Jack Frost + Flying
"That paint's never gonna wash off." There's a terrible glint of cruelty in her eyes as she prods him in one golden painted arm, rubbing her fingers together to remove some of the glitter worked in with the paint. "People are going to start thinking you're the Sandman- you might even become one of his minions!" //because I saw everyone else doing it >:D
"B-but… but you said this was only for pretend…!”
His words failed him. Though Trick was not at all adverse to “dress-up,” as Cupcake called it, he never would have agreed if he’d known the look would be permanent. Trick could only stand there, utterly dumbstruck and horrified as he absorbed the revelation.
But it only took a moment for the boy to recover. Shaking his head voilently back and forth, he withdrew from Cupcake, his eyes round with pure panic.
"I’ll… I’ll… I’ll just cover it up with my cloak! I’ll draw up the hood and, and, paint over the sparkles with black! I’ll look just like a Nightmare—no one will think I’m a Sandman!”
The Muse shook her head, somehow managing to keep a stern face despite how she was tempted to burst out laughing. "That paint is never coming off." She said. "You're going to be green forever."
Trick scrambled to his feet, leaving a large roll of paper and an overturned jar of green paint strewn across the floor. Looking down at his palms, he saw them utterly, hopelessly stained—he wiped both hands furiously upon the front of his robe, but to no avail.
"I thought it was just paint!” he shrieked. “Normal paint! The kind that washes off!”
Now the boy’s robe had long, messy streaks of green. Though his hands were, perhaps, a bit cleaner for the effort, Trick only moaned. The paint must have been enchanted somehow—like the paint North’s yetis used to create his toys, both rich in pigment and impossibly bright, meant to dazzle children on Christmas morning.
His lower lip began to tremble.
"I don’t want to be green,” he wailed. “I’m a Fearling, not a… a leprechaun!”
"That paint will never come off. Ever."
"N-never? Never ever?”
"But… I’m a Fearling! A Nightmare Prince! I can’t have pink hands for the rest of my life!”
Admittedly, Trick could have lived with the glitter now stuck to his hands and robe—the way it shined reminded him of gold coins and jewels, something his Dream Pirate ancestors would have stolen from the Tsar’s own kin. But the pink was absolutely dreadful; if the painting hadn’t been for Cupcake, Trick wouldn’t have even touched the color at all.
"I’ll… I’ll just have to paint over it!" Trick cried. Quick as could be, he dipped his hands into a jar of paint. When he removed them, Trick’s arms, all the way up his elbows, were coated in a thick layer of black.
"I suppose that’s not so bad…" he said, watching the ink drip from his fingers and onto the floor.
Well, it took a while, but I figured it out.
pitch and jack
"Because when I am tense I enjoy cleaning. It helps one to organize one’s thoughts. It makes order out of chaos. If only for a moment, it soothes the entropy aboard this vessel. So please Trick, help me." The mask slipped a bit, Mani was a bit more worn than he looked. Bags under his eyes, wrinkles on his forehead.
The Tsar was getting old.
The little Fearling blinked at that. He hadn’t expected to see Mani so upset over the dust and clutter that had settled over the Moon Clipper, and in truth, he didn’t understand it. Trick had too much fondness for mess and chaos to understand how good it must feel to organize one’s home, but he loved Mani, and Trick wanted to make him happy.
"Okay…!" he said, nodding eagerly. He took the Tsar’s hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze. "I can help! Well… I can stay out of the way while the moon-mice clean. I won’t pour paint in the washbuckets or cut holes in the wastebins…"
Trick made an ‘X’ across his heart, vowing to not be a nuisance—which was, of course, as helpful as a Fearling could truly be.
"Place your art in a pile then. I will see to it they touch not a page." He folded his arms over his chest. "Things must be cleaned."
Trick whined childishly in his throat. “Fiiiine. I’ll make a stack of my artwork… But, you know… it’s going to be a big pile. At least as big as my bed! Are you sure we can’t just leave them scattered on my floor and walls? They’ll just end up back there anyway! Why does everything need to be clean?”