Jun. 19th, 2005 07:13 pm
Title: The Poetry of Falling In Love 3/3
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lovely_ambitionTitle: The Poetry of Falling In Love 3/3
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.
"Cerveza, my good amigo!" Keira drawls to the bartender, her body absolutely, positively splayed out on the bar as though she owns it. The place is seemingly busy for the night in that there's more than a few people populating the dance floor and the booths lining the wall are filled with conversationalist light drinkers having their convivial pints. Hugh gives a genuine smile as Joel pushes him forward and he nudges in beside Keira, trying to take away some of the space she seems to have declared herself Queen of. "I hope you like Strongbow," Keira says to Hugh, not truly looking at him.
"As a matter of fact," Hugh says, crossing his arms and leaning against the bar, surveying the scene as though analyzing it, "you know I only like it when it’s Guinness, but I think I'll let it slide."
"Of course you will," Joel laughs, and it sounds like he's talking right in his ear. A small movement shows that actually, he is speaking right to Hugh's ear. "She's paying for you!"
"A smart man," Keira murmurs as though she's the Dalai Lama of social knowledge. She hands Hugh a pint of Guinness and winks. "I know you, darling. Just taking the piss.” She takes a long sip of her beer. “You should listen to Joel more often."
"I don't think that's very intelligent," Hugh replies above the noise. Someone's cranked up the music and more and more bodies have begun to flood the dance floor. "After all, it's rather nice to be alive, out of prison, and without a trail of exes wanting to hurt me!"
"You wound me," Joel says evenly, rolling his eyes. Keira grabs her Guinness and sits a little more properly, crossing her legs and finally taking a look at Hugh. Her eyes bug -- almost comically, Hugh thinks with a smirk -- and she lets out an actual, honest to God squeal right in the middle of the establishment. She looks at Joel, who looks back and they both grin and act as though Hugh isn't even there, even though he's quite visibly in the middle of them.
"Joel!"
Smugly. "I know."
"How did you ever..."
"Paid him."
"Thirty?"
"Even better. Twenty."
"Joel!"
"Can the two of you please stop," Hugh mutters, irritated. "Or at least pitch the decibel level down to normal human tones. I'll be prematurely deaf in no time."
"Oh," Keira mocks him, grasping onto his cheek with her fingers. "It's all right, darling, we'll get Ioan to get you a lovely hearing aide." She hops off the stool and heads over to a booth where her coat is draped over the table, almost like a protective shield. She slides in and turns her gaze to the dance floor. Hugh and Joel follow her, and Hugh doesn't want to speak, doesn't want to intrude on her seemingly analytical thoughts of the place.
Joel's the next in the booth, and he's immediately whispering something to Keira. The both of them turn to Hugh as soon as the cupped hand on Keira's ear disappears and Hugh immediately deduces that this can't be good. Rather, it'll be anything but good.
"What?" Hugh asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Passing comment on surroundings," Keira replies innocently, patting the vinyl beside her. "Down you go, monsieur. Make yourself comfortable, but not too comfortable," she warns. Hugh looks at her when she pauses and discovers the most devilish smile at play on her lips. "In a short amount of time, you've got an appointment to find your rhythm on that dance floor."
"Keira, no," Hugh protests, eyes wide and suddenly, there isn't enough alcohol in the world for what she seems to be suggesting. "I c-can't, I...dancing?" he scoffs out, his voice a little more high-pitched than he would like. "I can't dance," he says with great importance and vehemence. "Trust me."
"Trust," Joel laughs. "Hugh, we know how you dance. However, once you get a few in you, you actually aren't so bad. So drink up!" Joel leans in, smirking lasciviously at Hugh before turning to wink at Keira. That didn't seem to last long before he turned back and gave an equally flirtatious wink to Hugh, absolutely predatory in every movement. "Besides, I got you all decked up in leather trousers. I fully expect you to shake that firm little arse of yours on the dance floor for my money's worth."
Hugh sighs tiredly. "And back to the whore comparisons."
Keira gives him a perfect little pout. "Drink that Guinness. There's more where it came from."
Hugh sighs and studies the drink in hand.
"You aren't paying for it," Joel nudges him, easily becoming the little devil on his shoulder, leaving Hugh quite clearly devoid of an angel to contradict him. "And besides, who's here to embarrass you? We've got plenty more that just a night of dancing to use against you."
"And besides," Keira pouts -- devil number two -- with flair. "I want a dance."
Hugh sighs and gives in.
***
"I think we're good," Ioan nods, collecting the papers he’s brought with him to the bar. It's just hit eleven and the music has begun to pipe into the bar, all the students taking the dance floor for forms of dancing that Ioan hasn't been able to perform in far too many years. His colleague seems to have a perfect sense of timing or his colleague has been here before and knows exactly what happens when the clock strikes eleven. Ioan clears his throat. "I'll call you tomorrow," he calls a bit louder, the music blaring now and making conversation seemingly impossible.
