Title: A Fool Such as I
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating: PG-15/R for sexual situation
Pairing: Andy/Ianto
Spoiler: None
Word count: ~2900
Disclaimer: Not mine.


A/N: Large waves of virtual love to everyone in my Flist who read this beforehand and helped me finish it. In special to purestoneworker and lovely, lovely misswinterhill, without whom I don't think this would've been posted. Thank you!




--


Andy took a deep, contended breath, rejoicing in the amazing sensation of perfect completeness in the afterglow. For one brilliant full second the world was a marvelous place, his shitty day had been worth it, and that little voice in his head calling him a poof could very well be damned. Andy was convinced that if there was such a thing as a God, his great gift to humankind had most assuredly been the stupendous phenomenon of orgasm. It didn’t necessarily compensate the rest of the crap he regularly had to put up with (and that was way more crap than most average people, he reckoned), but at least it gave him something to look forward to. Not all was lost if he could still have a good – no, not good – a great shag by the end of the day.

It was his moment, negotiated on his terms, in which it didn’t matter if his boss was always so keen on being an arse; if he’d bilked his diet once more or if he still wasn’t getting any younger; and his mum would be yelling, all hurt and disappointed at him next time he visited without a girl to introduce. It also didn’t matter whether the moment had been induced by female or male partner, and this he had just recently discovered. The trace of instantaneous satisfaction embedded in the orgasm was inexorably there independently of state of mind, free of guilt and gender related prejudices – what else could it be, if not a heavenly creation?

Reality, on the other hand, didn’t strive to be as courteous and contrasted rather cruelly with his brief moment of glory. In real life, the still lingering haze alleviated only momentarily the vociferating accusations of that damned little voice (that sounded too much like his mum for his taste), and the downright fiasco that was his romantic life (romantic being a fairly loose description, in his opinion) became even more blatantly obvious in the circumstances of this new - exotic - agreement of his.

The sound of crumpling sheets and covers being pulled up started him out of his post-orgasmic bliss. Andy regarded his partner carefully; he, the male specimen sharing his bed, was staring absently out the window, eyes diving into the surreal shades and forms of oranges and purples and light blues, the ending act of a pleasant afternoon. He was always oddly quiet after sex, which Andy had been immensely grateful for in the beginning, but now kind of started to wonder why. There was something forlorn and expectant, in equal parts, about the way he looked out at the sky, as if he knew what was up there beyond the layers of blue, as if waiting for something to happen – or wishing on it.

At first, Andy had, out of volition, decided not to pay attention on details such as body shape, unfamiliar stubble and protuberances between legs. He promptly ignored those, assuring himself that all that mattered were the sensations. Overwhelming, delightful and hot enough to sear away his concerns about the psychological and social aspects of this thing he was now engaged upon. That was all secondary next to pleasure.

He still fancied women, as he had certified - with glory - on a particular moment of panic. It wasn’t really Andy’s style, to find complete strangers in a pub and take them home, but his confusion had made him in desperate need to shag a woman, just to make sure. Tits and cunts were still top on his list of preferences, just – not exclusively anymore.

He hadn’t even been physically attracted to his partner - initially, that was. If he had to be honest – and honesty had become quite a relative concept lately - the strange roughness and prominent muscles did feel good, in a sense. In all senses, really – and admitting it to himself did not make him a fairy.

They never cuddled, never kissed goodbye, never made small talk, except at meal times. Never during breakfasts, though. They didn’t do breakfast. They never literally slept together, or bathed together, or talked about personal things such as ex-partners, dreams and hopes and other types of girly stuff. No, they were men. And manly men at that. They discussed rugby and football and music. The fact they ended up entangled and sweaty later on – well, it was irrelevant to their manhood.

But something was obviously going on. If he wasn’t gay, neither was he straight. Not anymore, not completely. And Andy felt lost within two very neat categories, one with which he had never flirted until very recently. He should’ve been through sexuality limbo when he was a teenager, when it was ok to feel weird and confused. He had been judged for far worse things in his time, this would have been just one more to the list. Now… Now he felt too old to be a stranger to himself. Now he was an adult who used to think he was certain of his choices and ready for the rest of his life, being thrown off his basis by something that resembled too much like fate having a good laugh at his expense.



In an attempt to understand what the hell was happening to him, Andy created very distinctive categories to represent the progression of his case. In Andy’s scale, fucking and being fucked by other guy was at the low end of ‘Experimenting’ - which meant he was only curious and appreciative of anything that could provide him with unrestricted contentment of any sort. There was no reason to deny it when it only made him feel good; also, it was good company time. (His mum, in his head, vehemently disagreed.)

Next on the scale would be ‘Slightly bouncy,’ qualifying as potentially overly amusing, but not necessarily problematic, situations such as having a man as thought material for a wank, instead of specially attractive women; getting all dressed up like a peacock for encounters, or even feeling anxious and eagerly expectant for those. It was supposed to be casual, after all.

