Jun. 19th, 2005 06:41 pm
Title: The Poetry of Falling In Love 2/3
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lovely_ambitionTitle: The Poetry of Falling In Love 2/3
Pairing: Hugh/Ioan
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Really not mine. Really, really. Promise.
Summary: Hugh meets a very interesting professor and nothing is ever the same.
Notes: So very AU. It's not really accurate to the English schooling system, but please bear with me. This is just meant to be a light fluffy student!verse AU. Ioan is a professor. Hugh is a teaching assistant. Suspend that disbelief.
"If you value our friendship at all," Joel groans, his head firmly planted in between his forearms, "you will whisper, you will bring me black coffee, and you will invent a time machine to go back to last night and tell me to stop drinking."
Hugh rolls his eyes, setting the coffee down. When Joel slowly looks up and sees the mug, he grasps at it as though it were an oasis in a desert. Hugh sits himself down into a chair in their makeshift assistant office, tapping a pencil lightly against the table until Joel's hand comes down on his to forcibly make him stop.
"Oh, take the drugs," Hugh mutters, exasperated.
"You brought me drugs?" Joel asks with eagerness. "Have I mentioned lately that you're my favourite best friend?" He quickly grabs the pills and swallows them down. Hugh rolls his eyes once more, his glance falling back to his notes on the page, steadfastly avoiding the small telephone number he's sketched into the corner and the way he's framed "Eight P.M." a few times, adding sketches to it. Joel gives a great sigh of relief, propping his head up with his hand. "I'm still disappointed that you beat my value by so much."
"Get over it," Hugh mumbles distractedly, making a note or two.
"Not likely," Joel scoffs.
"Do you even recall how much you were sold for?" Hugh asks in disbelief.
There's a momentary pause.
"No."
"I thought as much."
"I do recall," Joel begins, his voice teasing and hoarse, "that a certain Monsieur Dancy was not to be found after a certain time of the night. I hear from reputable sources..."
"Keira."
"...that you escaped the mass of admirers with the newest addition to the English department. Any truth to those rumours?" Joel finishes with a wicked smile on his face. Hugh stumbles now, his face growing flusher by the moment as his eyes fall back upon the eight o'clock time and he wonders just how he's going to deal with all of this. "Who's taking the crazy pills, might I ask?"
"I brought you drugs," Hugh defensively reminds Joel with a pointed finger.
"Yes, but once they're swallowed, I no longer owe you gratitude because you can't take them away," Joel swiftly responds with a careless shrug. "Oh, and I meant to tell you. He called to confirm your reservations for eight, said you should dress casual."
Hugh rolls his eyes once more -- feeling as though they may break. "You might have mentioned that when I arrived."
"You weren't giving me drugs then."
"Touché."
"You're going to give me all your work, aren't you?" Joel groans when Hugh gets up, a grin on his face. "I hereby regret pushing you to do this."
"No, you don't," Hugh retorts breezily. "Besides, all I want you to do is take Keira out or something. I don't want her hovering over me, the next table over, being my Cyrano. I'm more than fine on my own."
"Just don't go into your explications," Joel warns.
Hugh rolls his eyes.
"Or, you know, your thesis work. Or your papers. Or anything you teach in your seminar. You know what, maybe you should just speak in quotes all night. It'd be mysterious and romantic," Joel grins, his eyes lighting up. "So long as you used a good source. Marlowe. Wilde. Joel Edgerton."
"And what did Mr. Edgerton say?" Hugh asks, concealing his smirk with a hand.
"Have sex. Have it often. Have it loudly. And always do it behind soundproofed doors."
Hugh laughs loudly, tilting his head back to the ceiling. "You are terrible!" he accuses between laughs. "My god, remind me not to hook you up with any poor girls. It's like sending them into a slaughter of male hormones and immaturity."
"You say potato, I say potahto," Joel shrugs it away.
Hugh checks his watch again, feeling more compulsive than he did last night, or even a few hours ago. He's done with the majority of his work and he has a feeling that his closet is singing out to him with beckoning tones and angelic harps, calling him in to choose the perfect suit for that night. He frowns, wondering if he should bring something, perhaps a small token of thanks.
"Stop thinking about it," Joel orders, getting up and bundling his papers together. "Keira's at your place, she's laid out a suit for you and she also picked up a lovely bottle of white wine you'll be giving to him. All you have to do is work the old Dancy charm."
"Why do you two do this?" Hugh shakes his head in wonder.
"Devotion?" Joel ventures a guess. "Madness? One never knows."
And as if on cue, the door is pushed open with a great burst of intensity and enthusiasm.
"Right, class, let's open our books to..."
"Wrong room," Joel smirks.
The intruder looks up and laughs nervously, scratching his head and biting his lip. Hugh smiles sympathetically, leaning back in his chair slightly as he feels more relaxed than he did before.