His colleague -- one of the other teachers in the department who goes by the name of Mr. Jones, a name of which there are many rumours about regarding its authenticity -- looks to the dance floor with shock and bemusement. "Would you look at them?" Jones comments. "Like bees flitting to pollen. Except it's hormones. Disgusting."
Ioan smiles behind his mug of tea and inclines a quick gaze out to the dance floor. It's quickly become densely packed with bodies both of the female and of the male persuasion and it's a mating ritual that Ioan hasn't wanted to think about in years.
Mating.
Ioan sighs mentally as that damned word comes back to haunt him along with the terrible memory of his conversation with Clive. He hates that he's had to cancel his date with Hugh for this, but such is the life of a professor on a meagre salary required to jump through hoops at the command of others. He cannot wait until he's slightly higher in the ranks.
Ioan wants to sleep with Hugh, he wants to sleep with him more than he should admit aloud, but it would seem rather tasteless to just come out and say it. All good things in time, his grandmother said. Ioan sighs and contemplates ordering something stronger when someone catches his eyes. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that he'd just seen Keira. He bids goodbye to Jones quickly, shifting in the booth until he can get a better look at the dance floor. He frowns as he watches the girl grind against someone, arms in the air, body writhing and hair flipping about.
"Keira, hey!" some kid calls out, grabbing her and kissing her.
She beams and waves him away as the boy rushes off the dance floor for another direction entirely. Ioan frowns a little more. That is Keira. Ioan squints a little, finding his glasses to put them on and study just who she's with because he looks incredibly famil...
Oh.
Ioan exhales, eyes widening as he realizes that Keira is grinding against Hugh -- with leather trousers, with sweat glistening on his face, with curls tightly mussed with gel, with a look on his face, with...-- Ioan chokes a little on his tea as it goes down the wrong way when Hugh glances up and catches Ioan's eyes, grinning madly and beckoning him over, almost excitedly. Ioan's mind has taken a hard turn down an avenue of less-than-pristine thoughts and he thinks that maybe, maybe now is the time test Clive's arguments, grab Hugh, and fuck him like Ioan's been wanting to. Rational thought is out of the question, especially when Hugh flutters his eyes, gazing downwards at Keira’s writhing body.
That’s the man he’s dating.
The man he is entitled to have sex with.
The question then becomes: ‘Why in fucking hell hasn’t he?’
Ioan manages to stand, though the process is clumsy and feels unnatural. He smiles nervously as he passes people and he shares a quick word with Joel, though if anyone asked him to repeat the exact words, Ioan would be lost without a lifeboat to paddle to safety. He’s lost; utterly, unabashedly lost at sea, pushed out by Hugh himself. Ioan pushes through the crowd, catching the pleased smile that lights up Hugh’s face when Ioan enters the crowd of the dance floor and leans down to whisper in Keira’s ear.
She tilts her head up, calculating and shrewd and gorgeous all at once, and smirks at Ioan. “It’s about time,” she simply says, stepping away and into the waiting arms of another young boy, leaving Hugh completely open for anyone who might want to cut in and have a good time…or conversely, open for Ioan.
Ioan spends exactly eight seconds debating what to do.
If I leave him here in the open, someone’s bound to move in…
…but you aren’t ready. You’re not…
…you’ve had weeks to get ready. Be ready, take him, and go!
Ioan smiles ruefully, wondering why it’s now that his moral agents decided to get into a battle. Ioan shakes his head, dispels morals and consequences and reaches out, grasping a fistful of Hugh’s shirt, tugging him into Ioan’s arms and a waiting kiss. Hugh tastes of Guinness – dark bitter coating his lips – and his mouth is hot, his body willing, the leather trousers smooth against the cotton of Ioan’s trousers. Hugh parts with a gasp, eyes wide. “Now there’s a greeting,” he shouts above the music.
“We need to get out of here,” Ioan speaks right into Hugh’s ear, the vowels of his Welsh accent strengthened by his current state of desire. He needs Hugh, it’s got to be tonight, it’s finally going to be tonight.
Hugh just laughs, that breathy little reminder of all the ways Ioan can make his breath hitch in his throat. “Alley,” he whispers. “W’can walk from there.” His eyes glint dangerous sparks in the light of the bar and Ioan freezes, not knowing the proper words anymore, not knowing the poetry that guides Hugh’s body or that dictates his next movement.
So Ioan closes his eyes.
“To my place,” Hugh exhales, kissing Ioan right there on the dance floor and creating their own world, improvisation taking over script and Ioan goes along with this new written verse, knowing that Hugh’s gained the ability to rewrite his actions, to predict the next step.
