had a habit of pulling at Aster’s fur. He braces for it as Jack fidgets again, but he can’t help but groan lowly and huff into Jack’s hair, and nearly melts through his little nest of blankets and pillows and Jack’s fingers as they tighten in the moist fur on his lower back and tug lightly.
He’s been doing it since before Chrissy, from what Aster can recall. At first it had never lingered. Instead Jack’s grasp was as fleeting as a summer's breeze. This was back when they hadn’t realised their hearts were beating for the other, that their picking on each other, their wrestling and tussles were the flirtations of two young bucks unsure of where they stood with each other.
Jack’s grasp went from ‘hurry up and follow me’ to ‘I’m going to hold onto you forever’, and Aster’s as sure as the sun that that is exactly what Jack means. He should know better than to think of 'forever' – he's old enough, and with experience enough to know that that never comes to pass. All things end, some much sooner than even Aster could hope for, with how young Jack is. But even the chance of that being true makes Aster’s heart stutter in his chest. He so wants it to be true. He hopes Jack knows what he does to him whenever he combs a hand through his fur.
His heart pounds with the thought. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, lets his grip on Jack harden as he pulls the boy as close as he can. He curls one of his legs around one of Jack’s encouraging the winter spirit to fling his leg up around Aster’s waist when he wriggles and kicks lightly, grumbling to himself all the while.
Does Jack understand what he does to Aster when he tugs on his fur? Of how real Jack seems when Aster feels that slight pain and he suddenly finds himself so totally in reality that he has to blink and shake himself in a quick recovery.
Does Jack have any idea how much he appreciates the way he strokes his fingers through the tufts on his shoulders and chest, or how much he appreciates being able to ground himself in Jack’s touch? Because that is what his Snowflake does. He grounds him and Aster is so appreciative he can barely stand it. It prickles along his skin sometimes, makes his fur stand on end.
He is truly grateful.
He remembers waking (some memories are fresher; a few months old, but he prefers to pretend they never happened) his arms aching from where he’d thought he’d been holding those he’d loved. His younger siblings had always crawled into his nest with Aster, claiming monsters were hiding in their cupboards and the only safe place was with him curled around them. Their little paws would cling to his fur, tug at it as they burrowed into him. Their whimpers would eventual make way for peaceful snuffling and loud snores, and Aster would feel as warm and as proud as a father's hug. It ended as suddenly as the reality. He’d awoken, dreams of the conversations that framed his siblings’ hijacking ringing in his generous ears, his arms empty, his nest vacant except for his scent and heat.
Aster remembers many mornings, when he’d be in the middle of a sleepily slurred, “just a few more minutes, ma.” and kicked at the light blankets he'd thrown over himself. The lack of a silly cackle and prodding words had made him open his brilliant green eyes to the dreary sight that is an empty burrow.
He’s not crazy; he’s talked with North. He misses his family and friends and that is perfectly understandable. It's normal, no matter how he thinks otherwise sometimes.
But he aches. It’s as though he’s numb up until that moment his body realises it’s not wrapped around those he loves. He then feels it down to the marrow of his bones. It makes his joints lock up like a rusty hinge, it makes his fingers feel as through they’re throbbing. His arms ache and feel as though he's wrapped 20 kilo weighs around his fore-arms, heavy as he yearned to hold little kits with short, stumpy ears and noses that never stopped twitching. His ears ache to hear his burrow filled with the stomped bounces of a tribe running to get brekky. His chest throbs just to really hear and see and touch them. He feels their loss to this day, a painful, gaping wound in his heart that feels like it will never coalesce.
Aster’s hand moves to thread itself in Jack’s fair hair. He doesn't think he could take losing his Snowflake. Not permanently. He tugs lightly.
It hurts when Jack does that sometimes; tugs on his fur, particularly when the winter spirit dreams (Aster calls them nightmares, but Jack refuses to believe so once he’s awake; “They’re memories! I remember them now! Like, Emma – that’s my sister – she loved those little white flowers you have over by the blue stream of dye!”). He dreams of sun-speckled days skating on thin ice. His sister’s face hasn’t left him since he’d remembered her and his mother’s voice often whispers to him until he’s whimpering, clutching at Aster’s fur as though it’s his only lifeline to the real world.
It’s those times when his grasp becomes painful, when Aster’s forcefully tugged from his own slumber and he curls himself up close to Jack, around him. He’ll talk to him then. Softly, always soothing, pitching his voice so it’s no more than a resonating rumble washing over them both. Tooth’s told him he could calm a skittish cobra with his voice and he’s starting to believe her… He’ll babble on about anything and everything, from how silly North’s new hat is, to how Sandy’s a trouble maker, no matter how innocent he looks. It usually works.
Sometimes he finds himself asking the air if Jack regaining his memories was worth it. He hasn’t worked up the guts to ask Jack himself yet, nor has he shared his worries with North. He’ll only tell Aster what the Pooka already knows; that Jack’s a strong, young man, too thin for both their tastes, but healthy all the same. He’ll go on about how Aster’s being a worry-wart and that all nightmares fade as Aster should know. His big, blue eyes would soften then, his smile would lose its snarky edge and Aster can almost feel the weight of a massive hand as it grips his shoulder firmly…
“You should know that, friend.” He’d say, voice dropping, warm and comforting.
And Aster does. It’s only after a particularly trying occurrence that his own nightmares gallop back.
