SAY YES TO THE GIN.
Secondly, I stumbled across a band called IAMX today. Their song Volatile Times is TOTALLY a Pitch Black theme song, or what I envision to be the truest cry of the sliver of the heart he has left. (Because I do believe Pitch is capable of being redeemed. Though that will not happen in this fic. BAHA.) Even the official video is bizarrely Pitch-like. Bernadette is also phenomenal, which is why I named this chapter after it. There is a JackxPitch video on youtube to that song. Almost all of IAMX's tracks have a Pitch Black feel to them. Yummy!
Kraken8988: I adore you. Thank you reading this and supporting my strangeness. Your encouragement and friendship means so much.
Mangalho: I am very single. Unfortunately, I am also 5'10" with an affinity for stilettos (making me regularly Pitch's height), quite shallow, bisexually inclined, and a very free spirited individual who detests romantic entanglements. Handling me via marriage would be bitterly unfair to you. –wink; lol
Captain Mushroom: No luv. Cynthia is not Sandman, but Sandman is referenced in this chapter, as is Cynthia's AU identity.
Starsinjars: A Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you too sweet one!
Great Noodle King: You're incorrigible.
Whit3Noiz Tenri: Thank you dearie. Dai suki dayo! I will do just that. Um… Pitch has something to say to you as well. :]
No, woman. I most certainly do not.
Pitch Thomas Loki Black, you march yourself out from that corner and tell this upstanding young person what we practiced.
Ehk … Tenri, I extend my blandest gratitude, and simultaneous condolences, for your eternal obsessive support.
… You added things.
A necessary evil.
He means thank you. And?
And for your superficial complements.
And?
If I catch the ice brat is not up for debate. It is merely a matter of when.
And?
… And I am returning to my corner now to suffer and sulk through this appalling chapter.
Yay! Friends! To all: Your reviews are wonderful and inspire me to do my very best at being my worst! Arigatou gozaimasu!
Interesting predictions as well. Keep your day jobs.
That's all! :D
Jack rouses to the sound of the shower running. He opens his eyes, emerging into a room much like his, only there are suits and ties in this closet and draped over the ottoman.
Adam…
Jack remembers.
Early afternoon light spills in through the split in the blackout curtains. He should be at practice somewhat soon. Somewhat soon, but not now. There's a tray of breakfast food on the nightstand – strawberries, buttered toast, and scrambled eggs. Jack smiles to himself and sits up in bed.
"Pierre's going to kill me," he muttered, snatching up a piece of toast. He gulps it down and sucks his fingers clean. He washes it down with a swig of Adam's strong peppermint coffee that makes him cringe in the most delightful way. His thoughts wander to last night and how they came so close to… How close they came to…
Heat floods his cheeks.
After Worlds, Adam said. It's for the best, he knows. As inexperienced as he is, there would probably be a day or two of being completely out of commission: stiff and sore and unable to move properly. Unacceptable, especially for a figure skater. Jack bites his lip and glances towards the bathroom. He carefully slides out of bed and tip toes across the floor. The door is slightly ajar. He pauses at the threshold to listen to Adam pad around the shower, occasionally humming to some song only he knows.
Adam…
Jack takes a deep breath and slips inside, his path partially shrouded in steam. Jack is only half aware of what he is doing as his feet take him to the curtain. Jack takes a deep breath and drops his garments. He steps inside the shower. Adam whirls around and sees him. They stare at one another for a long moment, the steamy air thick with apprehension, questions, and an almost child-like shyness at their mutual nakedness. Adam's green eyes gaze at him under thick brown eyebrows. They decide simultaneously, through no logical reasoning, that they are nowhere near close enough. They collide, Adam's body absorbing the majority of the impact, his arms nearly lifting Jack off his toes.
Their lips immediately lock. They're kissing furiously. Jack's fingers are all tangled up in Adam's hair. Adam's hands are elsewhere, but they are no less tenacious. Jack is quickly soaked from a combination of Adam's wet body and the constant deluge of shower water. Both erect and wanting, Adam reaches behind him and fumbles for the faucet lever.