Ioan swallows the lump in his throat as he presses a silver key into Hugh’s palm, so hard he hopes it leaves a mark. “Mine’s closer,” he says simply, voice brooking no room for an argument. He slips away and disappears in the crowd, feeling someone grope his arse as he goes. He smirks and scoffs to himself and glances just once over his shoulder to see Hugh trailing after him, running a hand through his curls and wiggling his hips slightly to accentuate the tight leather of those damn trousers.
Ioan gasps for air when he escapes the bar and finds himself in the exit by the alley, breath visible in the night air and too many scents and sights assaulting his senses.
And then he’s shoved to the stone wall of the alley, nothing more than an ‘oof’ before Hugh is on him, against him, in front of him, with him, there in every way possible and his lips are on Ioan’s before he can recite a single soliloquy. Ioan gasps out, head tilting back against the wall, his own hair curling in the sheer humidity of the night and scraping against the stones, knowing his key is in Hugh’s palm, knowing this is finally it.
“My place, Hugh,” he repeats, voice hoarse and lost to the night. Hugh simply keeps nuzzling at his neck, biting and marking with slow kisses, lazily grinding up against Ioan, despite the fact that people mill by them, seemingly not caring in the least. “My place,” he whispers. “I have white sheets…”
“I like white sheets.”
“And they’re cotton,” Ioan murmurs as Hugh’s hips draw a sharp groan from him. “Cotton and…and clean. And there’s…a balcony…”
“Keep talking,” Hugh encourages, both of his palms slipping inside the front pockets of Ioan’s trousers and tugging him closer, his fingers wiggling with only two barriers of fabric left between Hugh and Hugh’s ultimate goal. Ioan moans, but Hugh’s lips silence that sound from reaching the air and the small gasps that the air does claim are senseless and wordless. “I like it when you talk,” Hugh mumbles when he parts, lips tugging on Ioan’s earlobe and nipping, driving Ioan mad.
“And I like it when you moan,” Ioan counters, accent strained as he tries to simply think, think, Ioan, think, but he can do no more than want Hugh right there and then. “No more talking,” he murmurs. “No more. My place, Hugh.”
“Right,” Hugh exhales.
And they walk down the street, drunk on each other, stones beneath their feet and Ioan thinks, ‘So this must be a little like love.’
*
Hugh opens the door to Ioan’s flat and they tumble inside, caught in a spin of a kiss. It’s Hugh’s ankle that catches the door and slams it shut, shoving Ioan’s jacket to the ground, ripping open the buttons of his shirt and throwing the single silver key somewhere in a pile of clothing, a key that’s sure to be lost.
Ioan won’t mind replacing it, he wouldn’t mind if he had to replace a thousand keys. It’s worth the sensations threatening to overwhelm him at the moment. His fingers are clumsy as they work desperately to undo the leather trousers and every inhalation is desperate, feels like it might be his last.
He takes in the smell of Hugh and all at once he is assaulted by the scents of cologne, of perfume, of beer, of smoke; Hugh’s eyes are a little dazed and as Ioan tugs Hugh’s lower lip with his teeth, he briefly pauses to wonder where that smudge of lipstick on the corner of Hugh’s lips came from. There’s sweat beading on the both of them and Ioan presses his thumb to Hugh’s forehead, just there above his brow and flicks away the beads, thumb descending to stroke past Hugh’s cheekbone and map out the angle of his face.
“Bedroom,” Hugh demands, even as Ioan sinks to his knees in his quest to get those blasted leather trousers off. Shoes go, socks go, and finally…trousers.
And wonder of all wonders, but there’s nothing beneath.
Ioan chuckles, the sound husky and low and he’s staring at Hugh, even as Hugh frantically tugs at the button of Ioan’s trousers and pushes those down, yanking his socks off and grabbing him by the bicep, pulling him into another fierce kiss that threatens to eclipse time, to stop it, push it back and make it repeat simply for that moment. They hit the bed as one, two crashing bodies atop the plush pillows and cotton duvet that Ioan so methodically neatens in the mornings.
And Hugh pushes down Ioan’s briefs, stripping him of that last barrier between skin on skin and the moment they had been building up to for far too long.
“Look at you,” Hugh marvels quietly, body atop Ioan’s as he leans in for lazy kisses that seem to take endless seconds. “Supplies?”
Ioan laughs, the sound rich and heavy. “Drawer beside you,” he whispers, murmuring poetry into Hugh’s ear in the sound of his breath and to the time of his heartbeat. He watches with heavy-lidded eyes as Hugh reaches over with absolute grace and finds the lube and the condoms – dates varying as Ioan had added to the pile so randomly over the months, over the years. Hugh withdraws one small package, keeps it between his teeth as he spreads the lube over two fingers, reaches down, and…and strokes Ioan’s cock with it, reaching his own fingers around to prepare himself.
Ioan chokes a little, not quite expecting that.
