FIC: Moving Pictures (1/2) NC-17
TITLE: Moving Pictures (1/2)
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
PAIRING: Ioan Gruffudd/Matthew Rhys
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: Come out to LA. It's pilot season.
DISCLAIMER: Ioan Gruffudd and Matthew Rhys belong only to themselves. I don't claim them, I don't claim to know them and no harm is intended. I make no profit from this, I just like playing with them.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Many amazing thanks to inlovewithnight, my beta and partner in crime. She also did the soundtrack, which you can find here. Written for the rpf_big_bang.
“Come out to L.A. It’s pilot season.”
Ioan’s message sits on Matthew’s answer phone for almost a week before Matthew does anything beyond listen. It’s the first he’s heard from Ioan in nearly a month, and he’s embarrassed to admit how many times he’s played the damn thing. He finally calls back, relieved when he gets Ioan’s voice mail.
“Yeah. Flying in on Friday. Send some starlet to pick me up, yeah?” He doesn’t leave a date or time. He’ll do that the day before if he has to, but he has to admit he rather hopes Ioan might actually call and talk to him. He knows it’s passive aggressive bullshit, but it’s easier than admitting that he’s been missing Ioan, that he’s jealous that Ioan’s hitting it off in Hollywood, that he’s lonely in this damned flat by himself.
It’s not that he doesn’t have other mates or plenty of girls he could bring home. It’s just that it’s not the same. He and Ioan had a routine, a sort of sixth sense about who did what and when and where. Even bringing girls home seems wrong when he doesn’t have to avoid Ioan’s too-long legs and knowing smile.
Ioan does call back though it’s when Matthew’s at an audition, doing his best to ride high on the positive reviews from “The Graduate”. He gets halfway through a beer before he actually listens to the message, staring at the blinking red light until he can’t stand it anymore.
“Had Julia Roberts all lined up to get you at the airport, but she said she can’t wait all day for you to just arrive. Perhaps you could be a proper mate and let me and Julia know when you might grace us with your presence?”
Matthew smirks and leans against the wall, taking another sip of his beer as he hits play again. He finally lets the silence settle then picks up the phone, dialing the international number.
“Jesus,” Ioan huffs. “About bloody time, you wanker.”
“Just assumed you were off at some premiere party. Too busy for the likes of me.”
“Don’t be such a tosser.” Ioan’s obviously smiling, his voice giving everything away. Matthew relaxes, carrying the phone over to the sofa and sinking down on it. “Doesn’t take anything as fancy as that for me to ignore you.”
“Ha.” Matthew stretches out. “You just say that to hide the fact that no one invites you.”
“Jealousy is such an ugly thing, Math.” Ioan pauses and Matthew hears him swallow.
“A bit early in the day to be hitting the bottle, isn’t it, mate?”
“Champagne for breakfast,” Ioan informs him with a laugh. “Either that or you drive me to drink.”
“Having seen you behind the wheel, you need someone to drive you.”
“I see you’ve a strong desire to walk from the airport?”
“Probably much safer.”
“I guess I’ll just be going then.” Ioan laughs. “See you when you get here.”
“Right. Right. Right then.” Matthew grabs the paperwork off the table in front of the sofa. “I’m still expecting a sexy starlet.”
“I’ll be sure to dress to show some décolletage.”
“Is that one of your fancy Hollywood words?”
“Far more proper than talking about people’s tits, they tell me.” He takes another drink and Matthew listens to him swallow. “So, go on.”
“You’re writing this down, right? And putting it somewhere you’ll not lose it? Not like every bill I’ve ever trusted you to pay.”
“Now you’re just being insulting.” Ioan’s pouting, but it’s easy to tell it’s faked. “I really can’t wait to see you, Math.”
“A sure sign you should try to actually find friends, you know.” He keeps his voice light, smiling at Ioan’s noise of protest. “Just don’t be late, Gruffudd. I’m not in the mood to dodge Hare Krishna and scientologists at the airport.”
“The scientologists are all famous now, mate. You actually want to hang out with them.”
“If Tom Cruise wants to hand me a copy of Dianetics, he’s welcome to, so long as it comes with a decent script and a nice contract.”
“You’re such a whore.”
“Only for fame. Though if that were completely true, I’d be hanging out with someone other than you. No offense, Ioan, but you’re not exactly A-list.”
“Being naked in bed with Kathleen Turner doesn’t mean you are either.”
“Are you going to start talking about Ridley Scott next or Stephen Fry’s prick?”
“Either way I think I’d come out on top.” Ioan stops for a moment and Matthew can practically feel the blush through the phone lines. “Don’t even say it, Evans.”
“Not saying a word.”
“Quit thinking so bloody loud.” Ioan laughs. “Rather walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
“It’s a skill and a talent, Ioan. Never change.”
Ioan’s quiet for a moment, then sighs. “Suppose I should let you go.”
“Yeah.” It’s not quite an agreement, not quite a question. “Busy day of being famous you’re running late for?”
“Something along those lines. I’ll see you soon, yeah?”
“Unless I wise up.”
“Hasn’t happened yet. What makes you think it’s likely now?”
“Wishful thinking, maybe.”
“You know, given that you’re such an arse, it’s hard to believe you’re home on a Saturday night.” Ioan laughs softly. “I really can't wait to see you, Math.”
“Yeah, well, I'm crashing on your couch. You'll get over that soon enough.”
“Ta,” Ioan laughs.
Matthew waits for him to hang up and sighs softly. “Ta.”
**
The plane ride is excruciating. There's a young mother with two children and no help in sight. One of the children sits next to Matthew the entire time, drooling on what was, when he left his flat that morning, Matthew's best pair of jeans. He lands in La Guardia and heads to the next gate, trying to be as polite as possible as he brushes off yet another apology from the mother. No, really. He's had enough late nights in the pubs to be well-acquainted with vomit. She doesn't seem to want to take it as fine when he realizes that she's got that look.
