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Anger. Pitch can feel it radiating off the other man in waves as he walks away. Course. Of course Jafar’s bloody pissed. His confirmation comes milliseconds later as the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting drywall meets his ears. Pitch flinches and freezes midstep. He doesn’t turn around; can’t, won’t, doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to face the mess he’s created, hell the mess they’ve been creating, that’s been festering this entire weird night.
Shut up. It hurts more than it should. Really, why should it hurt at all, they’re not exactly friends, if anything they’re enemies. But then again, there’s this feeling he has, or maybe it’s just him hoping…wishing, that those words weren’t directed at him.
Just walk away Pitch. Just bloody walk away. He’s glad Jafar can’t see his face. It means he can’t see the pain, the hurt, the conflict. He’s going mad, he has to be. He’s not supposed to feel anything.
"Dammit" It’s a quiet curse. He turns, glaring into Jafar’s eyes. "I’m sorry." Pitch knows it’s not enough. Hell, he knows better than anyone that it’s not enough. His mind is sluggish, wheels turning unbelievably slowly. He hates it. He hates being drunk, feeling stupid. "You…I know you want to leave. If I were you I’d want to leave."
He loathes this whole situation. Complicated. Messed up. He’s sure if he’d look in a mirror he’d see fear painted across his face in neon lights. “But I can’t, dammit.” Words, words, words. They just won’t come out correctly. “You wouldn’t make it one block.” I don’t want to see you hurt. Why is that? Nervous laughter echoes around the hall. Then he’s laughing like a maniac. A drunk bastard, that’s what he is.
He’s against some wall, sliding down into a ball, elbows on knees, hands fisting in his hair. He wants to get away from himself, this self. Because he’s scared, bloody terrified, and he’s Pitch Black, and Pitch Black doesn’t get bloody scared.
"Leave." he says quietly. "Just," He takes a deep breath. "leave before I bloody do something I regret." Too late for that Pitch. Sings the voice in his head. He screws the eyes shut to keep the tears back. Because he’s sixteen again confused and alone, scared. “Leave.” Stay. ”Please, leave.” Stay, says the voice in his head. Pitch buries his face out of view.
He hates this.
He took his hand off and looked at his knuckles. It had blood and scratches all over but the pain was still not enough to numb everything. The voices we’re gone. For now. Jafar put his hand on his face and rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t suppose to hear them again. The last time- The last time was long ago, back when he was young and foolish. Extremely foolish. He made them go away but he’ll handle that problem later. Right now, he had a more serious crossroad to get through.
He slumped his side against the wall for support, legs were slightly wobbly but the muscles we’re tensed. His throat feels like it has a lump in it and to try and swallow is like eating a whole sour grape. He couldn’t hear his heartbeat. What if it stopped? The thought was very acceptable at the moment.
He contemplates on looking at Pitch. A very bad timing to put his sight on him but two words made him change his mind. He says nothing but stares back. An apology. A goddamn apology. He has to do better than that. Apologies never have worked on him. With his jaws clenched, he listens to Pitch continue.
A simple task. Leave. Go out of that door and never see Pitch again. He looks at his knuckles again. It was still red and battered. It stings every time he moves his fingers. “Caring for me is not an advantage, Black.” He never called him that before but manners are over now. He learned that from experience. It’s a defect on human nature. And so is feeling. Pitch had an unreadable face. Or perhaps Jafar’s eyesight was blurred.
He doesn’t even know what he was undergoing through. Maybe Pitch drugged the tea. Hell maybe even what alcohol they drank because across the other side he heard laughter. Pitch Black’s laughter. A laugh of a person who has lost his mind. Lost. Yes, both of their minds are lost. This night was not going to end pretty. It didn’t even start out anywhere near normal. But this wasn’t the worst decision he’s made. This wasn’t his most awful experience, he had been in one worst.
He heard a faint thump afterwards. He could see from the corner of his eye, Pitch sitting on the floor, mumbling to leave him in that state. He had to do something soon enough. And he made up his mind. Or so he thinks he did. In the state of him being drunk, everything was okay and not okay. He took a step. And then another. Again and again. The sound of feet over wood was the only sound detecting his hearing. His head is down, avoiding the thing in front of him. He stops, with a deep breath, he sits at the opposite side of where Pitch Black is sitting and squints at his company.
"For the record, I don’t follow orders. I make them. If you really want me to get out of here, Mr. Black, make me."