“W-wh…”
“I’m a bottom,” Hugh says simply, his gaze clear in that Ioan must not argue, which is fine because Ioan cannot argue, hasn’t the capacity nor the coherency to do such a thing. He rolls them until he’s on the bottom, slips on the condom with slow and teasing, damning touches before he spreads his thighs so perfectly that Ioan can’t help brace himself with his hands on either side of Hugh’s lithe body, slipping in a little when Hugh lifts his ankles and wraps them about Ioan’s hips. “Christ, Ioan,” he gasps. “Why did we…wait so…long?”
“We progressed as normal couples…”
“Shut up,” Hugh hisses, closing his eyes. Ioan obeys, pushing deeper inside and their cries sound in tandem, Hugh’s high-pitched moan to Ioan’s low groan. “Oh…” he murmurs and then Ioan loses track of what speech comes when and the order of things and the logic behind this and allows himself to feel.
Ioan closes his eyes as he thrusts forward with a practiced speed that he’s perfected, sonnets guiding earlier conquests to this bed and wine easing the way, but his rhythm always the thing they remember, the way he pushes in so slow and gentle and whispers a soft, “exhale this vapour vow,” he whispers, “in thee…it is…”
And Hugh arches up, pushing their hips together and makes a broken sound that defies all the languages that Ioan has ever known and heard and he memorizes this new sound, commits it to his mind to treasure forever. Hugh’s Language. Hugh’s words. Hugh.
Hugh seems to adjust quickly to this rhythm and his skin is standing at edge, all the tiny hairs standing up as though Ioan’s whispered the secret code word to make them do so, but he knows no secrets other than the way into Hugh’s heart and the way to get under his skin and coax that simple noise from Hugh that drives Ioan absolutely mad.
“Ioan,” Hugh gasps, drawing out his name like it’s three words, I-oh-oh-an! Hugh gasps and Ioan gives his moan in reply, pushing a little faster, finding they’ve broken the barrier of ‘be slow, be careful, be gentle’. Ioan pushes in, grunts accompanying each thrust, each quicker thrust, paced out so perfectly in Ioan’s mind. He knows what he’s doing. He knows how to make this last, make this memorable. “Ioan, oh…”
…but from thine eyes…
Ioan gasps, words coming to mind without even thinking about them, poetry he’s used to woo others, poetry he’s used on those he loved before this, before falling in this love, this new love that makes every last line of tired poetry seem new.
…my knowledge I derive…
“Ioan!” Hugh gasps, moans, and his hand clumsily grasps Ioan’s and together they intermingle and move to Hugh’s cock to stroke and make that choked noise come out of Hugh’s throat a little more. Ioan manages to do all this at once, skilled to the last and when he hears that sweet breaking in Hugh’s voice, that sound of his name passing through his lips and the sound of Hugh climaxing and shouting Ioan’s name, it’s all worth it, every last poem and gesture and minute spent waiting for this.
Ioan gasps as he comes during a forward thrust, Hugh’s name trembling and tripping off his lips, a little stuttered and yet, still graceful. And he laughs lazily, an assured little chuckle as he slips out of Hugh and collapses on his previously clean white sheets.
“All good things,” Hugh drawls lazily, his voice husky, “come to those who wait.”
Ioan falls asleep with those words echoing in his mind.
*
Ioan wakes up and he’s alone.
He scrambles for his glasses and slips them on to find Hugh on his balcony, the curtains billowing and dancing a slow ballet with the wind. It’s a clear night and there’s a bit of a view, but Hugh doesn’t seem to be looking. There’s a scrap piece of paper in his hands, floating often in the wind, but kept in place by a pen and Hugh is dressed only in Ioan’s boxers and a button down shirt – the fabric gently flapping back and forth with the breeze. There’s tendrils of smoke curling upwards to the moon, a single cigarette held between two of Hugh’s fingers as he smokes intermittently, committing words to paper rather than the cigarette to his mouth.
Hugh’s feet are propped up on the railing, exposing the expanse of Hugh’s thigh, his leg and Ioan feels a little like a voyeur, simple gazing. Hugh’s curls look like they have a life of their own, gently tousled by the wind as a lover might touch and Ioan should be touching.
“Hugh?” Ioan murmurs, voice groggy.
“Go back to sleep,” Hugh doesn’t turn. “I’m writing you something.”
Ioan obeys, finding the pull of sated sleep a call too strong to resist.
*
He wakes to find that wrinkled piece of paper with Hugh’s script lying on the white sheets and dappled with morning sunlight. “8.30 AM Seminar,” it read. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
And a poem under Hugh’s neat scrawl denoting: ‘Don’t read too much into the author.’
Without warning
as a whirlwind
swoops on an oak
Love shakes my heart
-Sappho
Ioan grins and gets up to go through another day, humming under his breath, singing the chorus, and wondering just when Hugh will be done for the day.