They manage to make it to the bed, steam rolling off their bodies into the cooler air. Adam turns just in time for Jack to fall on top of him. Their bodies dry with heat and linens, dampening the bedsheets, until the mist of sweat bubbles up on the skin. The kissing never stops. Jack's hips undulate against Adam's crotch. He can imagine it – Adam's cock embedded deep inside him, throbbing… hard… filling.
Adam's hands trench into his buttocks. He grasps him possessively, kneading and squeezing even inch of his thighs and other intimate areas. Adam groans beneath him, against his lips, and against his tongue. Adam seizes Jack around the waist and suddenly sits up on the edge of the bed. "We can't," he reminds him, trying to come back to himself even as his hands drag Jack's body closer.
Jack, straddling his hips, is hardly deterred. He punches a finger into the center of Adam's chest. "You can't," Jack whispers hotly, stealing kisses in the meantime. "I can." Jack's bedroom blues track over Adam's face. He is nervous, but sure of what he wants. Adam gazes back intently, not knowing exactly what he means. Jack presses against his lips once more, then twice. He kisses his chin, his neck, his chest. Jack moves lower.
A few seconds later, Adam's jaw goes slack.
Jack spends several moments merely licking while Adam is driven mad with want. Adam nearly loses it when Jack's lips finally slide over his cock, his mouth warm and wet. The boy moves fluidly along his stiff shaft. Adam combs his fingers through Jack's hair, savoring every eager suck. He knots his fingers into the boy's ash blond locks.
Adam's phone starts to buzz on the nightstand within reach. And Adam can't bring himself to stop him. He lets it ring. It eventually goes to voicemail.
But immediately, the phone starts to ring again.
Adam sets his jaw. "Hang on," he says. But at this point, Jack does not care and finds it entirely more fun to continue doing exactly what he's doing. Adam curses under his breath, trying to get his voice under control. He snatches up the phone and checks the id. It's Pierre. "Fuck," he mumbles. He composes himself to the best of his ability and answers it. "Hello?" Adam says tensely, eyes shut and jaw tight.
The wary response from Pierre, "Hey. Adam, glad I caught you. Is Jack with you? He's not answering his phone."
Adam swallows hard. "Yeah. Yes he's… He's right here." Sucking his dick.
Pierre chuckles. "Well… he's supposed to be at practice."
Jack starts to suck harder. Adam cracks a grin. "Yeah…" he sighs before he can stop himself.
"… What?"
Adam scrambles for an excuse. Soberly, "Yeah. Sorry. We um… stopped for a late breakfast."
Pierre sighs in relief. "Good. I'm glad he slept in. Is he eating well?"
Adam glances down, his eyebrows jumping up. "Oh, yeah. He's… He's eating great." Below, Jack grins, as much as his full mouth will allow.
Exuberantly, "Fantastic! Send him down to the rink when he's done. We should polish everything for tomorrow."
"Right. Sure." Adam hangs up, barely able to curb the moan that explodes from his lips as Jack takes him deep into his throat. "Where- where the hell… did you learn how to-?" He moans again, pulling at the boy's hair. "Jack… I-" His seed erupts from his sex, the orgasm surging through him. At first, Jack is uncertain what to do with his mouthful of semen. He elects to swallow. He milks Adam's cock until it's through. The man moans lowly, gratefully. His hand moves to stroking through Jack's hair while the boy licks his manhood completely clean. Adam hoists Jack back up into his lap.
"Ok," Adam relents breathlessly, eyes tracing the telling path from Jack's eyes to his lips. "Maybe I'm a little gay. Or… bi… or something."
"Maybe," Jack indulges. Adam presents Jack with his middle finger, which he licks, nips at, and sucks on.
"Right. Let me play a bit with you then," Adam suggests against his lips. He removes the finger from Jack's mouth and inserts it between his thighs. Jack blushes at the intrusion. Adam can't do more than that though. Adam swears to himself to use only one finger. The other hand wraps around Jack's cock. Jack closes his eyes with a crocked smile. Adam thumbs the precum over the head. Jack's hands knead into his shoulders and chest.
"More?" Jack begs against his lips.