Aster finds his fingers in Jack’s hair and brushes them through it. He tidies it as best as he can.
Why is he even thinking of nightmares? He wonders with a frown. His eyelids slip up, his leaf green eyes catching the light of the small globe North had given him this year. Tooth’s brush is beside it, home-made and special to him despite the abundance of glitter (that doesn’t stop getting into his fur. He doesn't understand why she’d decked the bloody thing in so much of the stuff). He sighs, letting Jack roll him a bit, so he’s laying more on Aster than he is on the soft blankets the Pooka had laid out for him.
Tiredness makes him remember, he supposes and makes a minor mental note to clean up his room a bit. Since Jack’s started staying over it’s slowly been piling up with various books and pencils and empty food wrappers he could have sworn he’d picked up a few hours ago.
He shifts slightly, shuffling so he can draw his leg out from under Jack before the pins and needles can kick in. He kicks lightly, looking down as best as he can with the crown of Jack’s head pressed firmly under his chin. Jack’s hands seem restless as they flutter and card through the fur on Aster’s back, his sides, his tummy and arms. Aster sighs.
“Can you stop that? Some of us are trying to sleep.” It’s said in a groggy slur, as Jack lifts himself to look down on Aster, eyelids at half mast.
“Some of us can actually use our noggin’, Frostbite.” He finds his hand following Jack’s lead; combing through Jack’s hair even as he lays himself over Aster like a baby’s blanket.
The sprite yawns, “Said people should do that when it’s not 2 in the morning and people are trying to sleep.” Jack’s hand on his waist pauses, grasping a fist full of fur and pulling, “Hey, aren’t you working tomorrow? Seriously, why aren’t you asleep?”
Aster takes a moment to consider the question, before he answers honestly, “I dunno.”
They’re quiet for a bit after that. Jack seems to be chewing on his response thoughtfully, wondering how to respond. Or he’s fallen asleep again. Either way, Jack seems content digging his chin into Aster’s chest whilst Aster attempts to appear as though it doesn’t bother him. Frostbite’s got a pointy chin.
Eventually, Jack’s hands trail up from Aster’s waist to the Pooka’s face, and start tugging on the longer, white fur on his cheeks. He combs outward with outstretched fingers that remind Aster of one of the combs his mother used to have, before they pat at the tips of the fur.
He seems to be primping and combing and fluffing.
“What’re you doin’, Frostbite?”
“Trying to make you look more likable.”
“And how is doing whatever you’re doin’ to my face going to accomplish that?”
He can hear the cheeky grin in Jack’s tone, “Did you know that if you fluff your cheeks up just right you look like you’re smiling? I’m serious, Bun, it’s adorable. You’re so adorable. Aren’t you, baby~”
Aster really does cringe when Jack hits that high note and pinches his cheek. He really hates it when Jack calls him that. It seems condescending, probably because that’s the first way Jack had said it, many months ago. But he doesn’t say a word. He hopes to get through the night without an argument; he’s too tired to argue and he’s starting to get a bit of a headache from his brain’s inability to turn off tonight. He’s misplaced the switch and it’s starting to get on his goat…
They spend a few minutes simply petting each other. Aster’s counted all of Jack’s vertebrae three times, traced the line of a sharp shoulder blade and mapped out the muscle on his back. He’s basically memorised Jack’s scent, inhaled it so deeply he thinks he can taste the boy and will for the following day. Jack just keeps petting him, grasping and tugging ever so often as his breathing slows and evens out.
His voice surprises Aster, “So are you going to be turning off that brain of yours any time soon or should I get used to the fact that even when you’re tolerable you’re a complete ass?” There’s another grin in that.
Aster huffs, ears and whiskers twitching, “Just sleep, y’little bastard. I haven’t said a bloody word.”
“Can’t. All I hear are those rusty, old cogs clunking away in that big noggin’ of yours.”
“Frostbite-”
“Sorry? What was that? I can’t hear you!”
“Jack-”
“Bunny, you’re being drowned out by a weird clicking, whirling noise.”
His voice is a total deadpan, “You’re a little shit.”
Jack outright laughs at that. Aster’s breath catches in his throat – he’d love to capture Jack as he is now. Laughing, eyes sparkling in the dim light, face framed by its pale blue and his smile as eye-catching and heart-throbbing as the sunrise on a clear, spring morning. His Snowflake’s a looker. Aster sighs, a smile once again finding its way to his face as Jack grasps onto his shoulder tufts and hangs on, still chuckling. The boy rubs at the muscle beneath, his grin splitting his face.
Jack leans in, nuzzling at the Pooka’s jaw, “I’m tired. So seriously, if you could manage to tone down your old brain, it’d be appreciated.”
“Yeah,” Aster replies, rolling so they’re once again on their sides, “I’ll turn it off.”
As if to prove he could, Aster yawns, huge and long showing off his teeth. He blinks slowly afterwards, eyes watery as he finds his brain’s sprinting having slowed to a lame flop forward whenever it can be bothered. He smacks his lips, curling in close to Jack, around him, as much as possible. He squeezes the boy, manages to kiss the top of his head (and what a strange lesson that had been)-
“Wow, I nearly lost my head in there.”
“Shut up.”
The last thing he hears that night are Jack’s quiet snickers, and the last thing he feels is Jack cuddling in close. He grips at Aster’s chest.
A small smile makes its way to Aster’s face again, growing as he noses Jack’s hair.
He’s sure he’ll have lovely dreams tonight.