THE END
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.
"Cerveza, my good amigo!" Keira drawls to the bartender, her body absolutely, positively splayed out on the bar as though she owns it. The place is seemingly busy for the night in that there's more than a few people populating the dance floor and the booths lining the wall are filled with conversationalist light drinkers having their convivial pints. Hugh gives a genuine smile as Joel pushes him forward and he nudges in beside Keira, trying to take away some of the space she seems to have declared herself Queen of. "I hope you like Strongbow," Keira says to Hugh, not truly looking at him.
"As a matter of fact," Hugh says, crossing his arms and leaning against the bar, surveying the scene as though analyzing it, "you know I only like it when it’s Guinness, but I think I'll let it slide."
"Of course you will," Joel laughs, and it sounds like he's talking right in his ear. A small movement shows that actually, he is speaking right to Hugh's ear. "She's paying for you!"
"A smart man," Keira murmurs as though she's the Dalai Lama of social knowledge. She hands Hugh a pint of Guinness and winks. "I know you, darling. Just taking the piss.” She takes a long sip of her beer. “You should listen to Joel more often."
"I don't think that's very intelligent," Hugh replies above the noise. Someone's cranked up the music and more and more bodies have begun to flood the dance floor. "After all, it's rather nice to be alive, out of prison, and without a trail of exes wanting to hurt me!"
"You wound me," Joel says evenly, rolling his eyes. Keira grabs her Guinness and sits a little more properly, crossing her legs and finally taking a look at Hugh. Her eyes bug -- almost comically, Hugh thinks with a smirk -- and she lets out an actual, honest to God squeal right in the middle of the establishment. She looks at Joel, who looks back and they both grin and act as though Hugh isn't even there, even though he's quite visibly in the middle of them.
"Joel!"
Smugly. "I know."
"How did you ever..."
"Paid him."
"Thirty?"
"Even better. Twenty."
"Joel!"
"Can the two of you please stop," Hugh mutters, irritated. "Or at least pitch the decibel level down to normal human tones. I'll be prematurely deaf in no time."
"Oh," Keira mocks him, grasping onto his cheek with her fingers. "It's all right, darling, we'll get Ioan to get you a lovely hearing aide." She hops off the stool and heads over to a booth where her coat is draped over the table, almost like a protective shield. She slides in and turns her gaze to the dance floor. Hugh and Joel follow her, and Hugh doesn't want to speak, doesn't want to intrude on her seemingly analytical thoughts of the place.
Joel's the next in the booth, and he's immediately whispering something to Keira. The both of them turn to Hugh as soon as the cupped hand on Keira's ear disappears and Hugh immediately deduces that this can't be good. Rather, it'll be anything but good.
"What?" Hugh asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Passing comment on surroundings," Keira replies innocently, patting the vinyl beside her. "Down you go, monsieur. Make yourself comfortable, but not too comfortable," she warns. Hugh looks at her when she pauses and discovers the most devilish smile at play on her lips. "In a short amount of time, you've got an appointment to find your rhythm on that dance floor."
"Keira, no," Hugh protests, eyes wide and suddenly, there isn't enough alcohol in the world for what she seems to be suggesting. "I c-can't, I...dancing?" he scoffs out, his voice a little more high-pitched than he would like. "I can't dance," he says with great importance and vehemence. "Trust me."
"Trust," Joel laughs. "Hugh, we know how you dance. However, once you get a few in you, you actually aren't so bad. So drink up!" Joel leans in, smirking lasciviously at Hugh before turning to wink at Keira. That didn't seem to last long before he turned back and gave an equally flirtatious wink to Hugh, absolutely predatory in every movement. "Besides, I got you all decked up in leather trousers. I fully expect you to shake that firm little arse of yours on the dance floor for my money's worth."
Hugh sighs tiredly. "And back to the whore comparisons."
Keira gives him a perfect little pout. "Drink that Guinness. There's more where it came from."
Hugh sighs and studies the drink in hand.
"You aren't paying for it," Joel nudges him, easily becoming the little devil on his shoulder, leaving Hugh quite clearly devoid of an angel to contradict him. "And besides, who's here to embarrass you? We've got plenty more that just a night of dancing to use against you."
"And besides," Keira pouts -- devil number two -- with flair. "I want a dance."
Hugh sighs and gives in.
***
"I think we're good," Ioan nods, collecting the papers he’s brought with him to the bar. It's just hit eleven and the music has begun to pipe into the bar, all the students taking the dance floor for forms of dancing that Ioan hasn't been able to perform in far too many years. His colleague seems to have a perfect sense of timing or his colleague has been here before and knows exactly what happens when the clock strikes eleven. Ioan clears his throat. "I'll call you tomorrow," he calls a bit louder, the music blaring now and making conversation seemingly impossible.
