A/N: Something odd I wrote not too long ago. Inspired by a piece by Eternal She-Wolf (it's been a while since I read it, but probably not long enough. I think there's a few bits that might be a little similar, though I'm really hoping there isn't). I've got a second part, strangely, but it needs some serious revision. It's absolutely terrible right now. Come to think of it, this probably needs some editing too... *sighs*

Anyway, enjoy.

(Also: I am so over trying to work with this irritating formatting. Currently a little confused and a lot frustrated)

24/3- IMPORTANT: I'm using this fic for a competition piece for write4fun, but adjusted to fit two different characters (Xander and Aspen). This is just a note to verify that I did, in fact, write both.

Jack Frost doesn't fly like anyone Aster Bunnymund has ever met. He's grace and sharp edges and rides the wind like the best surfers ride waves – but somehow better, like he knows every air current better than he knows himself. There's none of the streamlined uniformity employed by the other spirits, none of the calm expectedness. Jack's version of flying is an uncontrollable and unpredictable phenomenon that is breathtaking to behold, an exquisite disaster that no other entity – before or since – could ever hope to replicate.

Jack Frost flies like he's falling and he'll never stop. The thought of hitting the ground never seems to cross his mind, because the rules of their existence don't apply to him.

He twists and tumbles through the air in a way that is absolutely not possible in terms of aerodynamics, lightly stepping off walls when he should have slammed into them. His method of travel is, in many ways, like a speeding car meeting an icy road: his diversions are sudden and dangerous to both himself and those around him, all of the terror without any of the squealing brakes and skid marks. But unlike the speeding car, Jack is out of control in a way that is – somehow, impossibly – completely controlled, which is possibly a thousand times more terrifying. He is contained chaos, perfect order; an impossible contradiction of terms that cannot be more evident than when he's flying.

Aster hates it.

He hates unpredictability (Jack), despises impossibilities (Jack), and loathes chaos (Jack).

In short, he hates- despises- loathes Jack Frost.

He hates the way it's so obvious that Jack clearly isn't of their world.

Everything about the immortal nature spirit is wrong, wrong, wrong, and it kills him as much as it fascinates him. He doesn't normally do grudges, but something about Jack changes everything he thought he knew about himself. It's the unnatural coldness in eyes just a shade too blue, the arrogant tilt of a skull hidden by too pale skin, the wild angles achieved by a figure balancing on a fragile shepherd's crook. It's the stillness like death when he thinks no one is watching that makes Aster's head spin. It's the way the bastard makes him a stranger in his own body.

That, truly, is what he finds most unnerving and abhorrent about the entirety of the spirit's being.

It makes him remember the lengths he is willing to go to – the things he would do to turn back time and save the people he loves; the ferocity that would lead him to dried blood matting his fur and madness burning in his eyes. He hates it, because the monster in Jack brings out the monster in Aster and he knows he's a monster, but he's too scared to admit it. Who would call him a friend if they knew?

Jack Frost flies like he's falling, because he's never had anyone to catch him. He's all arrogant grace and cold, sharp edges, an uncontrolled and unpredictable phenomenon that can't be replicated by any event or entity. Ever. Watching him fly only once was enough to instinctively realise that his very existence in this world was unnatural, because his flight, like everything else about him, defied all logic and rational thought. (Who ever heard of an immortal that doesn't need to eat or drink or sleep or breathe? Who ever heard of a dead immortal?) It is arrogant and wild, untamed and painfully raw; it is beautiful and terrible and brings to mind blood on broken glass; it is a vision of chilling death and tender warmth.

This is Jack Frost's version of flying. And Aster Bunnymund hates it.