"Well, this is quite wrong," he goes on.
"How are you today, Mr. Mikkelsen?" Joel asks politely.
"Mads, child. You haven't been my student for ages. I'm not as well off as Hugh, but then again, I'm not going to be dating the English faculty. Sadly, not everyone can date the crème de la crème of the Psychology Department," he grins arrogantly, his smile crooked just like his supposed state of mind. "The whole campus staff," he speaks to Hugh, "is buzzing."
"Why is there buzzing?" Hugh frowns, sitting up straighter. "When did the campus become a bee, and why does it care about me?" After a quick moment of thought, he looks accusingly at Joel.
"Well, you are going to date Ioan.”
"What about not telling anyone?" Hugh shouts at Joel when the name passes his lips. Until that point, he'd been enjoying the anonymity but now he really was the subject of campus gossip.
Joel winces. "Shouting. You're shouting and my head hurts." Mads has excused himself from the room without so much as a goodbye. Hugh reclines in his chair once more, twitching and fidgeting and always returning to stare at the time written on his piece of paper. "See if I help you the next time."
"I have never once asked for it," Hugh murmurs distractedly, sketching on his paper again. "What time is it?" he asks, as innocently as he can.
"Not time for your date."
"Oh, shut up."
"You're going to class," Joel smirks. "You lose this round."
Hugh checks his watch and jumps to his feet, feeling a little panicked. Joel's right, he is going to class and he'd better run if he wants to make it on time (it's a twenty person class and he doesn't fancy strolling in late, disrupting everyone simply to become the subject of mocking). He gathers everything up and gives one last grin.
"Thanks for the help," he rambles before dashing out the door.
*
Ioan had picked the restaurant. He had also picked the wine, the appetizers, and just in case (a very large, very underlined just in case), he's chosen the music back at his place and the nightcap. He's not sure what will happen, but he's not going to take any chances. He's fidgeting with his napkin and tapping the table when he sees the waiter bringing Hugh over. It's not the tux, but it's not so bad -- a suit that looks almost like black velvet and a matching white shirt to boot. He's also carrying a bottle in his hands and his eyes are shining.
"You clean up well," Ioan observes, standing up as Hugh arrives at the table. Hugh hands over a gift-bag shaped like a bottle and they sit down as Ioan opens it. He's brought him wine, and it's bloody good wine as well. "Impressive," Ioan remarks.
"Care of someone who isn't me, I'm afraid," Hugh admits, his eyes already perusing the menu. "My knowledge of fine wines tends to border on my own preferences."
"I'll settle for your company," Ioan replies with a smile, putting the gift-bag at his feet and relaxing in his chair, enjoying the view in front of him. He pours a glass of the red he's ordered for Hugh while noting how the candlelight tends to flatter his complexion. Hugh puts down the menu and meets his gaze with a brilliant wide smile.
For a moment, they sit in silence.
"No poetry to woo me?" Hugh asks teasingly, his arms folded atop the menu. He leans forward, sipping every so often from his glass. "Frankly, you disappoint me."
"Well, heaven forbid me from disappointing you," Ioan dryly replies, searching through his mental file of sonnets and items to charm his dates with. Usually, he relies upon the wine until at least a few hours in, but beggars can't be choosers when it comes to gorgeous young teaching assistants. "But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, and constant stars, in them I read such art as truth and beauty shall together thrive, if from thyself to store, thou woudst convert."
Ioan finds and captures Hugh's gaze, noting that he's been successful once again. It never fails to impress and he's eternally grateful for it. Who knows how much work he'd have to do if not for the failsafe poetry venue? He leans forward slightly as he sips from the wine, catching the scent of cologne Hugh's put on. It's quite the impressive overall package.
"Consider my disappointment revoked," Hugh stage whispers, his smile widening slightly. "Although, you'd best be careful. You're on probation. No more poetry. You used up that avenue already."
So maybe poetry won't woo this one, Ioan realizes.
"Charm me properly," Hugh warns, a cocky grin on his face as he sits back, glass of wine firmly fixed in his hand.
Ioan mutters to himself, bemoaning the sheer nature of the night to himself and how the flirting has to be difficult now. He searches his brain for anything that isn't poetry, or poetry related, and he doesn't suppose that dirty limerick would do well at this point. There's a moment in which he falters and pauses -- his foot already out of its shoe and halfway across the table – because he realizes that he might just scare him off if he tries too much too quickly.
That's the last thing Ioan wants.
He withdraws his foot and leans forward, hands splayed on the table. "Right then," he says pleasantly. "How about you help me to charm you?"
"I'm sorry, what?" Hugh sputters into his glass.
"You're bilingual, aren't you?"
"Well, yes, I..."