He's seen it a time or two, more than that if he's honest. It's someone looking at him and seeing something he doesn't see in the mirror. He's not falsely modest - he knows he's not bad to look at most of the time - but he also knows there are far more attractive people than he, and certainly more conventionally attractive without their grandfather's Welsh nose. He smiles at her, honestly flattered, and reassures her again that it's really fine, no really, then he manages to make his escape, hurrying through the airport to catch his connecting flight to Los Angeles.
He misses it, of course, because that's the sort of thing that happens to him. He'd stopped in the bathroom to clean up the vomit and with the time change and the chatting with the woman, he'd lost track of when he was supposed to be at the gate. He phones Ioan to let him know his flight time has changed, and he's subjected to at least five minutes of delighted laughter before he simply snaps his phone closed.
He catches the next flight, trying and failing to sleep thanks to the headphones of the bloke next to him, turned up to eleven and blasting something with throbbing bass and acid guitars. There’s another child behind him, older than the vomiting one, who kicks the back of his chair and, halfway over the country - somewhere about Missouri, they're told by the pilot - there are horrific thunderstorms. He rides out the turbulence with one hand fisted in his lap and the other holding onto the chair arm. They finally divert around the worst of the storm, putting him another hour behind schedule. He can almost hear Ioan laughing now from 35,000 feet.
The rest of the flight is uneventful, which he figures has to be more about the law of averages than anything he's done. Still, it's the roughest landing he's ever had and he's pretty much decided that he's never coming to Los Angeles again.
He manages to make it off the plane in the first wave, and his luggage is already waiting for him, pulled off the carousel and being sat on by Ioan, all long legs and arms and big eyes and quite possibly the best thing Matthew's ever seen.
Not that he can let Ioan know that. “You're wearing that god-awful shirt again.”
Ioan rolls his eyes, not quite managing a smirk. “You gave me this shirt.”
“And I see now that that was a huge mistake, given that you wear it everywhere.” He reaches for his bag, but Ioan blocks him, keeping him from it in a very clear indication that he will be carrying the bag. Matthew has to smile. They always did manage to work together well, one taking over when the other sort of left off. “I'm beginning to wonder if you think Hollywood producers are going to notice every picture of you is in that same shirt and take some sort of pity on you that you can't actually afford any other clothes.”
“Are you saying that's a bad strategy?”
“You're an incredible ponce, Gruffudd.” Matthew smiles and kicks Ioan's foot. “Give us a hug.”
“Not on your life. You smell like vomit.” Ioan wrinkles his nose, still smiling. It's his full smile; the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and Matthew breathes deeply, then coughs. He really does smell.
“Right. Well, how about you find me somewhere with a shower and a place I can change clothes?”
“I'm not sure I want you in my car smelling like you do. Maybe I can find a police officer to hose you down or something.”
“Ioan. I've been awake for about thirty-six hours and, while I'm delighted so see you, I'm not above knocking you out, taking your car keys, leaving you here and going to your house and taking it over.”
Matthew reaches for his bag, tired enough that he’s not completely sure he’s joking. He hopes like hell Ioan can take a hint, which he apparently can as he tugs the bag out of Matthew’s reach. “Goodness. All you have to do is ask, Math.” He stands up, his ridiculously long fingers curling around the handle of Matthew's suitcase. “Right this way.”
“You're infuriating.”
“And yet you don't seem interested in getting rid of me. Says something more about you than me, I think.” Ioan grins and winks at Matthew, leading the way to the car.
They fall in step together without a thought, Ioan adjusting his long stride to Matthew’s slightly shorter one. “I don't suppose you've got anything for a headache, do you?”
“Don't believe in that stuff out here, 'm afraid. It's either all natural or the hard stuff.” Ioan's still smiling; Matthew can see him out of the corner of his eye.
“I'm sure the hard stuff would get rid of my headache.”
“I promised your mum I wouldn't allow you to get into trouble, Math.”
“That was nearly ten years ago.”
“I've done well so far. I'm not going to be the one telling her that you're hooked on heroin and strung out in the alley.”
“You think heroin will cure my headache, do you?”
“I can't say. And I'm afraid I can't allow you to find out. You'll just have to suffer.”
“I hate to tell you this, mate, but given that I haven't turned to serious drugs and alcohol after putting up with you for ten years, you can rest assured that this isn't going to do the trick.” Matthew claps his hand on Ioan's shoulder, the sharp sting of his touch taking all of it out of his words. “You do have a shower, right?”
“I have a hose out front. You can run through the sprinkler.”
Matthew groans softly. “Tell me again why I subjected myself to all of this to come out here?”
Ioan looks at him, a mild surprise in his eyes as he meets Matthew's. “You missed me.”
Matthew has to smile. “Yeah. Yeah. I did.”
**
Ioan's house, if Matthew is generous enough to call it that, is more like a shack with delusions of grandeur. It ostensibly had a bedroom and a kitchen and a dining room, but as far as Matthew can tell, it’s one big room with some strategically placed hallways. The kitchen has of a nook in it, though nothing resembling a table would fit in it, and the bedroom is barely large enough for a bed, much less anything else.
“Not a word,” Ioan warns him as Matthew looks around. “Trust me, I've heard it time and again from everyone I know and people I don't. So don't think you have anything to say that I haven't already heard.”
“I like it.”
Ioan blinks at him for a long time. “Okay. I haven't heard that one.”
“I mean, obviously, it'd be better with a bit of inflatable furniture, but as far as it goes, it's rather nice. Quaint.”
“Right.” Ioan's brow furrows. “Who are you then, and what have you done with Matthew?”
Matthew laughs. “It's nice, Ioan. Not exactly roomy or showy, but you're here on your own or you're off working. Not as if you're hosting wild parties or anything is it?”
“Well...er, no. Not as such.”
“Are you hosting non-wild parties?”
“Not...no, not parties.” Ioan's still frowning and Matthew sets his bag on the floor at the base of the sofa and tilts his head, glancing at Ioan curiously.
“Are they wild or non-wild events? Brouhahas? Shindigs?” Matthew walks into the kitchen, looking through the cupboards. He knows Ioan like this. He's got something to tell Matthew, and he's a bit embarrassed, so it's better for him not to have to look at Matthew. Also, Matthew's more interested in finding something for his pounding head than in whatever it is that's got Ioan mildly distressed.