Adam shakes his head. "I can't. I won't." Jack makes a desperate face. Adam grins as he manages to find his prostate at the same moment. Jack responds with what must be the most erotic moan Adam has ever heard. A few good probes, strokes, and jerks later, release rips through him. Adam sucks on Jack's neck as the teen rides the feeling to fruition.
Jack can feel Adam's new erection pressing against his ass.
But there's a cure for that. And it's waiting in the shower.
The animal magnetism between Jack and Adam does not wane, even after their next shower, even after Jack has drank him down a second time. Adam pushes Jack up onto the bathroom counter. Jack's legs are wrapped around Adam's waist. He wants it. He wants it so bad. Their kisses are sloppy, infected with whatever unholy ailment has contaminated them.
They can't stop. Jack begs against his lips.
"I can't," Adam laments painfully. There is not a place on Jack's body that his hands have not intimately explored.
"Adam, please…" Jack begs, bracketing the man's face between his hands.
Adam cannot look at him, so he looks away. "You have to go to practice. You're competing tomorrow. You have to go to practice."
Jack groans reluctantly. Adam is right. They separate, but they are not happy about it.
They both dress. Adam fits himself into his suit and slacks. Jack puts his sweats back on. Adam is adjusting his tie when Jack spots a certain glaring problem.
The elevator ride down to the lobby is nearly unbearable. They stopped off at Jack's room beforehand, so the boy could put on fresh clothes and grab his gym bag, but ended up horsing around for another fifteen minutes. Adam is almost spent, but Jack seems to be insatiable. Adam has no idea what has gotten into him, but he knows he fucking loves it.
They step out into the lobby and face one another.
"I'll um… see you after practice," Adam says, inclining his chin.
"Yeah. Ok," Jack replies, his eyes frequently darting to his lips, his chest, his –.
"We're going to a show-on-ice tonight, courtesy of the Blacks." Adam is blushing, shifting continuously. "I'll swing by your room around 7PM to get you."
Jack ruffles up his ash blond hair. "Assuming Pierre doesn't have my head for being late. What time is it anyway?"
"Jack Frost, do you know what time it is?!" Pierre confronts at the bottom of the bleachers, clad in a particularly obnoxious argyle sweater and black skating pants.
He is first generation American. His parents were both Swedish. In his youth, Pierre won three World Championships, competing in both junior and later senior events after twenty one, more so in partner skating than in singles. He is a tall man. He towers over Jack, but not in the same way Pitch does. Pierre has a swimmer's figure, which is unusual for a figure skater. The man is built like a tank, his blonde hair peppered with grey and silver. His Spartan's jaw is lined with the stubble that will soon become a beard, which Jack likes to tease him about. He is divorced from German shrew of a woman who was so jealous of his time with Jack that she tried to give him food poisoning at one of their Christmas parties. He has been Jack's coach since he was seven years old.
Pierre Von Claus is his full name.
Before Jack can answer him, "It's 1PM. You were supposed to be here at noon! I—… What's on your neck?" Pierre demands. Jack's eyes bulge, his pulse promptly flat lining. Adam must have stamped him, dammit. He braces for a tongue lashing.
Pierre's bushy brows knit together. "Adam was covering for you wasn't he? Damn baboon, I knew he sounded funny!" Jack sucks his lips inward to curb the impish smile that threatens them. "Jack, this is not funny. And this is no time to be fooling around. I'm serious. Showing up late, staying up until all hours of the night, waltzing off with one-nighters… You know better than this. You're competing for the World Championship tomorrow and frankly, you should feel ashamed for showing up in the state you're in. You're more responsible than this."
Pierre's big blues so normally full of wonder are pregnant with conviction. Jack cannot look at him. Jack shuffles his feet as his face grows hot. "I'm sorry. You're right," he remits. Pierre is right. Until recently, Jack has never been late to practice or shirk his duties. Skating has always come first. Always.
Pierre sighs, assuming more of a wry smirk. He plants his hands on his hips. "You're lucky you worked so hard yesterday. Honestly, we don't have a whole lot left to polish. Get your skates on."
"Yes sir," Jack says hastily.