"Teach me," Ioan commands. There is no room for mere requests. A rush of heat flickers through him at the thought of Hugh's lips forming the words and saying them to Ioan and him alone. "Anything, not everything, but something."
"French?" Hugh questions, one eyebrow raising slowly.
"French."
Hugh laughs warmly, pouring himself another glass of the wine. Ioan follows in suit, enjoying the way he's relaxing and the pleasant haze he's finally settled into. Ioan doesn't move back a single inch, but instead keeps Hugh's gaze locked with his own, entreating for a little piece of another culture.
"Please," Ioan finishes with the coup de grace.
"D'accord," Hugh breathes out the word, a grin plastered on his face. One hand reaches across the table and grasps Ioan's hand. He brings it back towards his face and begins to lightly touch facial parts. "Bouche," their fingers glide over Hugh's lips. Hugh closes his eyes and allows Ioan's fingertips to rest there -- the heat nearly burning him. "Des yeux."
"Bouche," Ioan repeats inanely, grinning stupidly. "Des yeux."
Their hands travel lower, resting on Hugh's chest. Ioan hears the thrum-thrum-thrum of Hugh's heartbeat and there's a moment of silence. Hugh seems to be gathering his thoughts, and when he speaks it's more than one word and it's in a hoarse voice.
"C'est mon coeur." He moves his hand to Ioan’s chest, fingers splayed over his suit. “Alors, c’est votre coeur. Je vous desirez beaucoups, cherie, vraiment beaucoups.”
Ioan freezes, not quite sure what he's just heard, but the way Hugh is looking at him makes him stumble and grasp for anything that he can say that won't sound out of place or completely inferior to the gift he's just been offered.
"You really are unique," Ioan murmurs softly.
Hugh grins. "You can use poetry again."
“I don’t think I quite need it,” Ioan replies after a moment of just looking into Hugh’s eyes. Gorgeous colour, really; a little like the sea, if you looked in just the right light. He grins and lifts his wine glass. “To the boy with the silver tongue and looks to boot.”
“To that boy,” Hugh lifts his glass. “But of course, you’ve got to stop talking about yourself. It really is improper first date etiquette.”
Ioan sputters in surprised laughter. He thinks that, perhaps, he might be slightly smitten.
***
The next day, there’s a folded piece of paper in Ioan’s inbox that is simultaneously so ruffled and so taken care of that it strikes Ioan as a little strange. He has a feeling that he’ll be taking good care of this piece of paper. Unfolding it, he finds that the page contains a typed poem and it’s littered with neat, handwritten words all over. Hugh’s loopy script has made marks over nearly every inch of the paper.
And there’s a poem buried somewhere underneath it.
We are so well-mannered we never move
without sending a letter of intent
months in advance. Always we sign it Love
though we know little of hearts or rose scent.
We wouldn’t recognize red if it fell
out of our mouths. Its very existence
depends on rumours and it’s possible
to believe only so much that’s nonsense.
It’s too bad if anyone imagines
that words have bled when the blackness
of letters on this paper should imply
that it’s easy to live. You can’t deny
the truth of salutation or address –
that there’s nothing but white between the lines.
The smile slowly builds on Ioan’s face as he reads Hugh’s writing that points out the metaphors, the symbolism, the double meaning of certain words and the phrasing. An entire close reading has been done on this piece and while it’s quite academic in nature, it’s incredibly endearing to Ioan. He folds it carefully and tucks it into his breast pocket, keeping it close to his heart as he leaves for lecture.
***
"So," Clive walks around the flat like he owns the place. He's done that since Ioan met him and he's never quite stopped. It's not so much arrogance as confidence that runs through him. Ioan had admired that greatly when they had first hooked up. Now it's irritating beyond belief. "Let me get this straight," Clive continues, folding up the latest poem that Hugh's sent him. "You've been seeing the bloke for how long?"
Ioan looks up from the blank card that came with the flowers. He's trying to recall one of Shakespeare's sonnets -- and he knows it's terribly cliché, but it works -- but it isn't going very well. He frowns and furrows his brow. "Few weeks," Ioan replies, neglecting to add the 'seven hours’ part because really, there are simply some things that remain unsaid. "Yeah, definitely been a few weeks. Maybe almost a month."
"Right," Clive replies, sitting down on a chair backwards so that his legs are spread. Ioan looks up to find himself under a scrutinous gaze.
"Oh, for Christ's sake," Ioan sighs and throws down the pen. "What?"
"Almost a month."
"Yes."
"And you've not slept with him."
Ioan sighs. They have gone over this and over it and over it again. "No," he says, rolling his eyes. He abandons the sonnet and tries to recall something else, but it's not before Clive snatches the paper from Ioan's hands and stands, pacing around the room. "Clive," Ioan starts warningly.