“Well, it's just that...there's someone I'm sort of seeing.”
Matthew stops at the cabinet with all the booze in it. That's definitely a good thing to find. Possibly more important than the bit with the headache medicine. He takes out a bottle of whiskey and goes back to the cupboard he remembers had the glasses. They're cheap - Ikea, most likely - but they work, and the etched lines are a good guideline for him to know when to stop pouring. “Good on you, mate.”
“So she comes 'round sometimes.”
“Understandable.” Matthew sips his whiskey, careful not to drink it all down at once, exacerbate the pain pounding in his temples. “Wouldn't be much of 'seeing someone' if you weren't seeing her.”
“There's aspirin on top of the fridge.”
“Thanks.” Matthew glances up at it and then finishes his drink. He blames the headache for the fact that he doesn’t want to think about Ioan and a girl, much less an actual girlfriend. Too much information to process when his head is hurting. “Think I might be able to clean up a bit? I feel probably the most disgusting I ever have.”
“Oh. Yeah. Absolutely.” Ioan blushes and it brightens the sharp curve of his cheekbones. “I'll wash your jeans while you do that.”
“Thanks, mate.” Matthew goes over and grabs his bag, leaving the glass on the counter. He's not sure why this bothers him at all, much less so much.
He and Ioan have had girlfriends before, managed to live together during most of them even. The only thing he can figure, as he strips off his clothes and tosses them in the corner of the bathroom, is that he's here invited and that, having traveled so far and so long, he feels that Ioan should be his exclusively. It's patently ridiculous, as he's here for work, not for a holiday, and even if he were, he certainly never expected Ioan to put his life on hold for him.
He looks at himself in the mirror and blows out a breath. He looks tired. He looks run down. He looks like he's been in the air more hours than he's been on the ground in the past two days and he looks like he needs a good night's sleep, a hot shower and a lot more booze. Not necessarily in that order.
He turns the water on and lets the bathroom fill with steam before stepping under the spray. He groans and rolls his neck at the pounding of the water. He will say this for Ioan, he may not have the fanciest house, but he knows the important things in life.
The shower goes a long way to making Matthew feel human again and opening the curtain to see that his filthy clothes have been taken care of is kind of a surprise. Still, Ioan's always been frighteningly able to read Matthew's mood, so perhaps he realized Matthew wasn't quite himself covered in someone else's vomit. He dries off and dresses in shorts and a t-shirt, poking his head out into the hall and finger-combing his wild mass of hair. “Io?”
“Yeah?” Ioan walks out of the kitchen, a towel tucked into the waistband of his pants like a makeshift apron. “You hungry?”
“Um...sure. We've not got plans tonight, do we?”
“Nope. I thought we'd just watch the latest rugby, since you were somewhere over the ocean or the heart of America when it aired. Can even bet if you want.”
“You've likely already watched it. Do I look that stupid?” He holds up a hand as soon as Ioan's mouth opens. “Shut it.”
“Right-o.” Ioan snaps his mouth shut with a smile and heads back into the kitchen. Matthew gathers his things and then brings his bag back out to the living room, setting it behind the couch this time before going around to collapse on the cushions.
Ioan comes in with a plate of sandwiches and a bowl of crisps. Matthew's stomach rumbles and he realizes he hasn't had much more than a few tiny packages of peanuts for quite some time. “Oh, God. I'm starving.”
“You fail to take care of yourself in the most elementary ways,” Ioan informs him with a hint of grin. “It's a wonder anyone lets you out into the wild.” He sets the food down then heads back into the kitchen. “Beer okay?”
“I think I love you,” Matthew informs him around a huge bite of his sandwich.
“I'm suitably overwhelmed by your culinary affection.” Ioan comes back in with two beers and sits next to Matthew on the couch. He sets one of the beers down, grabs the bowl of crisps and then leans back on the cushions. He props his feet up on the coffee table and settles the bowl on his stomach, digging into it. “If I knew you were as easy as a turkey sandwich...”
“It's really a very good turkey sandwich,” Matthew manages to get the words out without losing any of his bite. He presses his hand to his mouth and swallows. “Really good.”
“I always trust the opinion of a starving man.” Ioan digs through the crisps and crunches one then licks the grease off his fingers. “Go on, eat up.”
“Put on the game.”
“Is my company that horrid already?” Ioan's grinning, so Matthew doesn't take offense, but he does roll his eyes.
“I didn't ask you to shove off, wanker.” Matthew takes another bite and then reaches over, digging his hand into the bowl of crisps. “I'd do that if I was sick of you.”
“Good to know. I'll keep that in mind.” Ioan sets the crisps on the couch and then leans over to grab the remote. He gets the game going and then settles back on the couch, his shoulder against Matthew's. “You want me to tell you who wins?”
Matthew bumps his shoulder against Ioan's, smiling as they fall back into familiar patterns without a bit of hesitation. This could be their flat in London, either of their parents’ houses in Cardiff. This is easy, right. Them. “Shut the fuck up.”
**
Matthew wakes up in the dark, blinking rapidly. His head still hurts, though the pain has dulled to a wicked throb. The TV is off and Ioan's gone, most likely to bed. Matthew is stretched out on the couch with a blanket thrown over him and a pillow under his head. The pillow smells like Ioan's aftershave. No doubt he was too bloody lazy to get Matthew anything fresh from the closet, just shoved a pillow and blanket from his bed onto the couch. Of course, given that Matthew seriously doubts Ioan has more than one set of anything, that's likely all he had.
Ioan's bedroom is dimly lit, so Matthew pads over to the door, glancing inside. Ioan's in bed reading something, his glasses on. “Script?”
“Jesus.” Ioan jumps about three feet off the bed, dropping and spilling the script all over the floor. “Jesus Christ, Math.”
“Well, I'd have warned you, but I'm afraid warning you likely would have scared you just as much.” He moves over and sits on the side of the bed, leaning down to pick up the script. “Something good?”