Making plans or actually considering the impropriety of dates was classified under ‘Delicate speculation’. Between that and ‘Wicked’, or the desire to engage in a commitment sort of relationship with same-sex partner (the ultimate level of his scale), there was ‘Critically flamboyant’.

It consisted basically in admiring how beautiful Ianto looked under the golden shy light of nightfall, his intent blue eyes reflecting the shades of the sky outside. His lips, reddened and sullen from kissing and sucking with eager dexterity, parted almost imperceptibly, the uneven movement of his chest revealing that his breath hadn’t quite settled yet.

Lately, Andy could not find another word to describe Ianto’s natural elegance (or the way he did everything with remarkable – mind-blowing – grace and efficiency) other than beautiful. Ianto was beautiful when he walked, beautiful when he talked, beautiful when got out of his layers of clothes and revealed something even more impressive underneath it. He looked beautiful when he fucked, and when he sucked and when he was moaning and panting under him – gorgeous when he came. He was a tease, always a tease, curt smiles and arching eyebrows, wit and spark and cunningness behind a perfectly neat and symmetric suit. Andy used to find suits boring, but Ianto had promptly changed his mind.

Andy knew there was a natural inclination towards finding the person one is currently shagging stunning, in the heat of the moment and everything. But then, regardless of how fiercely he wanted to believe otherwise, he knew it wasn’t the same thing of being unable to take his eyes off the man next to him. Or, more aggravatingly, of suddenly starting to want the man to stay.

He was beginning (more than just beginning, frankly) to especially relish waking up with Ianto’s scent all over his bed, around him on his covers and ingrained into his pillows. But his mind kept reeling at how much more wonderful it would be to have, instead of smells, an arm weighing over his stomach, or a hairy leg entangled between his own. Andy was growing increasingly fidgety with how often he caught himself wondering what Ianto was like when he was asleep, what brand of cereal he preferred or whether he still looked that good first thing in the morning. He wondered if Ianto looked that good at all or if it was just him having inappropriate thoughts, or – God forbid – feelings.

He was way past level four, plunging shamelessly right into the no-turning-back depths of level five.

He was so fucked.

Not even the frantic voice seemed to be capable of stopping him anymore (neither was his self respect – which he seldom had at that point, visibly the only obsessed part in casual fling – or the sharp pang of guilt that seemed to make the disgusted roars and flaming accusations his mum kept bellowing in his ears resonate even louder).

He might have been unsure of whom he was, but he was suddenly sure of what he wanted. And it made him equal parts scared and fascinated.



“Ahn,” he began, fingers twining with the sheet nervously. He noticed Ianto turning his head to him, but wouldn’t dare to do the same, and so kept his eyes focused on some random spot on his ceiling – it dreadfully needed repainting. “I bought this new soap.”

Now was probably when Ianto’s quizzical eyebrow had shot up. In Andy’s defense, it had sounded much better in his head.

“It’s supposed to be 70% more effective. Cleaning and all that. Some new compound from South American rain forests, I think,” he continued to blather. “And it smells really nice too.”

There was an awkward pause, in which Andy would’ve banged his head against a wall if only it wouldn’t make him look mental, thus worsening his sodden case further more.

“That’s good,” Ianto replied, all polite deference. Always so gallantly amiable, Ianto. He would never point out the fact Andy was making a pathetic fool out of himself, and for that Andy was grateful.

Andy nodded his head in agreement, tried to disguise the anxiety that almost had him choking when he swallowed. “Yeah. I was wondering if – you know, maybe, if you’d like – you could – a shower and… the soap is very good, honestly.”

“Andy,” Ianto said, and waited until Andy had turned to him before continuing. There was amusement clear on Ianto’s features. “You just have to ask, you know.”

Andy blinked. “Ask?”

“If I want to take a shower with you. I believe you have a lovely soap, but you don’t have to tell a story just to convince me. I do admire the initiative though.”

Andy hoped his cheeks weren’t flushing just then, as it could not possibly add dignity to his situation. He wasn’t good at that, negotiating intimacy with blokes. There was some kind of technique involved he wasn’t familiar with, he just kept embarrassing himself. Women – that he could do. Arguably, very well even. But men… Men were a bit of a mystery. Which was an ironic thing, if nothing else. And it wasn’t like he could just ask. Oh, hey Trevis from the HR. I heard you’re a queer, is that right? Yeah, so – I’d like to have this bloke I’m shagging staying over and doing more couple-y things, how do you suppose I should ask?

“It’s not like that,” Andy retorted, a bit too overly indignant and delayed to pass for convincing. “I don’t want you to have the wrong idea. I’m not –“

“You want a blowjob?” Ianto cut him off.

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact,” Andy nodded. Ianto grinned.

“Get the soap, will you?” Ianto said, climbing out of bed and walking stark naked to Andy’s bathroom.