"Poetry," Clive smirks, handing it back to Ioan. He shakes his head, clearly amazed. "And flowers! Ioan, not once during our relationship did you ever give me flowers, did you ever once send me poetry, which I mean...I found strange considering your line of work, but I didn't complain because the sex was good. Here you are though, courtship with flowers and poems and you bloody well blush every time I say his name."
"I do not," Ioan growls in protest.
"Hugh."
Ioan wants desperately to stop the smile, but it appears on his face nonetheless. The smirk on Clive's face grows even more victorious, and Ioan wants nothing more than to slap it off. Ioan immediately goes from smiling to scowling like a storm has quickly raged and dampened all his cheer. He finishes writing the sonnet and gracefully signs his name, sticking the card in the flowers.
"What do you care?" he finally asks Clive.
Clive studies Ioan's face carefully and sits back down, leaning forward on his elbows. Ioan shifts uncomfortably, unsure of what's coming next, and a part of him doesn't want to hear it at all. He tries to relax, but finds he's afflicted with a great and terrible bout of anxiety that flickers through him. He raises an eyebrow, chuckling nervously.
"You're in love with him," Clive says quietly.
Ioan starts at this. "What? Love! No, god...christ, no, Clive. This...love?"
"Poetry. Flowers. That damned expression on your face. Infatuation or love, take your pick," Clive nods, starting his words evenly.
"Clive...Clive," Ioan laughs nervously, protesting copiously. He's out of his seat now, pacing. "I'm not..."
"Look," Clive cuts him off, standing so that he's on Ioan's level. "Just sleep with him already and decide whether you want something more or if you just want to screw him through the mattress. I find that's the best way to distinguish lust from love. After all, not all of us can be worthy of Sir Gruffudd's afternoon poetry sessions," Clive says with another smirk. He claps Ioan on the back and departs without saying another word.
Ioan merely stands there, staring at the door as Clive's words sink in.
***
"Five quid."
"Are you bloody well insane?"
"Yes. Ten quid?"
Hugh rolls his eyes. "Oh, for christ's sake. Up the ante a little, at least."
"Fine," Joel concedes, digging through his pockets. "I will pay you twenty quid to wear the trousers," he shoves it all into one palm and presses it into Hugh's hand as though he won't take an argument. It's Thursday night, and though Hugh had been counting on plans with Ioan, he had cancelled at the last minute. Something about a drink with a fellow professor. It's all right though. Hugh understands. Well, he understands that Ioan will be paying for it later. "You know you won't make that kind of money anywhere else. Come on, Hugh. Nothing gets the girls to swarm more than you in the bloody leather trousers and if we're going to have Keira there, I need something to attract them."
"What happened to doing things yourself?" Hugh mutters, snatching the trousers with his free hand and pocketing his money with the other.
"Antiquated. Had to be outlawed," Joel shakes his head. "Don't whinge. You're being paid."
"Oh," Hugh presses his lips together in a snide smile. "I'm a whore. Lovely."
"One would think you were used to it, Mr. Dancy of the Auctioned Men's Club. I swear, you're the founding member and patron saint," Joel scoffs, grasping his wallet. "Trousers. On. We're meeting Keira at the bar. Club. Whatever you want to call it. Bar-club? Clubar? Screw it...Place-I-Hope-To-Get-Laid." He buttons up the black silk-shirt he's grabbed from the closet and nudges Hugh forward. "Come on," he growls. "The early bird catches the prize."
"Why am I even doing this?" Hugh mutters to himself.
"Because Ioan gave you the boot for the night!" Joel shouts out after him as Hugh closes the door. He changes quickly, grabbing a long-sleeved button down to wear atop, rolling it up to the sleeves. Hugh steps out from the washroom, and raises an eyebrow to Joel's smirk. "Yes, darling," Joel affects a sympathetic voice. "You look wonderful. Can we go?"
"For someone who's so dependent on me when we're on the pull, one would think you'd be a little nicer to me," Hugh says huffily, grabbing his keys and throwing Joel a set. "After all, I could always leave you on your own and then what would you do?"
Joel laughs loudly, grabbing Hugh for a moment to bring him into a rough and quick hug, giving him a small shove as they make it to the street and Joel's car. "Suffer horribly, no doubt." Hugh gets in and rolls his eyes. He'd much rather be reading the latest novel he picked up, but then again, with Keira in attendance, Hugh's sure to have all his drinks paid for in advance. The night may turn out to be not half-bad after all.
After all, the trousers were only slightly on the tight side.
tbc
Pairing: Hugh/Ioan
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Really not mine. Really, really. Promise.
Summary: Hugh meets a very interesting professor and nothing is ever the same.