“Decent.” Ioan shrugs. He and Matthew used to read each others' scripts all the time. Used to know what was best for each other. That was before Hollywood though, before it was about maybe doing something more than surviving in the business, about maybe being more than 'look there's that bloke who's in every other British movie!' In America they talk about what an honor it is to work with the likes of Helen Mirren, of Dame Judy Dench, of Sir Antony Hopkins. In England, while it's an honor, it's also rather unavoidable. It's easier to name a British actor not in a Harry Potter movie than it is to name one actually in them.
Still, just because it's not regular practice anymore doesn't mean Matthew doesn't remember how to suss out what's bothering Ioan. “Go on, shove over.”
“This is my bed.”
“Yeah, I'm not trying to steal the covers. I'm trying to read the script. Tell me about it.”
“While you're reading?”
“I'm not looking for nuances, Io.”
“Good, because I don't think there are any.” He moves over and props his pillow more securely against the headboard. Matthew pages through the script, frowning every now and then. It's not great literature. Hell, it's not great anything, but he imagines that Ioan's got bills to pay. He knows he does. In a lot of ways, he's glad he didn't have the first surge of success that Ioan did with Hornblower. Being lauded as the next big thing can't be easy when the thing after the next big thing comes along or, even worse, when the next big thing simply fails to find the right thing to make him big. Ioan's made good choices and bad. They all have. Everyone has movies they'd rather not talk about, movies that paid the rent and nothing more. Still, to go from being a golden boy to being the bottom rung of the Hollywood ladder had to be tough.
“What do you think?” he asks finally, glancing at Ioan.
“I think it's likely crap.” Ioan laughs. “But it's likely crap that will make money, which allows me to maybe at some point do something less likely crap that won't.”
“It's a lot of spandex.”
Ioan laughs again and steals the script back from Matthew. “Yes.”
“They'll give you a codpiece or something, yeah? I mean, you don't want to embarrass yourself.”
“Matthew!” He jabs Matthew hard in the ribs and Matthew laughs, moving with the blow so it doesn't hurt as much as it could.
“I mean, think of your poor parents. They go to see their son on the big screen and there he is, all decked out in spandex, tightly revealing all of his shortcomings, and there's a long shot of your crotch and oh, the embarrassment. They'll have to leave Cardiff. Move to somewhere no one will know their son is built like a very small guinea pig.”
“You...” Ioan warns before he shoves Matthew hard, sending him spilling off the bed. Matthew's laughing too hard to really catch himself, so he makes a rough grunt when he hits the floor. “You've lived with me for over ten years, you fucker. You know perfectly well I'm...” Ioan blushes hard and dark and Matthew just looks up at him and laughs more. Ioan's a bit of a prude sometimes, shy and less comfortable with himself and his body than an actor probably should be. “I do just fine in that department.”
“Of course you do, mate.”
“Besides, how do you know about the sex organs of guinea pigs? Or is that something I should save for the talk show circuit and the National Enquirer.”
“I assure you,” Matthew informs him as he gets back on the bed. “Enquiring minds don't give a right fuck about me.”
“Not yet.” Ioan flips through the script. “It's a summer thing. Could make a lot of money.”
“It could.”
Ioan sighs and frowns at the script, his voice resigned. “I could be humiliated and never face my family or friends again.”
“You've been humiliated plenty of times before, Io,” Matthew laughs, obviously teasing him. “Don't let it stop you now.” Matthew blows out a breath. “This is the kind of thing that could make a career.”
“Or kill it.”
Matthew nods and leans against Ioan's shoulder. “Good thing you're thinking positive, mate.”
Ioan turns his head and grins at him. “Somebody's got to be the realist here.”
“And that's you?” Matthew can't quite keep the incredulity out of his voice. “If that's the case, we're in a hell of a lot more trouble than I thought.”
Ioan laughs and then they lapse into silence, comfortable and familiar. After a moment, Matthew closes his eyes. The bed’s far more comfortable than the couch anyway.
**
Matthew lets himself into the house, tossing his bag aside onto the sofa. He toes off his trainers and walks into the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the refrigerator. He lifts it to his mouth, then realizes he’s not alone, misses his mouth completely and pours half of it down his shirt. “Bloody fucking hell.”
“Oh. God.”
“You're naked.”
“Oh. God.”
“Go on!” Matthew manages to upend and save some of his beer, too shell-shocked by the sight of a naked woman to worry much about the puddle at his feet. “Put some clothes on. My God, woman!”
“Cyndi? Everything all right?” Ioan comes into the kitchen, tugging his boxers up to his hips. “Oh. Hullo there, Math.”
“'Hullo, Math'? That's what I get? Hullo? Are you daft, you stupid...” Matthew breaks off to glare at the girl. “Go and put some clothes on!”
The girl - not a bad looker, Matthew has to admit - shakes her daze off and rushes from the kitchen, hurrying back to the safety of Ioan's bedroom. Ioan watches her go then looks back at Matthew. “You all right?”
“She made me spill alcohol.”
“Ah. Well. I should break up with her then?”
Matthew ignores Ioan's smirk. “You should teach her to put some bloody clothes on before she goes traipsing around your house.” Matthew takes a long swallow of what's left of his beer. “She does know you have company.”
“Well, she certainly does now.” Ioan leans against the doorframe. “She's a looker, hmm?”
“Yes. Quite lovely.” Matthew glares at him. “All of her, including the parts I should never have seen.”
“Yes. I got that bit.” Ioan sighs. “How'd the audition go?” He moves into the kitchen, settling on one of the mismatched chairs beside the table as Matthew tosses a towel onto the spilled beer and swirls it around with his foot. “Good? Bad? Indifferent?”
“You know she's going to do something horrible to your stuff if you don't go in there and console her and pretend she wasn't a foolish bint walking around naked like that.”
“That bad, huh?” Ioan winces and gets up, getting two new beers from the refrigerator and passing one to Matthew. “What was it?”
“Some CSI sort of thing. Decided they're looking for something more Mediterranean.”
“You're an actor. Imagine you could swing Greek.”
“And with tits.”
“Ah.”
