Put out the light

"Mama, look, I drew a picture of a flower for yo-"

"Not now, Cutler, mummy's busy"

...

"Mother, Mr Greeveston said to inform you of my grades. Apparently I've exceeded college educat-"

"Yes, yes, Cutler, that's fascinating. Come back tommorow and tell me all about it."

...

"Mother, I don't see what so's bad about befriending Jack. He's a fine enough fellow and besides. He makes me laugh."

"Oh Cutler...you're so like your father sometimes, so naive...so stupid. Do come back when you've got rid of the pirate."

"He's not a pirate! He's-"

"Yes, yes...I said you can go, Cutler."

...

"He's taken my ship, Mother, what am I going to do?"

"You're such a disappointment Cutler. Nothing you touch goes right."

...

"Madam Beckett. I bring the grave news that your son, Cutler Beckett, is dead."

"Oh...shame that...pass me those cards, Martha, we'll play cards for a while."

...

Cutler Beckett, young and not quite innocent, slipped through the alleyways on silent feet. He carried his fine buckled shoes under one arm and the silver detailing on his charcoal gray frock coat blackened out for the evening. On his stockinged feet were soft leather shoes, making sure that his footsteps were muffled. No doubt his minders would be utterly horrified if they were ever to find he had left his powdered (and expensive) wig at home, leaving his dark auburn hair tied back in a loose tail.

Beneath the fancy frock coat and the silk of his shirt, the skin of his back was red raw, blistered and sore to merely breathe upon. The flares of pain served to fuel Cutlers anger as he walked on, careful not to make a sound. He’d had enough, this was it, no more, he had been beaten and ignored for the last time. He had stolen his Fathers money bag and there was a change of clothes and a little bread in the calico sack with his buckled shoes. It was all going according to plan until a ruddy, cloth covered palm covered his mouth and dragged him struggling into the shadows.

“Dark night for such a beauty to be out on his own.” A growling voice whispered in his ear as a cold knife blade pressed against his throat. Cutler very nearly froze but instead twisted one of his hands slowly upwards, into the sleeve of his shirt, groping for the handle of the stiletto his sister had given him all those years before.

“A beauty?” He asked, keeping the tremble out of his voice, stalling for time as best he could. The tip of the blade moved now in slow circles over his jugular.

“I might let you go…if you’re nice to me.” Cutler wrinkled his well educated nose at the scent of stale breath that ghosted over the back of his neck.

“Nice is a matter of perspective.” He murmured, quoting an old scholar whom his father had dismissed for his radical ideas. The handle of the knife was cold in his hand and he hesitated only a second before jerking it back and up, the blade at a fatal angle. He’d never killed anyone before and his stomach turned over as sticky warmth flowed over the back of his hand and the knife at his throat cut a shallow line as the would-be mugger slid to the floor. He staggered, leaning against the wall with one hand, and heaved the thin meal he’d been permitted that morning.

“Well…I was going to see if you wanted a hand but you seem to have everything under control.” Cutler turned on his heel, brandishing the still bloody knife almost before he was finished. He looked into eyes so dark that they were almost black, ringed with kohl and set either side of a straight nose that had obviously been broken on more than one occasion and a mouth that looked generous and amused amidst a clipped beard and moustache. The stranger made an oddly fluid gesture, weaving a little as if he’d had far too much rum but Cutler was looking into those piercing eyes, eyes that were far too focused to be doused in rum.

“Who are you?” He asked, his most imperious tone utterly ruined by the thickness of nausea.

“I’m the man with the bottle of rum that you can have…well, borrow, to wash your mouth out with…that must taste foul, mate.” A bottle, worn, stinking and green in places, was offered in mid-arc of another sway. Cutler looked at the bottle with utter horror…for someone raised with crystal goblets it was a fascination in and of itself. “It won’t bite, mate. I swear.” The boy, is he a sailor?, said with a curiously mischievous grin. Cutler cautiously took the bottle, holding it as if it were about to explode, before wiping the mouth of it with a lace handkerchief. The sailor – for surely he was a sailor with that swaying gait of a walk – tutted, flinging an arm around the smaller boys shoulders, ignoring the nearly terrified expression on his face. “what’s your name, lad?” He asked as Cutler took a cautious sip. The sip turned into a full on gulp as the sailor tipped the bottle up, forcing the boy to swallow or be drowned.

“Lad?” Cutler gasped, coughing and spluttering and blushing at the sound of the others laughter as he was led out of the alleyway and into the light. “I’m at least as old as you. I’m Cutler.”

“Cutler?” The sailor asked, eyebrows raised. Cutler was fascinated, this mans face seemed never to be still. “Really? Well. We can’t choose our fate. Jack Sparrow. At your service.” The man grinned.

“At my service?” Cutler repeated, looking up at the murky looking tavern he was being led towards. “Why do I rather doubt that?”

~*~

“Is that all?” Sparrow said incredulously, his grin nearly splitting his face. “If I ran away every time I was beaten I’d probably…be in Singapore right now.” He paused, almost thoughtfully scratching his chin. “But that’s besides the point. I’m a penniless rogue, whereas you are…uh…” Cutler Beckett was staring at him with slightly unfocused but an expression of comparatively innocent curiosity.