Notes: So very AU. It's not really accurate to the English schooling system, but please bear with me. This is just meant to be a light fluffy student!verse AU. Ioan is a professor. Hugh is a teaching assistant. Suspend that disbelief.
"If you value our friendship at all," Joel groans, his head firmly planted in between his forearms, "you will whisper, you will bring me black coffee, and you will invent a time machine to go back to last night and tell me to stop drinking."
Hugh rolls his eyes, setting the coffee down. When Joel slowly looks up and sees the mug, he grasps at it as though it were an oasis in a desert. Hugh sits himself down into a chair in their makeshift assistant office, tapping a pencil lightly against the table until Joel's hand comes down on his to forcibly make him stop.
"Oh, take the drugs," Hugh mutters, exasperated.
"You brought me drugs?" Joel asks with eagerness. "Have I mentioned lately that you're my favourite best friend?" He quickly grabs the pills and swallows them down. Hugh rolls his eyes once more, his glance falling back to his notes on the page, steadfastly avoiding the small telephone number he's sketched into the corner and the way he's framed "Eight P.M." a few times, adding sketches to it. Joel gives a great sigh of relief, propping his head up with his hand. "I'm still disappointed that you beat my value by so much."
"Get over it," Hugh mumbles distractedly, making a note or two.
"Not likely," Joel scoffs.
"Do you even recall how much you were sold for?" Hugh asks in disbelief.
There's a momentary pause.
"No."
"I thought as much."
"I do recall," Joel begins, his voice teasing and hoarse, "that a certain Monsieur Dancy was not to be found after a certain time of the night. I hear from reputable sources..."
"Keira."
"...that you escaped the mass of admirers with the newest addition to the English department. Any truth to those rumours?" Joel finishes with a wicked smile on his face. Hugh stumbles now, his face growing flusher by the moment as his eyes fall back upon the eight o'clock time and he wonders just how he's going to deal with all of this. "Who's taking the crazy pills, might I ask?"
"I brought you drugs," Hugh defensively reminds Joel with a pointed finger.
"Yes, but once they're swallowed, I no longer owe you gratitude because you can't take them away," Joel swiftly responds with a careless shrug. "Oh, and I meant to tell you. He called to confirm your reservations for eight, said you should dress casual."
Hugh rolls his eyes once more -- feeling as though they may break. "You might have mentioned that when I arrived."
"You weren't giving me drugs then."
"Touché."
"You're going to give me all your work, aren't you?" Joel groans when Hugh gets up, a grin on his face. "I hereby regret pushing you to do this."
"No, you don't," Hugh retorts breezily. "Besides, all I want you to do is take Keira out or something. I don't want her hovering over me, the next table over, being my Cyrano. I'm more than fine on my own."
"Just don't go into your explications," Joel warns.
Hugh rolls his eyes.
"Or, you know, your thesis work. Or your papers. Or anything you teach in your seminar. You know what, maybe you should just speak in quotes all night. It'd be mysterious and romantic," Joel grins, his eyes lighting up. "So long as you used a good source. Marlowe. Wilde. Joel Edgerton."
"And what did Mr. Edgerton say?" Hugh asks, concealing his smirk with a hand.
"Have sex. Have it often. Have it loudly. And always do it behind soundproofed doors."
Hugh laughs loudly, tilting his head back to the ceiling. "You are terrible!" he accuses between laughs. "My god, remind me not to hook you up with any poor girls. It's like sending them into a slaughter of male hormones and immaturity."
"You say potato, I say potahto," Joel shrugs it away.
Hugh checks his watch again, feeling more compulsive than he did last night, or even a few hours ago. He's done with the majority of his work and he has a feeling that his closet is singing out to him with beckoning tones and angelic harps, calling him in to choose the perfect suit for that night. He frowns, wondering if he should bring something, perhaps a small token of thanks.
"Stop thinking about it," Joel orders, getting up and bundling his papers together. "Keira's at your place, she's laid out a suit for you and she also picked up a lovely bottle of white wine you'll be giving to him. All you have to do is work the old Dancy charm."
"Why do you two do this?" Hugh shakes his head in wonder.
"Devotion?" Joel ventures a guess. "Madness? One never knows."
And as if on cue, the door is pushed open with a great burst of intensity and enthusiasm.
"Right, class, let's open our books to..."
"Wrong room," Joel smirks.
The intruder looks up and laughs nervously, scratching his head and biting his lip. Hugh smiles sympathetically, leaning back in his chair slightly as he feels more relaxed than he did before.
"Well, this is quite wrong," he goes on.
"How are you today, Mr. Mikkelsen?" Joel asks politely.
"Mads, child. You haven't been my student for ages. I'm not as well off as Hugh, but then again, I'm not going to be dating the English faculty. Sadly, not everyone can date the crème de la crème of the Psychology Department," he grins arrogantly, his smile crooked just like his supposed state of mind. "The whole campus staff," he speaks to Hugh, "is buzzing."