His colleague -- one of the other teachers in the department who goes by the name of Mr. Jones, a name of which there are many rumours about regarding its authenticity -- looks to the dance floor with shock and bemusement. "Would you look at them?" Jones comments. "Like bees flitting to pollen. Except it's hormones. Disgusting."
Ioan smiles behind his mug of tea and inclines a quick gaze out to the dance floor. It's quickly become densely packed with bodies both of the female and of the male persuasion and it's a mating ritual that Ioan hasn't wanted to think about in years.
Mating.
Ioan sighs mentally as that damned word comes back to haunt him along with the terrible memory of his conversation with Clive. He hates that he's had to cancel his date with Hugh for this, but such is the life of a professor on a meagre salary required to jump through hoops at the command of others. He cannot wait until he's slightly higher in the ranks.
Ioan wants to sleep with Hugh, he wants to sleep with him more than he should admit aloud, but it would seem rather tasteless to just come out and say it. All good things in time, his grandmother said. Ioan sighs and contemplates ordering something stronger when someone catches his eyes. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that he'd just seen Keira. He bids goodbye to Jones quickly, shifting in the booth until he can get a better look at the dance floor. He frowns as he watches the girl grind against someone, arms in the air, body writhing and hair flipping about.
"Keira, hey!" some kid calls out, grabbing her and kissing her.
She beams and waves him away as the boy rushes off the dance floor for another direction entirely. Ioan frowns a little more. That is Keira. Ioan squints a little, finding his glasses to put them on and study just who she's with because he looks incredibly famil...
Oh.
Ioan exhales, eyes widening as he realizes that Keira is grinding against Hugh -- with leather trousers, with sweat glistening on his face, with curls tightly mussed with gel, with a look on his face, with...-- Ioan chokes a little on his tea as it goes down the wrong way when Hugh glances up and catches Ioan's eyes, grinning madly and beckoning him over, almost excitedly. Ioan's mind has taken a hard turn down an avenue of less-than-pristine thoughts and he thinks that maybe, maybe now is the time test Clive's arguments, grab Hugh, and fuck him like Ioan's been wanting to. Rational thought is out of the question, especially when Hugh flutters his eyes, gazing downwards at Keira’s writhing body.
That’s the man he’s dating.
The man he is entitled to have sex with.
The question then becomes: ‘Why in fucking hell hasn’t he?’
Ioan manages to stand, though the process is clumsy and feels unnatural. He smiles nervously as he passes people and he shares a quick word with Joel, though if anyone asked him to repeat the exact words, Ioan would be lost without a lifeboat to paddle to safety. He’s lost; utterly, unabashedly lost at sea, pushed out by Hugh himself. Ioan pushes through the crowd, catching the pleased smile that lights up Hugh’s face when Ioan enters the crowd of the dance floor and leans down to whisper in Keira’s ear.
She tilts her head up, calculating and shrewd and gorgeous all at once, and smirks at Ioan. “It’s about time,” she simply says, stepping away and into the waiting arms of another young boy, leaving Hugh completely open for anyone who might want to cut in and have a good time…or conversely, open for Ioan.
Ioan spends exactly eight seconds debating what to do.
If I leave him here in the open, someone’s bound to move in…
…but you aren’t ready. You’re not…
…you’ve had weeks to get ready. Be ready, take him, and go!
Ioan smiles ruefully, wondering why it’s now that his moral agents decided to get into a battle. Ioan shakes his head, dispels morals and consequences and reaches out, grasping a fistful of Hugh’s shirt, tugging him into Ioan’s arms and a waiting kiss. Hugh tastes of Guinness – dark bitter coating his lips – and his mouth is hot, his body willing, the leather trousers smooth against the cotton of Ioan’s trousers. Hugh parts with a gasp, eyes wide. “Now there’s a greeting,” he shouts above the music.
“We need to get out of here,” Ioan speaks right into Hugh’s ear, the vowels of his Welsh accent strengthened by his current state of desire. He needs Hugh, it’s got to be tonight, it’s finally going to be tonight.
Hugh just laughs, that breathy little reminder of all the ways Ioan can make his breath hitch in his throat. “Alley,” he whispers. “W’can walk from there.” His eyes glint dangerous sparks in the light of the bar and Ioan freezes, not knowing the proper words anymore, not knowing the poetry that guides Hugh’s body or that dictates his next movement.
So Ioan closes his eyes.
“To my place,” Hugh exhales, kissing Ioan right there on the dance floor and creating their own world, improvisation taking over script and Ioan goes along with this new written verse, knowing that Hugh’s gained the ability to rewrite his actions, to predict the next step.