“Perhaps I could suggest Cyndi for the role. She certainly fulfills that criteria.”
“Yes,” Ioan sighs happily. “She does have very good tits.” He takes a long drink. “I should probably go check on her.”
“Yeah.” Matthew slumps against the counter and kicks half-heartedly at the towel by his foot. “Should call my agent.”
“I'll get rid of her. We'll go out to the local pub, have a few, watch some rugby, yeah? Have a bit of fun?”
“Not too much.” Matthew smiles. “I have a screen test tomorrow.”
“No. Hardly any fun at all. I'll make sure of it.” Ioan smiles back and gets to his feet. “C'mon, Math. I mean, this is an epic day.”
“Yeah?” Matthew raises an eyebrow. “How d'you mean?”
“Well, first naked girl you've ever seen, yeah?”
“Oh, you didn't.” Matthew pushes off the counter, launching himself at Ioan. Ioan turns on his heel, well-schooled in exactly the havoc he's just caused, and takes off down the hallway. Matthew tackles him halfway to the bedroom, pinning and straddling him. “You're in for a world of hurt, Gruffudd.”
“Ioan?”
Ioan tilts his head back as Matthew looks up. Cyndi is standing there, thankfully fully dressed. “I'm going to go.”
“Yeah. I mean...” Ioan shoves Matthew off, getting to his feet and tugging up his shorts in what has to be the most awkward set of movements Matthew has ever witnessed. “Let me walk you out.” He kicks at Matthew's leg, but Matthew moves out of the way before it connects.
“Pleasure to meet you, Cyndi.”
She smiles thinly. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Matthew raises his eyebrows, getting up off the floor after Ioan and Cyndi walk past. He waits until he hears the door close then moves to the couch, sprawling on it, pretending not to notice when Ioan walks back in.
“Well, I have to say, you make a stunning first impression.”
Matthew opens his mouth, affronted. “She was the naked one!”
“You were quite rude, apparently.”
“She's your girlfriend, and she was naked. What was I supposed to say? Nice tits? Pleased to meet you?”
Ioan’s brow furrows as he thinks. “Other way 'round, I think. Pleased to meet you first.”
“I'll keep that in mind next time I get assaulted by a naked woman in your kitchen.”
“She’d just had sex with me,” Ioan informs him. “She certainly didn't assault you.”
“Surprised then.” Matthew sighs and hooks his foot around Ioan's ankle, tugging him closer. “C'mere.”
“Thought we were going to the pub.”
“Are.” Matthew nods, though he keeps tugging Ioan in toward him. “You like her?”
Ioan frowns slightly and sits down next to Matthew. Matthew closes his eyes and rests his head on Ioan's shoulder. “'m sorry. I'll apologize to her. Don't want to ruin your good thing.”
“You didn't actually do anything wrong.”
“Still. I wasn't exactly nice. I'll put it right.” He glances up at Ioan and smiles. “I miss you, you know.”
“What?” Ioan looks down at him, his frown deepening. “You're being terribly emotional, Math. How much have you had to drink?”
“Not enough for this,” he admits. “But 's still true.” He kisses Ioan's shoulder. “I'll shower then we can go, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Ioan is silent until Matthew reaches the bathroom door. “Hey, Math?”
“Yeah?” Matthew turns around, a hint of a smile on his face. Ioan sounds almost confused, but he clears his throat, his voice strong.
“I miss you too.”
**
“'m ver' drunk.”
“Yes,” Matthew agrees for the fifth time. “I'm quite aware.”
“There're four of you.”
“Seven, actually, but we left the other three back at the pub.”
“Shoul' g' back 'n get them.”
“They'll make their way.”
“An' they're bringin' the booze?”
“Think you've had quite enough, mate.”
“Wales won.”
“I know, Ioan.” Matthew hooks his arm more securely around Ioan's waist and hoists him out of the taxi. “It was a game from 1987.”
“Still. Could've come out different. Never know with these things.”
“Yes, yes. Suppose it could've.” Matthew pays the driver and steers Ioan up to the house. “Why exactly are you drunk again?”
“Think it was all the ale.”
“You're very bloody clever.” Matthew wrangles the door open and guides Ioan inside. “C'mon, mate. T' bed with you.”
“No. No. 's early.” Ioan loops his arm around Matthew's shoulders.
“For you, maybe. But then, you've got a job, don't you?” Matthew shuts the door behind them, heading toward Ioan's bedroom. “C'mon.”
“You'll find something, Math.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Not a big deal though, you know.” He dumps Ioan on the bed and looks down at him, all splayed out - arms and legs far too long and gangly still, as if he hasn't grown into them during the past ten years.
“'s not?” Ioan frowns up at him. “Why not?”
Matthew shrugs, sitting on the end of the bed and tugging off Ioan's shoes. “Didn't just come out here for that.”
Ioan's brow furrows. “Then what?”
Matthew tosses Ioan's shoes to the floor and sighs, tapping him on the knee. “Came to see you, you daft boy.”
“Yeah?” Ioan smiles, the smile that always destroys Matthew - open and honest and delighted. “I'm glad you're here.”
“Suppose I'm decent comic relief for you between your bouts of being famous and such.”
“I'm not famous, Math. Never will be or have done. Just want to do well, you know?” He turns his head, his dark eyes serious. Matthew gets lost in Ioan's eyes, chocolate dark and a million years deep.
“Yeah, I know the feeling.” Matthew sighs and pats Ioan's knee. “Get some sleep. I'll see you after the thing tomorrow.”
“You'll be ace, mate.”
“From your lips to God's ears,” Matthew laughs.
Ioan grabs his hand, squeezing it tightly. “I mean it, you know. Be lucky to have you, they would.”
“Going to make me blush, Io.” Matthew squeezed his hand back. “Go on. Sleep it off. You'll be embarrassed enough come morning.” He watches Ioan's long lashes settle against his cheeks, dark against the pale drunken flush. He brushes Ioan's hair back and smiles down at him. “G'night, mate.”