"Why is there buzzing?" Hugh frowns, sitting up straighter. "When did the campus become a bee, and why does it care about me?" After a quick moment of thought, he looks accusingly at Joel.
"Well, you are going to date Ioan.”
"What about not telling anyone?" Hugh shouts at Joel when the name passes his lips. Until that point, he'd been enjoying the anonymity but now he really was the subject of campus gossip.
Joel winces. "Shouting. You're shouting and my head hurts." Mads has excused himself from the room without so much as a goodbye. Hugh reclines in his chair once more, twitching and fidgeting and always returning to stare at the time written on his piece of paper. "See if I help you the next time."
"I have never once asked for it," Hugh murmurs distractedly, sketching on his paper again. "What time is it?" he asks, as innocently as he can.
"Not time for your date."
"Oh, shut up."
"You're going to class," Joel smirks. "You lose this round."
Hugh checks his watch and jumps to his feet, feeling a little panicked. Joel's right, he is going to class and he'd better run if he wants to make it on time (it's a twenty person class and he doesn't fancy strolling in late, disrupting everyone simply to become the subject of mocking). He gathers everything up and gives one last grin.
"Thanks for the help," he rambles before dashing out the door.
*
Ioan had picked the restaurant. He had also picked the wine, the appetizers, and just in case (a very large, very underlined just in case), he's chosen the music back at his place and the nightcap. He's not sure what will happen, but he's not going to take any chances. He's fidgeting with his napkin and tapping the table when he sees the waiter bringing Hugh over. It's not the tux, but it's not so bad -- a suit that looks almost like black velvet and a matching white shirt to boot. He's also carrying a bottle in his hands and his eyes are shining.
"You clean up well," Ioan observes, standing up as Hugh arrives at the table. Hugh hands over a gift-bag shaped like a bottle and they sit down as Ioan opens it. He's brought him wine, and it's bloody good wine as well. "Impressive," Ioan remarks.
"Care of someone who isn't me, I'm afraid," Hugh admits, his eyes already perusing the menu. "My knowledge of fine wines tends to border on my own preferences."
"I'll settle for your company," Ioan replies with a smile, putting the gift-bag at his feet and relaxing in his chair, enjoying the view in front of him. He pours a glass of the red he's ordered for Hugh while noting how the candlelight tends to flatter his complexion. Hugh puts down the menu and meets his gaze with a brilliant wide smile.
For a moment, they sit in silence.
"No poetry to woo me?" Hugh asks teasingly, his arms folded atop the menu. He leans forward, sipping every so often from his glass. "Frankly, you disappoint me."
"Well, heaven forbid me from disappointing you," Ioan dryly replies, searching through his mental file of sonnets and items to charm his dates with. Usually, he relies upon the wine until at least a few hours in, but beggars can't be choosers when it comes to gorgeous young teaching assistants. "But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, and constant stars, in them I read such art as truth and beauty shall together thrive, if from thyself to store, thou woudst convert."
Ioan finds and captures Hugh's gaze, noting that he's been successful once again. It never fails to impress and he's eternally grateful for it. Who knows how much work he'd have to do if not for the failsafe poetry venue? He leans forward slightly as he sips from the wine, catching the scent of cologne Hugh's put on. It's quite the impressive overall package.
"Consider my disappointment revoked," Hugh stage whispers, his smile widening slightly. "Although, you'd best be careful. You're on probation. No more poetry. You used up that avenue already."
So maybe poetry won't woo this one, Ioan realizes.
"Charm me properly," Hugh warns, a cocky grin on his face as he sits back, glass of wine firmly fixed in his hand.
Ioan mutters to himself, bemoaning the sheer nature of the night to himself and how the flirting has to be difficult now. He searches his brain for anything that isn't poetry, or poetry related, and he doesn't suppose that dirty limerick would do well at this point. There's a moment in which he falters and pauses -- his foot already out of its shoe and halfway across the table – because he realizes that he might just scare him off if he tries too much too quickly.
That's the last thing Ioan wants.
He withdraws his foot and leans forward, hands splayed on the table. "Right then," he says pleasantly. "How about you help me to charm you?"
"I'm sorry, what?" Hugh sputters into his glass.
"You're bilingual, aren't you?"
"Well, yes, I..."
"Teach me," Ioan commands. There is no room for mere requests. A rush of heat flickers through him at the thought of Hugh's lips forming the words and saying them to Ioan and him alone. "Anything, not everything, but something."
"French?" Hugh questions, one eyebrow raising slowly.
"French."
Hugh laughs warmly, pouring himself another glass of the wine. Ioan follows in suit, enjoying the way he's relaxing and the pleasant haze he's finally settled into. Ioan doesn't move back a single inch, but instead keeps Hugh's gaze locked with his own, entreating for a little piece of another culture.