Ioan swallows the lump in his throat as he presses a silver key into Hugh’s palm, so hard he hopes it leaves a mark. “Mine’s closer,” he says simply, voice brooking no room for an argument. He slips away and disappears in the crowd, feeling someone grope his arse as he goes. He smirks and scoffs to himself and glances just once over his shoulder to see Hugh trailing after him, running a hand through his curls and wiggling his hips slightly to accentuate the tight leather of those damn trousers.
Ioan gasps for air when he escapes the bar and finds himself in the exit by the alley, breath visible in the night air and too many scents and sights assaulting his senses.
And then he’s shoved to the stone wall of the alley, nothing more than an ‘oof’ before Hugh is on him, against him, in front of him, with him, there in every way possible and his lips are on Ioan’s before he can recite a single soliloquy. Ioan gasps out, head tilting back against the wall, his own hair curling in the sheer humidity of the night and scraping against the stones, knowing his key is in Hugh’s palm, knowing this is finally it.
“My place, Hugh,” he repeats, voice hoarse and lost to the night. Hugh simply keeps nuzzling at his neck, biting and marking with slow kisses, lazily grinding up against Ioan, despite the fact that people mill by them, seemingly not caring in the least. “My place,” he whispers. “I have white sheets…”
“I like white sheets.”
“And they’re cotton,” Ioan murmurs as Hugh’s hips draw a sharp groan from him. “Cotton and…and clean. And there’s…a balcony…”
“Keep talking,” Hugh encourages, both of his palms slipping inside the front pockets of Ioan’s trousers and tugging him closer, his fingers wiggling with only two barriers of fabric left between Hugh and Hugh’s ultimate goal. Ioan moans, but Hugh’s lips silence that sound from reaching the air and the small gasps that the air does claim are senseless and wordless. “I like it when you talk,” Hugh mumbles when he parts, lips tugging on Ioan’s earlobe and nipping, driving Ioan mad.
“And I like it when you moan,” Ioan counters, accent strained as he tries to simply think, think, Ioan, think, but he can do no more than want Hugh right there and then. “No more talking,” he murmurs. “No more. My place, Hugh.”
“Right,” Hugh exhales.
And they walk down the street, drunk on each other, stones beneath their feet and Ioan thinks, ‘So this must be a little like love.’
*
Hugh opens the door to Ioan’s flat and they tumble inside, caught in a spin of a kiss. It’s Hugh’s ankle that catches the door and slams it shut, shoving Ioan’s jacket to the ground, ripping open the buttons of his shirt and throwing the single silver key somewhere in a pile of clothing, a key that’s sure to be lost.
Ioan won’t mind replacing it, he wouldn’t mind if he had to replace a thousand keys. It’s worth the sensations threatening to overwhelm him at the moment. His fingers are clumsy as they work desperately to undo the leather trousers and every inhalation is desperate, feels like it might be his last.
He takes in the smell of Hugh and all at once he is assaulted by the scents of cologne, of perfume, of beer, of smoke; Hugh’s eyes are a little dazed and as Ioan tugs Hugh’s lower lip with his teeth, he briefly pauses to wonder where that smudge of lipstick on the corner of Hugh’s lips came from. There’s sweat beading on the both of them and Ioan presses his thumb to Hugh’s forehead, just there above his brow and flicks away the beads, thumb descending to stroke past Hugh’s cheekbone and map out the angle of his face.
“Bedroom,” Hugh demands, even as Ioan sinks to his knees in his quest to get those blasted leather trousers off. Shoes go, socks go, and finally…trousers.
And wonder of all wonders, but there’s nothing beneath.
Ioan chuckles, the sound husky and low and he’s staring at Hugh, even as Hugh frantically tugs at the button of Ioan’s trousers and pushes those down, yanking his socks off and grabbing him by the bicep, pulling him into another fierce kiss that threatens to eclipse time, to stop it, push it back and make it repeat simply for that moment. They hit the bed as one, two crashing bodies atop the plush pillows and cotton duvet that Ioan so methodically neatens in the mornings.
And Hugh pushes down Ioan’s briefs, stripping him of that last barrier between skin on skin and the moment they had been building up to for far too long.
“Look at you,” Hugh marvels quietly, body atop Ioan’s as he leans in for lazy kisses that seem to take endless seconds. “Supplies?”
Ioan laughs, the sound rich and heavy. “Drawer beside you,” he whispers, murmuring poetry into Hugh’s ear in the sound of his breath and to the time of his heartbeat. He watches with heavy-lidded eyes as Hugh reaches over with absolute grace and finds the lube and the condoms – dates varying as Ioan had added to the pile so randomly over the months, over the years. Hugh withdraws one small package, keeps it between his teeth as he spreads the lube over two fingers, reaches down, and…and strokes Ioan’s cock with it, reaching his own fingers around to prepare himself.
Ioan chokes a little, not quite expecting that.