**
Matthew expects Hollywood to be more like it is in the movies and on television, all bright lights and movie stars. He wants to walk down the street and see Harrison Ford and Steven Spielberg and the like gathered at coffee shops and making deals in restaurants. Instead there are too many tourists and too much dirt, the floodlights and neon trying to disguise the worn-down promises and cracks in the pavement.
Ioan doesn’t see any of it though. Ioan was born too late, Matthew thinks. He’s a throwback to the days of old Hollywood and glamour, to Carole Lombard and Cary Grant, to David Niven and Myrna Loy. Ioan looks at streetlights shining on spilled beer and urine and sees spotlights on opening night. He breathes it in, exuding what Hollywood should be in his excitement.
Clubs are a dime a dozen and quite a few of the ones they roll by cause Matthew to look twice. He’s certainly no prude - one doesn’t participate in the great tradition of British acting without the propensity to drop trou - but he’s not used to the blatant disregard for privacy, of intimacy. Not to mention the fact that Matthew’s fairly certain a few of the things he sees are highly illegal, possibly unethical and most certainly immoral.
Ioan continues to be oblivious, which makes Matthew think maybe he is being a bit prudish. Of course, Ioan spends so much time in his own head, it’s also quite possible he just doesn’t realize what’s going on around them. Matthew settles on that explanation quickly when they get where they’re going and Ioan gives the car over to the valet, stopping dead as he turns around and nearly runs into a group of people dressed, as near as Matthew can tell, for the circus. They’re nothing compared to some of what Matthew had seen on the drive, but Ioan sidesteps to get out of their way, looking back over his shoulder as they make their way inside.
“D’you think we’re underdressed?”
“If that’s what they’re all wearing inside, I’m fairly certain how we’re dressed is the very least of our problems.” Matthew eyes the queue outside the club dubiously. “Is this really Hollywood?”
Ioan looks at him, obviously surprised, no doubt by the uncertainty of Matthew’s voice. “A piece of it, yeah.”
“Is this where you go out?”
“Not usually. No.” Ioan blushes a bit and shakes his head as the line shuffles forward a few steps. “I thought you wanted to see the scene.”
“I did. I mean, I do, I suppose. I just didn’t know the scene was quite so…”
“Right.” Ioan laughs, and it’s rather a relief to Matthew. He can see Ioan relax, and he does the same. “Really I rarely go out, and if I do, I usually just go to the pub by the house. Drinks are relatively cheap, people dress in proper clothes, and there’s usually rugby or cricket on the telly.”
“So if I were to suggest…”
“That we bugger off and go someplace proper?” Ioan nods and starts back toward the valet. “Sounds ace, mate.”
“Oh, thank God.” Matthew is close on his heels, not once looking back.
**
“Well?” Ioan's sitting on the arm of the couch, feet bare against the cushions, arms wrapped around his knees. “C'mon. Tell us.”
“What do you think of me as a private investigator?”
Ioan blinks a few times then sinks down onto the couch properly. “Really?”
“Well, you could sound a bit more enthusiastic, you know.” Matthew kicks his shoes off and sits on the other end of the couch. “I mean, it's not completely inconceivable, is it?”
“People who aren't American are the bad guys. Not the heroes.”
“Not always. The British are usually spies.”
“You'd be an even worse spy. Is that better?” Ioan sounds dubious, as if he knows the answer. “Maybe you could be a double agent? Spying for the Russians.”
“This isn't 'Cambridge Spies', Ioan. Just a regular bloke. PI with an assistant.”
“An assistant?”
“Yeah. You know, a girl Friday. Sassy vixen with a heart of gold, completely unaware of her sexual being.”
“Then you hire her and she falls in love with you?”
“Well, not right away.” Ioan bites his lower lip, barely managing not to laugh. Matthew narrows his eyes, glaring at him. “What's so bloody funny?”
“It's just...and you...” Ioan stops fighting it and laughs out loud. “I mean, you're not exactly Sam Spade, are you?”
“I could be.”
“Hell, you're not even Columbo.”
“Thank you,” Matthew bites out, words brittle and stiff. “You're support and encouragement are over-fucking-whelming. Careful how you lay on the sodding praise, Mr. Fantastic.”
“Oi, Math!” Ioan watches as Matthew gets up off the couch, stalking into the kitchen. Matthew can hear Ioan following close behind and, when Matthew glances at Ioan from the corner of his eye, Ioan's expression is rueful. “No need to get tetchy.”
“You insulted me.” Matthew's voice is thick with incredulity. “How else should I respond to that exactly?”
“Have a bit of a sense of humor, maybe.” Ioan raises an eyebrow knowingly. “I mean, I'm to play Mr. Bloody Fantastic, the stretchy bloke who, despite being a certified genius, is apparently a stupid git. Don't think I don't know that makes me the butt of more than a few jokes.”
“Yes, but girls will come up to you and ask you to prove that you're fantastic.”
“Which, according to my last few girlfriends, I'm not.”
“Whereas they'll see me in my trench coat and assume I'm going to flash them.”
Ioan bites his lower lip again. “Maybe chat with the costuming folks about that bit?”
“The trench coat or the flashing?” Matthew laughs softly then hoists himself up on the counter. “It was either the PI or some sort of angel.”
“I can't...” Ioan swallows his laugh and shakes his head. “I can't even go there. Really.”
Matthew picks at the knee of his jeans. “You know, you do this Fantastic thing, they'll make you an action figure.”
“Did you miss the bit about me being all stretchy?” Ioan smirks. “Probably be made of Silly Putty and children around the world will roll me up and shove me in a plastic egg.”
“There are worse fates.” Matthew reaches out, catching one of the thick curls that falls over Ioan's forehead.
“Name one.”
“Could just be forgotten. A has been. A never was.”
“That won't be us. Won't be you.” Ioan reaches up for Matthew's hand, tangling their fingers together. “And even if it were - we're not doing it for the accolades, right?”
“Not just for the accolades.” Matthew moves his leg, drawing Ioan between his thighs. “But I must admit the accolades are nice.”
“Promise I'll stay your number one fan,” Ioan assures him.