"Please," Ioan finishes with the coup de grace.
"D'accord," Hugh breathes out the word, a grin plastered on his face. One hand reaches across the table and grasps Ioan's hand. He brings it back towards his face and begins to lightly touch facial parts. "Bouche," their fingers glide over Hugh's lips. Hugh closes his eyes and allows Ioan's fingertips to rest there -- the heat nearly burning him. "Des yeux."
"Bouche," Ioan repeats inanely, grinning stupidly. "Des yeux."
Their hands travel lower, resting on Hugh's chest. Ioan hears the thrum-thrum-thrum of Hugh's heartbeat and there's a moment of silence. Hugh seems to be gathering his thoughts, and when he speaks it's more than one word and it's in a hoarse voice.
"C'est mon coeur." He moves his hand to Ioan’s chest, fingers splayed over his suit. “Alors, c’est votre coeur. Je vous desirez beaucoups, cherie, vraiment beaucoups.”
Ioan freezes, not quite sure what he's just heard, but the way Hugh is looking at him makes him stumble and grasp for anything that he can say that won't sound out of place or completely inferior to the gift he's just been offered.
"You really are unique," Ioan murmurs softly.
Hugh grins. "You can use poetry again."
“I don’t think I quite need it,” Ioan replies after a moment of just looking into Hugh’s eyes. Gorgeous colour, really; a little like the sea, if you looked in just the right light. He grins and lifts his wine glass. “To the boy with the silver tongue and looks to boot.”
“To that boy,” Hugh lifts his glass. “But of course, you’ve got to stop talking about yourself. It really is improper first date etiquette.”
Ioan sputters in surprised laughter. He thinks that, perhaps, he might be slightly smitten.
***
The next day, there’s a folded piece of paper in Ioan’s inbox that is simultaneously so ruffled and so taken care of that it strikes Ioan as a little strange. He has a feeling that he’ll be taking good care of this piece of paper. Unfolding it, he finds that the page contains a typed poem and it’s littered with neat, handwritten words all over. Hugh’s loopy script has made marks over nearly every inch of the paper.
And there’s a poem buried somewhere underneath it.
We are so well-mannered we never move
without sending a letter of intent
months in advance. Always we sign it Love
though we know little of hearts or rose scent.
We wouldn’t recognize red if it fell
out of our mouths. Its very existence
depends on rumours and it’s possible
to believe only so much that’s nonsense.
It’s too bad if anyone imagines
that words have bled when the blackness
of letters on this paper should imply
that it’s easy to live. You can’t deny
the truth of salutation or address –
that there’s nothing but white between the lines.
The smile slowly builds on Ioan’s face as he reads Hugh’s writing that points out the metaphors, the symbolism, the double meaning of certain words and the phrasing. An entire close reading has been done on this piece and while it’s quite academic in nature, it’s incredibly endearing to Ioan. He folds it carefully and tucks it into his breast pocket, keeping it close to his heart as he leaves for lecture.
***
"So," Clive walks around the flat like he owns the place. He's done that since Ioan met him and he's never quite stopped. It's not so much arrogance as confidence that runs through him. Ioan had admired that greatly when they had first hooked up. Now it's irritating beyond belief. "Let me get this straight," Clive continues, folding up the latest poem that Hugh's sent him. "You've been seeing the bloke for how long?"
Ioan looks up from the blank card that came with the flowers. He's trying to recall one of Shakespeare's sonnets -- and he knows it's terribly cliché, but it works -- but it isn't going very well. He frowns and furrows his brow. "Few weeks," Ioan replies, neglecting to add the 'seven hours’ part because really, there are simply some things that remain unsaid. "Yeah, definitely been a few weeks. Maybe almost a month."
"Right," Clive replies, sitting down on a chair backwards so that his legs are spread. Ioan looks up to find himself under a scrutinous gaze.
"Oh, for Christ's sake," Ioan sighs and throws down the pen. "What?"
"Almost a month."
"Yes."
"And you've not slept with him."
Ioan sighs. They have gone over this and over it and over it again. "No," he says, rolling his eyes. He abandons the sonnet and tries to recall something else, but it's not before Clive snatches the paper from Ioan's hands and stands, pacing around the room. "Clive," Ioan starts warningly.
"Poetry," Clive smirks, handing it back to Ioan. He shakes his head, clearly amazed. "And flowers! Ioan, not once during our relationship did you ever give me flowers, did you ever once send me poetry, which I mean...I found strange considering your line of work, but I didn't complain because the sex was good. Here you are though, courtship with flowers and poems and you bloody well blush every time I say his name."
"I do not," Ioan growls in protest.
"Hugh."