Adam and Jack take a cab to Diamond Dais Performing Arts Center where they are to see a premier sister-play to Swan Lake called Black Swan, adapted for ice. Several versions of other adapted plays are also being shown in the theater, in honor of Worlds. There, they will meet up with Pierre, Cynthia, and Pitch Black, who is responsible for attaining the tickets, in the lobby.
It is raining outside, but the air is bitterly cold, suggesting they might be in for snow in the bleakest patches of the night. Jack stands between Pierre and Adam who are half-joking about the incident earlier, of which Pierre has the wrong idea, but it suits their purposes well. Pierre was quite understanding about the whole thing. After all, Jack is a growing boy and the vocational stress and pressure coupled with typical teenage hormones is not easy to wade through.
Pierre even suggested the frozen-spoon technique which, paired with some foundation and stage makeup, worked wonders. He is a good man.
Jack has just enough to time mull over the weather when Cynthia hurries inside, the crisp click of her heels resounding over the glossy tile. Pitch seems to cleave from the darkness just behind her.
She starts pulling off her sleek leather gloves. "Oh dear, I'm so sorry we're late. My last patient had a particularly nasty cavity that needed immediate attention. The holiday season is a breeding ground for decay where sugar abounds in spades."
"You're a dentist then?" Adam asserts.
Cynthia blinks until it dawns on her that she neglected to tell them so. "I am," she laughs. "Forgive me for not warning the lot of you sooner!" They chuckle and Pierre assures her all is well. As she folds her coat over her arms, "Anyhow. Our newest hygienist, sweet sweet girl, is still in training. Like a baby, she needs close to constant supervision, which is why I could not leave the office as planned. Come along, we should probably find our seats." She ushers the lot of them towards the theater.
After they get settled in and put their coats down, "Jack!" Cynthia calls, gesturing for him. "Come with me to concessions. I'd like to treat you."
Jack stands. "Ok!" he laughs. "Isn't that sort of… backwards for a dentist?"
Cynthia shrugs, "Keeps me in business. Besides, I can tell you have excellent hygiene habits." She extends her hand, grinning blithely. Jack takes it and she tugs him back down the hall.
Pierre pats his washboard. "Come to think of it, some kettle-corn doesn't sound like a bad idea. You fellows want anything?"
"No," says Pitch hollowly.
"Can you grab me a Sprite?" Adam asks, tucking a five dollar bill into Pierre's hand. "Thanks mate." The coach nods cheerfully and follows in Cynthia's footsteps. As it happens, Pitch and Adam sit beside one another, within perfect range to share a private conversation under the stage music and miscellaneous commotion.
"What do you think you're doing?" Pitch oozes lowly, his ambers fused with the stage.
Adam bristles. "I can explain."
"Don't bother. I can smell it on him. I'm not sure if that disturbs me more or less than smelling him on you. I hope it hasn't slipped your mind who made you what you are, who plucked you from the garbage heap in that god-rotten bone dry outback, and who can take it all away just as easily. It would be such a shame for this to leak to the press, by whatever means."
"What does your sister think about all this? About you?"
"What my sister does not know does not hurt her. But should she ever find out, her presence on this earth will be short lived. Do not think that because she is kin that I hold her any dearer than I do vermin like you."
Adam swallows, his hands tightening around the arm rests of his seat. "… What do you want?"
Pitch rubs his fingers together to bide his time, creating a black mist that quickly dissipates. Adam shivers in spite of himself. "What I've always wanted, what I always take – the thing most dear to you. Ironically, in this case, that just so happens to be the thing you cannot have, legally or otherwise."
"What will you do to him?"
"That is none of your concern. The fact is that my old toy is broken and it is high time for an upgrade."
Adam knows he means Sydney Sands, whom he represented in the 2008 World Figure Skating Championships. Sydney was nineteen. He won… and that was the last time Adam ever saw him. It has haunted him since. "I won't give him up to you. Not without a fight."
Pitch smiles maliciously. "Ah. Now you've grown a backbone have you? Then a fight you shall have." He turns his head and looks directly at Adam. Viciously, "And you will lose."
AN: Expect the next chapter Volatile Times within a day or so in which we will take a dive into Pitch's POV. ;]
Super.