Matthew nods, watching Ioan carefully. They're close together, bodies pressed tight, Ioan's hips against the inside of Matthew's thighs. “My only fan.” He doesn't mean for it to come out like it does, to linger in the air between them.
“Math?” Ioan's voice is barely above a whisper, his eyes gone wide.
Matthew bites his lower lip, his eyes dropping down to Ioan's mouth. Ioan's tongue darts out, leaving his lips wet and barely parted. This isn't entirely new - they'd gotten drunk one night and debated sexual politics until Ioan had shut him up with a kiss and that had started…something. They’ve had moments, kissing and more, that just happened, but it’s never been like this. This is different. This feels different.
Chest tight, breath caught in his lungs, Matthew swallows and dips his head. Ioan doesn't move and their lips barely brush.
“What was that?” Ioan breathes.
“Dunno. A kiss.” Matthew swallows again, hard to force it down past the air in his chest and his heart in his throat. “Maybe.”
“Wasn't a kiss,” Ioan informs him, pressing closer. “Kiss is more...” He stops and brushes Matthew's lips this time, a hint of his tongue skating over Matthew's lower lip.
“More what?” It's another whisper as Matthew curves his legs around the back of Ioan's thighs, holding him there.
“Like this.” Ioan breaths, mouth finding Matthew's surely this time, moving with and against it. Matthew parts his lips to the slide of Ioan's tongue, his legs tightening further as his hands move up to Ioan's neck, settling on either side of it before moving up to the dark tangle of Ioan's hair.
Ioan moans softly, hungrily. His body arches toward Matthew as his fingers scrape at Matthew's thighs before catching in his belt loops. Matthew gasps, breathing in the instant before the next kiss.
Ioan pulls back eventually, his face flushed. Matthew can’t help but reach out, brushing the tips of his fingers over Ioan’s cheek. “What was that?” he asks softly.
Ioan shrugs, his lips curving into a slight smile. “Dunno. Just seemed like the right thing to do.”
“Your girlfriend might beg to differ.”
“Never stopped us before.” Ioan’s mouth is crooked in a hint of a smile.
“That’s not exactly true. We never found ourselves doing this when there was a girl in the picture.” Matthew suspects he should stop, that by stroking Ioan’s lip with his thumb he’s rather undermining his own argument.
“What about when you dated Maureen?”
“That wasn’t really dating so much as desperate, drunken fondling.”
“For six months?”
“I was very drunk.”
Ioan gives him a full-fledged smile and shakes his head. “For six months?”
“Yes.”
The smile transforms into a soft laugh. “You weren’t that drunk.”
“Actually I was.” Matthew laughs, tightening his legs around Ioan in what is apparently a further effort to contradict himself. “Plus, she was amazingly good in bed.”
“So why did you spend half your time snogging me?”
“Because good in bed was about all she was.” Matthew shakes his head. “You like this girl?”
“Well enough, I suppose.”
“Then we really shouldn’t.” Matthew loosens his hold on Ioan, his expression no doubt slightly wistful as Ioan steps back. Something aches inside him and he claps his hands together before rubbing his thighs, erasing the feeling of Ioan before he can miss it. “So, what’s on our agenda? You going to show me around this town or what?”
Ioan watches him for a long moment before finally answering. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
**
Part Two
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
PAIRING: Ioan Gruffudd/Matthew Rhys
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: Come out to LA. It's pilot season.
DISCLAIMER: Ioan Gruffudd and Matthew Rhys belong only to themselves. I don't claim them, I don't claim to know them and no harm is intended. I make no profit from this, I just like playing with them.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Many amazing thanks to inlovewithnight, my beta and partner in crime. She also did the soundtrack, which you can find here. Written for the rpf_big_bang.
“Come out to L.A. It’s pilot season.”
Ioan’s message sits on Matthew’s answer phone for almost a week before Matthew does anything beyond listen. It’s the first he’s heard from Ioan in nearly a month, and he’s embarrassed to admit how many times he’s played the damn thing. He finally calls back, relieved when he gets Ioan’s voice mail.
“Yeah. Flying in on Friday. Send some starlet to pick me up, yeah?” He doesn’t leave a date or time. He’ll do that the day before if he has to, but he has to admit he rather hopes Ioan might actually call and talk to him. He knows it’s passive aggressive bullshit, but it’s easier than admitting that he’s been missing Ioan, that he’s jealous that Ioan’s hitting it off in Hollywood, that he’s lonely in this damned flat by himself.
It’s not that he doesn’t have other mates or plenty of girls he could bring home. It’s just that it’s not the same. He and Ioan had a routine, a sort of sixth sense about who did what and when and where. Even bringing girls home seems wrong when he doesn’t have to avoid Ioan’s too-long legs and knowing smile.
Ioan does call back though it’s when Matthew’s at an audition, doing his best to ride high on the positive reviews from “The Graduate”. He gets halfway through a beer before he actually listens to the message, staring at the blinking red light until he can’t stand it anymore.
“Had Julia Roberts all lined up to get you at the airport, but she said she can’t wait all day for you to just arrive. Perhaps you could be a proper mate and let me and Julia know when you might grace us with your presence?”
Matthew smirks and leans against the wall, taking another sip of his beer as he hits play again. He finally lets the silence settle then picks up the phone, dialing the international number.
“Jesus,” Ioan huffs. “About bloody time, you wanker.”
“Just assumed you were off at some premiere party. Too busy for the likes of me.”
“Don’t be such a tosser.” Ioan’s obviously smiling, his voice giving everything away. Matthew relaxes, carrying the phone over to the sofa and sinking down on it. “Doesn’t take anything as fancy as that for me to ignore you.”
“Ha.” Matthew stretches out. “You just say that to hide the fact that no one invites you.”
“Jealousy is such an ugly thing, Math.” Ioan pauses and Matthew hears him swallow.
“A bit early in the day to be hitting the bottle, isn’t it, mate?”
“Champagne for breakfast,” Ioan informs him with a laugh. “Either that or you drive me to drink.”
“Having seen you behind the wheel, you need someone to drive you.”
“I see you’ve a strong desire to walk from the airport?”
“Probably much safer.”
