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He slinks into the house, having spotted the car through the garages’ open door.
Peering around the threshold of the kitchen as to make sure that no-one is there, Jack pads silently up the stairs, shoes in hand.
He makes a note to break the repaired step some-time.
The first thing he does is creep into the bathroom, bleach in one hand and a pair of portable speakers in the other.
He really had to thank Hiccup for the ride back, despite the fact that his friend was more at ease on that black motorcycle of his than his Dad’s beast of a four-wheel drive.
Apparently breaking and turning circles varied greatly.
With the familiar tingling of his scalp, Jack, in only his jeans that no longer fitted right, fires up the music, biding the waiting time goodbye.
Pitch leaves his lair in order to recharge his batteries. With a final deadline coming up, he swore there was more caffeine than blood pumping through him.
It wasn’t until the familiar hiss of the kettle sounded, what should have been the only sound in the house, that Pitch realised he wasn’t the solitary person in the house he had first assumed.
With a smile that had been absent for far too long, Pitch shakes his head before heading back down to finish touching up his latest novel.
That boy could never get all the words right, could he?
Tooth was the first to see him, her cry high pitched and near grating. She flew on over, arms wrapping tight around his frame.
Jack swung her around as best he could with a laugh.
He didn’t feel like glass anymore.
The others weren’t too far behind.
As Jack is subjected to one of North’s back-breaking embraces, he smiles over to Pitch, the man leaning against the door frame, well away from the fray.
They celebrate with as much gusto as they can muster in the middle of the week, carb free Wednesday be damned.
Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, offering commentary to the sit-com playing with a mouth full of food, no-one has the heart to tell Jack that he’d missed a spot on the back of his head. A beacon of orange amidst the crisp, freshly coloured silver.
Those who had work in the morning were reluctant to depart, but once Jack started lecturing, they realised that they had little say in the matter.
With just the art-inclined trio left to their own devices, Sandy pulled a bottle of wine out of nowhere, a skill that no-one had yet to perfectly replicate.
Jack, his tongue now loosened, regals them in tales, most of which are extrapolated far enough from the truth to be considered fictitious in their entirety, from his time at summer camp, as he’s officially dubbed it.
Hands waving, his face animated, Jack looks more alive than he ever had before.
Turning his body to face Sandy, Jack’s shirt, what would have probably hung off him like a blanket on a clothesline, rode up. The boy pauses momentarily to pull the offending garment down, an almost lost look on his face, before starting up his spiel where he left off, Sandy hanging off every word.
Pitch takes a swig from the bottle, before passing it on.
Pitch knew his work was going to be cut out for him keeping an eye on Jack, while the others were more likely than not to fall back into the routine of ignorance is bliss.
He was all too familiar with the feeling of ghosts weighing down on his mind, along with the waves of doubt that followed.
Though he’d doubt he’d never stop looking out for Jack. The kid seemed like the sort of person who’d need adult supervision for always and eternity just to keep his nose out of the trouble of his own design.
“A ladder is probably a more sensible choice, don’t you reckon?” Pitch calls from the door.
Jack, with the grace of a bird who hadn’t really been ready to jump out of the nest, manages to not lose his balance on the swivel chair he is balanced precariously on top of.
“But that’s all the way in the garage, which you may know is three flights of stairs between where it is and where it is needed,” Jack calls down. “And I was doing fine until someone sneaked up on me. Jeez I forgot how quiet you were.”
Pitch chuckles, stepping into the room, noting the changes that had been made.
Where once it was bland, near Spartan, new life had been breathed into it.
Books and letters Jack had brought back were strewn across the surface of the desk.
Clothing upheaved from an empty duffle bag, for now discarded in a corner of the room, littered the floor.
Jack disembarked from the chair, bouncing down onto the bed, his eyes fixed onto the ceiling above his bed.
Craning his head up to see what Jack had been doing, Pitch’s breath caught in his throat.
“Why?”
It was all the older man could think to ask as he took in the pictures tacked lovingly to the ceiling.
“Because sometimes you have bad days, and on those days, especially those days, you need something to look up to. Something that will remind you that even though there are always going to be bad days, days full of sadness, doubt, and all those other bad things, there are also going to be good days.”
Jack trailed off, thoughts stealing him briefly from the present, but Pitch was more than happy to let the boy have his moment.
Instead he opted to take in the photos, the ones that he’d taken to mail off to Jack.
There was Aster, mouth open in horror as he caught sight of his once prized hedges.
Not too far away from it was one of Sandy, sprawled out over the couch. The smaller man had managed to get paint all over his hands and face, but the painting, a night sky full of golden marine life, stood proud on an easel not too far from its snoozing creator.
Here was Tooth laughing, nose crinkling up in such a way that there was no chance she was holding anything back. The image was enough to bring Pitch back to that moment and he swore he could hear that same laughter echoing through the house.
North, baking in the kitchen.
The lot, minus Pitch, seated at the table, five plates full of food, but the sixth place still set, waiting for its owner to come back.
They were all here.
Every last one of them.
It was the snapping of a shutter that brought Pitch back to the now, turning to see Jack with a camera in hand.
“Was digging through some of my stuff when I got back, couldn’t believe I forgot I had this thing.” He raises the camera above his head with one hand, the other somehow reaching up to wrap around Pitch’s shoulder and pulling the older man down.
Another snap sounds, the flash binding them both momentarily.
“And now I have some new memories to add. Cheers, Pitch,” Jack smiles, arm still holding Pitch in place.
“You have nothing to thank-” Pitch finds himself cut off when another arm snakes around and begins to crush the living daylights out of him.
He allows his sentence to remain unfinished as he brings his own arms up and around the boy.
Pulling back, they smile softly at each other.
Ruffling the boy’s hair breaks the moment, and soon enough, Pitch, seated on the edge of Jack’s bed, watches as Jack goes through his draws. He goes through the repetition of holding an article of clothing up to himself before having to throw it to the ground in a huff.
With the drawers now more bare than empty, Jack flops on top of the pile coating the floor.
“At least my shoes still fit,” Jack solemnly declares.
Neither knows what it was about that statement, but within moments they are bent over and laughing like children, unable to catch their breath.