“I’m…?” The boy prompted. Jack picked up the bottle and took the last mouthful for himself. They’d managed to find a private room, above the bustling life of the main bar after about an hour or so of steadily getting drunk together. Jack was mildly impressed with how much liquor the soft-handed gentleman could take. The original plan had been to get the boy blind drunk and take what he could – Jack had been hungry for three days, both his belly and his morals were thin…but things were starting to change. The gentle glow of real white skin and the naiveté of the boy was refreshing…hell, Cutler Beckett blushed a pretty pink if Jack used the right swear words at the right time, the boy was even clumsily trying to return the curses but the way he lowered his voice and nearly snickered was a bit of a give away.

“You’re lucky enough to have a fortune at your disposal. You could go anywhere, do anything…be anything.” Jack wasn’t aware of the wistful note in his voice but Cutler – even with his vision doing strange things – saw it. He reached across the slender bench that was between them as a makeshift table and squeezed the other boys hand gently.

“Money isn’t everything you know. Sometimes you just need the right sort of mind.” He smiled, looking as young as his years for a few brilliant seconds. “I think you’ve got the right sort.” He added before realizing that he was staring into another mans eyes whilst all but holding his hand. He was even more unsettled when Jacks fingers laced with his own, silently forbidding him to move.

“Oh I don’t know.” Jack made a flamboyant gesture with his free hand. “I know exactly what I’m going to be.” Cutlers hand was released as the other boy stood up, making an elegant – if not slightly wobbly – leg. “Captain Jack Sparrow, pirate extraordinaire.” The sailor grinned. “Got a nice ring to it, ay?” Cutler stood up too, rolling his eyes but with a fond smile on his face, as he steadier the other man.

“It sounds…right.” He conceded as they moved into a weird lurching dance caused by the both of them swaying with the drink and trying to keep the other upright. “Jack?”

“Hmm?” Jack looked at him, realizing how close their faces had become. Beckett was looking at him with that strange expression again and Jack couldn’t stop his eyes dragging down to petal pink powder soft lips. Cutler stood on tiptoe – tipping forwards thanks to the alcohol in his system – and pressed his lips to Jacks. Jack watched, nearly going cross eyed, as Cutlers lids fluttered shut and a soft little sigh issued from him before joining in the kiss with happy abandon. He wrapped his arms around the much smaller, delicate form as their lips slid against each others, their bodies fitting together as if they’d been made too.

“This-this-“ Cutler was stuttering between kisses as his hands plunged into the warmth of the pirates frock coat, nimble fingers popping any button he came across. “This is very f-f-foolish. I don’t even know – YOU!” The last came out as a startled yelp as he was lifted clean off his feet and laid almost tenderly with his back on the bench.

“Likewise.” Jack mumbled, breaking the kiss to suckle the tender flesh of his neck. “You could be anybody.” One hand supported his weight from Cutlers delicate frame whilst his other slid down the writhing body, finding the fastenings of breeches.

“Yes…right…so we-we sh-should stop…oh God Jack, quick.” Cutler breathed, some tiny rational part of his mind wondering if that was his voice, higher pitched and much breathier than usual. Jack’s fingers were trembling as Becketts hands curled in the hair at the back of his neck but somehow he managed to get both of their breeches undone and open. They groaned together as their flesh ground together, hot and wet already. Jacks hips moved of their own accord, thrusting lazily against Cutlers smaller form as he raised himself onto his hands, looking down at his lover, this soft handed stranger. Cutler moaned wantonly spreading his knees and tilting his hips up, trying to urge Jack faster whilst being unable to form the necessary words. The fingernails digging into his shoulders spurred Jack on until the bench was groaning dangerously with the weight and speed of his thrusts, there wasn’t time for anything more than this delicious friction.

“Jack please – I need – I need-“

“Yes, love.” Jack breathed before leaning down for a sloppy, open mouthed kiss, sharing breath and sensation and – Jack groaned as Cutlers slender legs clamped around his waist like a vice, pulling him forward and up in just the way he needed. They both groaned as orgasm hit, coming in long pearly stings over each other, panting into the others neck. Cutler held on to Jack so tightly that Jack didn’t even have to hold him to carry them both over (half staggering) to the bed in the corner, falling tiredly amongst the covers. The covers of the bed saw a lot of intimacy during the long hours of the dark night, two sobering figures twining together over and over again, learning about each other through the skin until the dawns watery yellow light filtered through grimy. Cutler lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling, feeling wanton and decadent for the first time in his life. He ached, no longer virgin, but it was a good ache. He turned as his new lover rolled over, propping his head up on one hand to look down at the auburn haired form.

“What are you thinking?” Cutler asked, his voice rough from begging. Jack took a deep breath, draping a tanned arm over a bare, sensuous midriff and marveling at the difference. The difference that gave him just a little bit of heartache.

“You have to go home, Cutler. This isn’t the life for you.” For once Jack’s face was serious, his heavy lidded eyes more than a little sad. Cutler leaned up to kiss that look away. There was no arguing, no point in talking it through, Cutler knew he was right…much as it hurt him to think on it.

“Look for me tomorrow Jack. I’ll be at the market, come hell or high water.” Jack smiled, tenderly stroking his fingers over a downy cheek and wiping away a tear.

“We’ll see, love.” He leaned into another kiss. “We’ll see.”

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A/N: - I don't know if I should carry this story on or leave it as a one shot. Ideas?