Ioan wants desperately to stop the smile, but it appears on his face nonetheless. The smirk on Clive's face grows even more victorious, and Ioan wants nothing more than to slap it off. Ioan immediately goes from smiling to scowling like a storm has quickly raged and dampened all his cheer. He finishes writing the sonnet and gracefully signs his name, sticking the card in the flowers.
"What do you care?" he finally asks Clive.
Clive studies Ioan's face carefully and sits back down, leaning forward on his elbows. Ioan shifts uncomfortably, unsure of what's coming next, and a part of him doesn't want to hear it at all. He tries to relax, but finds he's afflicted with a great and terrible bout of anxiety that flickers through him. He raises an eyebrow, chuckling nervously.
"You're in love with him," Clive says quietly.
Ioan starts at this. "What? Love! No, god...christ, no, Clive. This...love?"
"Poetry. Flowers. That damned expression on your face. Infatuation or love, take your pick," Clive nods, starting his words evenly.
"Clive...Clive," Ioan laughs nervously, protesting copiously. He's out of his seat now, pacing. "I'm not..."
"Look," Clive cuts him off, standing so that he's on Ioan's level. "Just sleep with him already and decide whether you want something more or if you just want to screw him through the mattress. I find that's the best way to distinguish lust from love. After all, not all of us can be worthy of Sir Gruffudd's afternoon poetry sessions," Clive says with another smirk. He claps Ioan on the back and departs without saying another word.
Ioan merely stands there, staring at the door as Clive's words sink in.
***
"Five quid."
"Are you bloody well insane?"
"Yes. Ten quid?"
Hugh rolls his eyes. "Oh, for christ's sake. Up the ante a little, at least."
"Fine," Joel concedes, digging through his pockets. "I will pay you twenty quid to wear the trousers," he shoves it all into one palm and presses it into Hugh's hand as though he won't take an argument. It's Thursday night, and though Hugh had been counting on plans with Ioan, he had cancelled at the last minute. Something about a drink with a fellow professor. It's all right though. Hugh understands. Well, he understands that Ioan will be paying for it later. "You know you won't make that kind of money anywhere else. Come on, Hugh. Nothing gets the girls to swarm more than you in the bloody leather trousers and if we're going to have Keira there, I need something to attract them."
"What happened to doing things yourself?" Hugh mutters, snatching the trousers with his free hand and pocketing his money with the other.
"Antiquated. Had to be outlawed," Joel shakes his head. "Don't whinge. You're being paid."
"Oh," Hugh presses his lips together in a snide smile. "I'm a whore. Lovely."
"One would think you were used to it, Mr. Dancy of the Auctioned Men's Club. I swear, you're the founding member and patron saint," Joel scoffs, grasping his wallet. "Trousers. On. We're meeting Keira at the bar. Club. Whatever you want to call it. Bar-club? Clubar? Screw it...Place-I-Hope-To-Get-Laid." He buttons up the black silk-shirt he's grabbed from the closet and nudges Hugh forward. "Come on," he growls. "The early bird catches the prize."
"Why am I even doing this?" Hugh mutters to himself.
"Because Ioan gave you the boot for the night!" Joel shouts out after him as Hugh closes the door. He changes quickly, grabbing a long-sleeved button down to wear atop, rolling it up to the sleeves. Hugh steps out from the washroom, and raises an eyebrow to Joel's smirk. "Yes, darling," Joel affects a sympathetic voice. "You look wonderful. Can we go?"
"For someone who's so dependent on me when we're on the pull, one would think you'd be a little nicer to me," Hugh says huffily, grabbing his keys and throwing Joel a set. "After all, I could always leave you on your own and then what would you do?"
Joel laughs loudly, grabbing Hugh for a moment to bring him into a rough and quick hug, giving him a small shove as they make it to the street and Joel's car. "Suffer horribly, no doubt." Hugh gets in and rolls his eyes. He'd much rather be reading the latest novel he picked up, but then again, with Keira in attendance, Hugh's sure to have all his drinks paid for in advance. The night may turn out to be not half-bad after all.
After all, the trousers were only slightly on the tight side.
tbc
Tags:
no subject
no subject
the answer is yes.
no subject
no subject
*runs to read the end*
no subject
no subject
OMG UPDATE. *runs off to read*
no subject
no subject
no subject
Off to the last part and TELL me you intend to write MORE in this AU of yours....*bats large pleading eyes*
PeeK
no subject
And Joel is one of my favourite things about this. He's so damn fun to wriiite. Sadly, no more, no LOL. I have a bunch of KA fics and some one-off Hugh/Ioan (that aren't AU's), but no more of this.
no subject
Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee I absolutely love it!! *Wants Joel and wants him NOW*
I am falling more and more in love with every word you write, this sory is beautiful!!
no subject