Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this story. I am not making profit from this work.
Summary: Fun with length limits! Exactly 500 word count. Ianto ruins a perfectly good shag with a bit of an emotional breakdown. Ianto/Jack.
Proximity, Unwanted and Otherwise
There was a moment, a lull in time during which Ianto seemed to lift away from his body: away from the arousal itself, but also away from every other sensation- breathing, sweating, being. But then he slammed back to Earth, and the release was so intense that its edges were blurred with nausea, and tears formed in his eyes. And he fell, down, away, so far and so fast that the mattress seemed like a life raft as he came to rest upon it.
Jack’s body was tense, somewhere high above him, and then there was a soft, muffled impact as he too fell down to the bed, panting.
“Ianto,” he breathed. “Ianto…”
But there was a sudden throbbing in Ianto’s ears, and an inexplicable weakness so intense, so numbing, that he could not respond to his name. His back to Jack’s chest and his face to the musty mattress, he sucked in air like a drowning man and felt his body shake, vision blurring. The tears had not faded, and he resisted them out of an instinct to conserve energy, not dignity.
His name, sighed, again, and Jack’s hand was surprisingly cool on the feverish skin of his shoulder. Ianto let go, screwed up his face and bawled, pressing himself down against the mattress urgently; his fists were tight around handfuls of bedsheet.
Jack’s hand went to his waist, and there was a gentle, coaxing pressure as he rolled Ianto bodily towards him. Flat on his back, Ianto sobbed into the open air, and obediently completed the rotation just to give himself somewhere to bury his face. He pressed his forehead against Jack’s chest and wailed, and the pain he heard coming from his own lips only spurred his anguish.
Propped up on one elbow, Jack pulled Ianto towards him, brushed his lips against the shock of sweaty hair. “What is it?” He murmured, and Ianto choked on his own breath and sniffed spasmodically. His muscles shook with weakness.
Then, “Jack.” The name burst from his lips like a shotgun, and Ianto shut his eyes tightly against the inevitable impact.
“I’m here, Ianto.”
“Don’t do it, Jack.” All he craved was distance, yet all he moved towards was proximity, pushing ever closer into Jack’s steady embrace, even as his mind urged him to flee.
And the words surprised them both, a command ripped from the outskirts of his mind: “Don’t love me.”
(Because it’s wrong; because I’m still in love with Lisa. Because people who love me die and people who love you are torn apart. Because if you don’t love me, I can pretend. Pretend we were just lonely.)
And Jack did not reply, continuing to hold Ianto in silence. Ianto’s sobs were stifled, and the room was as hushed as a mortuary. And still, the tears came persistently, and fell onto the skin of Jack’s bare chest.
Ianto was not comforted by the knowledge that Jack would likely obey his command.