Work Text:
“I…win,” Pitch says to himself, carrying the darkened body of the Sandman through the twisting passages of his lair. He avoids the main room, taking a longer route. He doesn’t think about why—he rarely has to think about why he does things, because no one’s around to ask. His nightmares certainly aren’t going to wonder if he avoids the gaze of the tooth fairies on purpose.
“I win,” he says again, kneeling before a stone slab just long enough to hold Sandy, in one of his deepest oubliettes. As if he could forget what this one would hold…forever? Forever. There’s still some lingering warmth in Sandy’s body, Pitch can’t help but notice, pausing before setting him down. Even a dead star—ah, no. Pitch realizes he had been imagining the warmth. Why? He doesn’t need to answer. He never does.
He sets Sandy down on the slab, brushing his blackened hair from his face, letting his fingers trail along the curve of Sandy’s cheek, now gray. No heat left, of course. Of course. His skin remains soft, though. Soft like night breezes on a warm beach.
Pitch tells himself he ought to leave. Ought to take his hand away from Sandy’s face. He’s won. He doesn’t need to linger. There’s nothing left he needs to do.
He frowns. He’s not listening to what he’s telling himself. “Sandy,” he whispers. He’s got him where he wanted him, doesn’t he? Dark. Diminished. Still. No, that’s not how he wanted him. That’s how he needed him, for his plan. And now that he has him this way…“Sandy,” he whispers again. What he wanted was to be able to stop fighting Sandy, to be able to get this close. And why? But he never asks why. Maybe to talk. He doesn’t really know. The wanting in him seems to well from a spring even deeper than his own heart.
“Sandy.” Sandy so bright, Sandy so beautiful. Sandy so dark, Sandy still beautiful, but cold, oh so cold. Pitch rests his head on Sandy’s shoulder and looks up to his still face. He knows he’s not dead, because their kind don’t leave bodies when they expire, but oh, oh, he’s not as he should be.
And what does Pitch want? Nothing he could have. “I won. I won.” He won but when he went to take the gold medal it crumbled in his hands. Can Sandy look at him now? Can Sandy take notice of him, take his face in his hands and look into his eyes? Can he blink slow, and smile, and give him dreams like everybody else? Can he tell him he is worthy, more than a sneak-thief, more than a pest, someone who could be just as grand and shining as the rest?
The feeling in Pitch’s chest weighs on him heavy and dense as gold, but he doesn’t know enough about whys to name it for what it is.
“Sandy.” There’s only one way to wake him from a stillness like this. Pitch knows he can’t do it. He doesn’t want anyone else to try. “Tell me I won.” He kisses him softly on his cold lips.
He doesn’t think he spends too long waiting for movement that never comes.