Pitch was the first immortal Jack ever met. It had been just a few weeks since Jack first woke. He was painfully new to the workings of his kind. But he was aware of the other spirits. He had seen the streams of gilded sand, caught the flutter of faerie feathers. He knew there were others like him, ageless and inexplicably tied to mortals. But he never found them and they never looked for him.

Pitch had been an accident. Pitch had been a try too desperate, an attempt too many. Jack was so new, so ignorant to the rules. And there were rules, unspoken and unwritten but still unquestioningly there. It had been set for the safety of the spirits. And Jack knew nothing of it. He broke the first rule, the cardinal rule. He interacted directly and with a concious, fully aware mortal. He wasn't supposed to do that.

Jack left hand prints on windows. He wrote his name on the frost. He snuck into houses. He sat at dinner tables. He terrified people. With his very presence, he brought a chill, a gust of air that sent shivers crawling down their spines. His marks, his hand prints, his name came to be a calling from the grave. They thought him a vengeful spirit and they feared him.

Pitch had been drawn to that fear, a moth to the trembling flame. He had heard the hysterical cries of mothers, wives when their perfectly cooked meals froze on their plates. He had heard the frustrated curses of fathers, husbands as they fought a presence they could not fathom. He had heard the children, their hushed whispers in the shadow of the moon, praying to be left alone. Pitch had revelled in it. But it was not his work. He needed to give credit where credit was due.

Pitch had found Jack nestled amongst the tree tops. The boy was shooting sparrows out of the air, freezing them with his curious staff. The poor things were dead before they hit the ground. At a later hour, their corpses would be found by some hapless child, and oh, how the sweet darling will scream. Pitch laughed and slowly clapped his hands.

"Oh, very good! Very good, indeed!" Pitch called out.

The boy stiffened, whirling around. He spied Pitch beneath him and curiously cocked his head.

"I liked what you did there." Pitch continued. "Superb work, I must say."

The boy blinked before pointing to himself. "Wait. Are-Are you talking to me?"

Pitch raised a questioning brow. "Who else would I be speaking to?"

"You... You can see me? You - You can hear me?!"

Comprehension dawned on Pitch. "My dear child, have you been all alone this entire time?"

"I'm not a child." The boy protested, curling in on himself.

But it had been answer enough. Pitch smirked. "You have never met a kindred spirit, have you?"

"You're not mortal?"

"Do I look mortal?"

The boy huffed out a laugh. "Never seen a'body with your coloring before."

"Hmmm, yes." Pitch hummed, distinctly unamused.

"Oh lighten up, tall, dark, and spooky."

"My name is Pitch Black. I am more widely known as the Boogeyman."

The boy stilled then. There was recognition in there, and a touch of fear. Pitch liked this boy already.

"The Boogeyman?"

"Yes. Now who, pray tell, are you?"

"I'm Jack. Jack Frost."

Pitch smirked just a little wider. "It is a pleasure to meet you then, Jack Frost."