“W-wh…”
“I’m a bottom,” Hugh says simply, his gaze clear in that Ioan must not argue, which is fine because Ioan cannot argue, hasn’t the capacity nor the coherency to do such a thing. He rolls them until he’s on the bottom, slips on the condom with slow and teasing, damning touches before he spreads his thighs so perfectly that Ioan can’t help brace himself with his hands on either side of Hugh’s lithe body, slipping in a little when Hugh lifts his ankles and wraps them about Ioan’s hips. “Christ, Ioan,” he gasps. “Why did we…wait so…long?”
“We progressed as normal couples…”
“Shut up,” Hugh hisses, closing his eyes. Ioan obeys, pushing deeper inside and their cries sound in tandem, Hugh’s high-pitched moan to Ioan’s low groan. “Oh…” he murmurs and then Ioan loses track of what speech comes when and the order of things and the logic behind this and allows himself to feel.
Ioan closes his eyes as he thrusts forward with a practiced speed that he’s perfected, sonnets guiding earlier conquests to this bed and wine easing the way, but his rhythm always the thing they remember, the way he pushes in so slow and gentle and whispers a soft, “exhale this vapour vow,” he whispers, “in thee…it is…”
And Hugh arches up, pushing their hips together and makes a broken sound that defies all the languages that Ioan has ever known and heard and he memorizes this new sound, commits it to his mind to treasure forever. Hugh’s Language. Hugh’s words. Hugh.
Hugh seems to adjust quickly to this rhythm and his skin is standing at edge, all the tiny hairs standing up as though Ioan’s whispered the secret code word to make them do so, but he knows no secrets other than the way into Hugh’s heart and the way to get under his skin and coax that simple noise from Hugh that drives Ioan absolutely mad.
“Ioan,” Hugh gasps, drawing out his name like it’s three words, I-oh-oh-an! Hugh gasps and Ioan gives his moan in reply, pushing a little faster, finding they’ve broken the barrier of ‘be slow, be careful, be gentle’. Ioan pushes in, grunts accompanying each thrust, each quicker thrust, paced out so perfectly in Ioan’s mind. He knows what he’s doing. He knows how to make this last, make this memorable. “Ioan, oh…”
…but from thine eyes…
Ioan gasps, words coming to mind without even thinking about them, poetry he’s used to woo others, poetry he’s used on those he loved before this, before falling in this love, this new love that makes every last line of tired poetry seem new.
…my knowledge I derive…
“Ioan!” Hugh gasps, moans, and his hand clumsily grasps Ioan’s and together they intermingle and move to Hugh’s cock to stroke and make that choked noise come out of Hugh’s throat a little more. Ioan manages to do all this at once, skilled to the last and when he hears that sweet breaking in Hugh’s voice, that sound of his name passing through his lips and the sound of Hugh climaxing and shouting Ioan’s name, it’s all worth it, every last poem and gesture and minute spent waiting for this.
Ioan gasps as he comes during a forward thrust, Hugh’s name trembling and tripping off his lips, a little stuttered and yet, still graceful. And he laughs lazily, an assured little chuckle as he slips out of Hugh and collapses on his previously clean white sheets.
“All good things,” Hugh drawls lazily, his voice husky, “come to those who wait.”
Ioan falls asleep with those words echoing in his mind.
*
Ioan wakes up and he’s alone.
He scrambles for his glasses and slips them on to find Hugh on his balcony, the curtains billowing and dancing a slow ballet with the wind. It’s a clear night and there’s a bit of a view, but Hugh doesn’t seem to be looking. There’s a scrap piece of paper in his hands, floating often in the wind, but kept in place by a pen and Hugh is dressed only in Ioan’s boxers and a button down shirt – the fabric gently flapping back and forth with the breeze. There’s tendrils of smoke curling upwards to the moon, a single cigarette held between two of Hugh’s fingers as he smokes intermittently, committing words to paper rather than the cigarette to his mouth.
Hugh’s feet are propped up on the railing, exposing the expanse of Hugh’s thigh, his leg and Ioan feels a little like a voyeur, simple gazing. Hugh’s curls look like they have a life of their own, gently tousled by the wind as a lover might touch and Ioan should be touching.
“Hugh?” Ioan murmurs, voice groggy.
“Go back to sleep,” Hugh doesn’t turn. “I’m writing you something.”
Ioan obeys, finding the pull of sated sleep a call too strong to resist.
*
He wakes to find that wrinkled piece of paper with Hugh’s script lying on the white sheets and dappled with morning sunlight. “8.30 AM Seminar,” it read. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
And a poem under Hugh’s neat scrawl denoting: ‘Don’t read too much into the author.’
Without warning
as a whirlwind
swoops on an oak
Love shakes my heart
-Sappho
Ioan grins and gets up to go through another day, humming under his breath, singing the chorus, and wondering just when Hugh will be done for the day.
THE END
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