Andy vaguely wondered how gay the fact the view had been thoroughly appreciated, producing immediate consequences on the consistency of certain parts of his body, made him. What sent the voice rabid, however, was how his heart raced, and how maybe his breath caught just a little.

--

He could barely keep himself up, legs shaking, breath hitching, hands fisting in Ianto’s hair. He groaned, loudly, leaned his head back against the cool wet tiles behind him, felt his body invaded by that ravishing sensation once more.

He smiled, almost instinctively, when he opened his eyes to see Ianto still kneeling in front of him, water cascading over his shoulders as he licked away every single drop of Andy’s come. Now that was something.

He slackened his fingers on Ianto’s wet hair, turning the tug into a gentle caress, combing through his hair affectionately.

Ianto got up, cleaned the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and offered Andy a short, sympathetic smile, like he had done as mild a thing as helped him carry a heavy load of files or unjamming the printer.

Ianto was fierce and passionate and intense during sex, but more often than not Andy would sense an uncomfortable aura of professionalism, too much formality for someone who had just sucked him off. Maybe all things with Ianto were like that, he didn’t know. There was no way he could know. They never got into that type of detail – and that ought to mean something, Andy thought. Ianto’s smiles said ‘No problem, my pleasure’ when Andy’s were mostly saying ‘Kiss me, you son of a bitch’. Either Ianto didn’t get that, or he chose not to. Ianto being Ianto, the latter was more likely to be true.

Andy motioned to get closer, placed one hand on Ianto’s thigh and was just about to slide it up to his cock when Ianto’s own fingers closed gently around his wrist and pulled it away with the cordiality of a gentleman.

“It’s ok, I’m fine,” he said, his thumb slowly petting the back of Andy’s hand before letting it go.

Andy leaned back against the tiles once more, watching dumbfounded as Ianto threw his head back, under the jet of hot water.

He looked… peaceful. Relaxed. Beautiful. Tempting.

Andy bit his lower lip, mentally repeated he shouldn’t do it, he shouldn’t do it, he shouldn’t. Do. It. But did it anyway. Before he could stop himself, he had an arm snaking around Ianto’s neck and pulling him closer, into an open mouthed kiss. He explored Ianto’s mouth with his tongue, savored his own taste on the other man’s lips. It felt good, it felt right – he could even shut the fucking voice of his mum away.

Except… Except Ianto wasn’t kissing him back.

He tried harder, placed his other hand on Ianto’s waist and pulled him flush against his own body. Kissed deeper, and more passionately – kissed him with the best kiss he could. Still, Ianto wouldn’t return it.

When he pulled away, Ianto’s eyes were open, staring at him with a mixture of sadness and guilt; the crease between his eyebrows an awful display of apology.

Andy… Andy was just disappointed. Both at himself and at Ianto and the wrongness of it all – and at how his compass had just probably moved to a different north, since he couldn’t quite decide what he found more aggravating; his involvement with another man or the fact said man was clearly rejecting him. Completely at a loss, he was just about to open his mouth again, suddenly fueled by courage (and lacking dignity once more), to ask what the hell. But Ianto beat him to it, maybe sensing what was about to come. His timing was always impeccable.

“I should go,” he said, pulling the curtains open and getting out of the shower. He took a towel, dried himself off.

“Wait – what?” said Andy, brow creased in confusion. “You’re leaving?”

“I have a lot to do.” Ianto wrapped the towel around his waist.

“You said tomorrow is your day off.”

“But I still have – there are things I need to finish.”

“I kissed you and you’re leaving?” Andy affirmed more than asked, shaking his head lightly in helplessness as Ianto turned around to walk out. “Oh, brilliant. Yeah, that’s right, off you go. Leave the clown here.”

Ianto stopped, turned on his heels – that same apologetic expression that was frankly getting to Andy’s nerves.

“Andy, you shouldn’t –” he stopped, sighed ruefully. Ianto’s eyes fleeted from Andy, away, and back again as he scratched the back of his head. “Don’t, all right? Just don’t. Not with me.”

He murmured some other unintelligible apology and left. Andy heard the front door clicking shut few moments later, and then the stillness that revolved around him was suddenly too heavy, almost oppressive.

“Bloody fuck,” he muttered. To Ianto, to himself, to his inability to make right, wise choices instead of completely screwed-up-doomed-to-failure ones. First Gwen, now bloody Ianto. What was it with him and fucked up Torchwood staff?

His mum had shut up, and he noticed he liked it better when she screamed. Even that inner voice of reason, supposed to be sniggering right now, was respecting his moment. He might not have been familiar with the peculiarities of an affair with a man, but with that stinging sensation, that thing clenching his stomach, that sudden utter loneliness – that he’d felt before.

He realized there was a sixth category he hadn’t drawn on his scale, one that hadn’t crossed his mind yet, but that he had just quite possibly reached.



Heartbroken.


End.