It's cold on the balcony but Jack doesn't feel it. He rarely feels the cold, and in any case, it's much colder inside with his dad doing his damnedest to ignore him.

It's some glitzy shindig, a fundraiser, but these things are always more about his dad than about charity. It was Jack's mom that started them, years ago, before she died, and he keeps them up so that everyone remembers her. It would be a beautiful gesture if his dad didn't taint it with his bitterness and twisted version of grief. Jack feels obliged to attend for the sake of his mom's memory, but there's only so many of his father's sneers and hateful looks that he can take before he needs a break.

And so he's out on the frosty balcony, smoking a cigarette that his dad would disapprove of, but then he disapproves of most everything Jack does.

The door slides open behind him, and Jack winces, afraid it's going to be someone come to yell at him – his dad or one of his friends, who share his opinion that Jack is wasting his life – but it's a stranger. Tall, slim, dark hair. He glances at Jack and their eyes meet. A heartbeat, another, and the stranger breaks their eye contact to nods at Jack's cigarette.

"Got a spare?"

Jack nods and fumbles in his pockets, swearing as he drops the packet on the floor.

"I'm Jack," he says as he retrieves it and offers the guy one.

"I know. I'm Pitch."

"Pitch? Weird name."

"A man named Jack Frost should be careful insulting someone else's name," Pitch says with a whisper of a smile and leans in to let Jack light the cigarette. The flickering orange glow of the lighter makes his eyes look golden, and Jack's mouth is suddenly dry.

"So, uh. What are you – media mogul, Wall Street, lottery winner? You gotta be some kind of rich to have my dad interested in you."

"Old money," Pitch says, and gives a self-deprecating little twist of a smile. "Very old."

"Like me, then."

"Like you."

Jack's family is as old money as the New World gets, his great-great-grandfather a railroad tycoon. He wonders what Pitch's story is. The British accent – the ridiculously sexy British accent – suggests his old money is much older than Jack's. He could even be royalty, Jack thinks with a thrill, and ridiculously glances up at his hair as if he expects to see a crown. There isn't one, of course. Just black hair with a few strands of grey, a hawkish bone structure and a suit that fits almost indecently well. Pitch knows how to dress. He also has a fantastic ass.

Blushing at his thoughts, Jack sucks in a lungful of smoke and blows it out slowly into the cold night air. When he glances back at Pitch, he sees that Pitch is watching him with something that looks very much like interest in his eyes.

Maybe tonight won't be so terrible after all. Getting fucked by an older stranger with that accent and that ass sounds like it might be pretty fun.

Leaning back against the balcony, keeping eye contact with Pitch, Jack grins up at him, crooked and (hopefully) flirtatious.

"So do you live in New York? Or do you have some Downton Abbey place back in England?"

"I live in New York, mostly. There's a 'Downton Abbey place', as you put it, where my parents live, but I have little interest in it."

"You live near here?"

"Near enough."

"And is there a Mrs Pitch?"

Pitch hitches at eyebrow. His gaze ducks to take in all of Jack, from hightops to bedhead, and then back down. There's a hungry flash of a smile but it's gone so quickly that Jack isn't sure it was there. "There's an ex-Mrs Pitch," he says. "And I have a five year old daughter."

Jack wonders if he says that to put him off, but he wants sex, not marriage, and he could care less if Pitch has kids. "She live with you?"

"No. With her mother."

"So – your apartment's empty? With a bed big enough for two?"

The flash of a smile is amused this time, and he inclines his head. "Indeed it is. And I think it's going to stay that way. Thank you for the cigarette, Jack."

Stubbing it out on the balcony, he throws it into the small trash can in the corner and goes back inside. Jack looks after him with narrowed eyes and takes another drag of his cigarette.

If Pitch thinks he's going to get away that easily, he's wrong.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed. This story is actually kind of a modern AU of my fantasy blackice fic, The Heavy Weight of Duty, but it can totally be read on its own. The plan is to update every week on Fridays. I have a tumblr dedicated to Counterweight and The Heavy Weight of Duty, the link is on my profile. I hope you enjoyed the story!