“I guess I’ll just be going then.” Ioan laughs. “See you when you get here.”
“Right. Right. Right then.” Matthew grabs the paperwork off the table in front of the sofa. “I’m still expecting a sexy starlet.”
“I’ll be sure to dress to show some décolletage.”
“Is that one of your fancy Hollywood words?”
“Far more proper than talking about people’s tits, they tell me.” He takes another drink and Matthew listens to him swallow. “So, go on.”
“You’re writing this down, right? And putting it somewhere you’ll not lose it? Not like every bill I’ve ever trusted you to pay.”
“Now you’re just being insulting.” Ioan’s pouting, but it’s easy to tell it’s faked. “I really can’t wait to see you, Math.”
“A sure sign you should try to actually find friends, you know.” He keeps his voice light, smiling at Ioan’s noise of protest. “Just don’t be late, Gruffudd. I’m not in the mood to dodge Hare Krishna and scientologists at the airport.”
“The scientologists are all famous now, mate. You actually want to hang out with them.”
“If Tom Cruise wants to hand me a copy of Dianetics, he’s welcome to, so long as it comes with a decent script and a nice contract.”
“You’re such a whore.”
“Only for fame. Though if that were completely true, I’d be hanging out with someone other than you. No offense, Ioan, but you’re not exactly A-list.”
“Being naked in bed with Kathleen Turner doesn’t mean you are either.”
“Are you going to start talking about Ridley Scott next or Stephen Fry’s prick?”
“Either way I think I’d come out on top.” Ioan stops for a moment and Matthew can practically feel the blush through the phone lines. “Don’t even say it, Evans.”
“Not saying a word.”
“Quit thinking so bloody loud.” Ioan laughs. “Rather walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
“It’s a skill and a talent, Ioan. Never change.”
Ioan’s quiet for a moment, then sighs. “Suppose I should let you go.”
“Yeah.” It’s not quite an agreement, not quite a question. “Busy day of being famous you’re running late for?”
“Something along those lines. I’ll see you soon, yeah?”
“Unless I wise up.”
“Hasn’t happened yet. What makes you think it’s likely now?”
“Wishful thinking, maybe.”
“You know, given that you’re such an arse, it’s hard to believe you’re home on a Saturday night.” Ioan laughs softly. “I really can't wait to see you, Math.”
“Yeah, well, I'm crashing on your couch. You'll get over that soon enough.”
“Ta,” Ioan laughs.
Matthew waits for him to hang up and sighs softly. “Ta.”
**
The plane ride is excruciating. There's a young mother with two children and no help in sight. One of the children sits next to Matthew the entire time, drooling on what was, when he left his flat that morning, Matthew's best pair of jeans. He lands in La Guardia and heads to the next gate, trying to be as polite as possible as he brushes off yet another apology from the mother. No, really. He's had enough late nights in the pubs to be well-acquainted with vomit. She doesn't seem to want to take it as fine when he realizes that she's got that look.
He's seen it a time or two, more than that if he's honest. It's someone looking at him and seeing something he doesn't see in the mirror. He's not falsely modest - he knows he's not bad to look at most of the time - but he also knows there are far more attractive people than he, and certainly more conventionally attractive without their grandfather's Welsh nose. He smiles at her, honestly flattered, and reassures her again that it's really fine, no really, then he manages to make his escape, hurrying through the airport to catch his connecting flight to Los Angeles.
He misses it, of course, because that's the sort of thing that happens to him. He'd stopped in the bathroom to clean up the vomit and with the time change and the chatting with the woman, he'd lost track of when he was supposed to be at the gate. He phones Ioan to let him know his flight time has changed, and he's subjected to at least five minutes of delighted laughter before he simply snaps his phone closed.
He catches the next flight, trying and failing to sleep thanks to the headphones of the bloke next to him, turned up to eleven and blasting something with throbbing bass and acid guitars. There’s another child behind him, older than the vomiting one, who kicks the back of his chair and, halfway over the country - somewhere about Missouri, they're told by the pilot - there are horrific thunderstorms. He rides out the turbulence with one hand fisted in his lap and the other holding onto the chair arm. They finally divert around the worst of the storm, putting him another hour behind schedule. He can almost hear Ioan laughing now from 35,000 feet.
The rest of the flight is uneventful, which he figures has to be more about the law of averages than anything he's done. Still, it's the roughest landing he's ever had and he's pretty much decided that he's never coming to Los Angeles again.
He manages to make it off the plane in the first wave, and his luggage is already waiting for him, pulled off the carousel and being sat on by Ioan, all long legs and arms and big eyes and quite possibly the best thing Matthew's ever seen.
Not that he can let Ioan know that. “You're wearing that god-awful shirt again.”
Ioan rolls his eyes, not quite managing a smirk. “You gave me this shirt.”
“And I see now that that was a huge mistake, given that you wear it everywhere.” He reaches for his bag, but Ioan blocks him, keeping him from it in a very clear indication that he will be carrying the bag. Matthew has to smile. They always did manage to work together well, one taking over when the other sort of left off. “I'm beginning to wonder if you think Hollywood producers are going to notice every picture of you is in that same shirt and take some sort of pity on you that you can't actually afford any other clothes.”
“Are you saying that's a bad strategy?”
“You're an incredible ponce, Gruffudd.” Matthew smiles and kicks Ioan's foot. “Give us a hug.”
“Not on your life. You smell like vomit.” Ioan wrinkles his nose, still smiling. It's his full smile; the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and Matthew breathes deeply, then coughs. He really does smell.
“Right. Well, how about you find me somewhere with a shower and a place I can change clothes?”
“I'm not sure I want you in my car smelling like you do. Maybe I can find a police officer to hose you down or something.”
“Ioan. I've been awake for about thirty-six hours and, while I'm delighted so see you, I'm not above knocking you out, taking your car keys, leaving you here and going to your house and taking it over.”
Matthew reaches for his bag, tired enough that he’s not completely sure he’s joking. He hopes like hell Ioan can take a hint, which he apparently can as he tugs the bag out of Matthew’s reach. “Goodness. All you have to do is ask, Math.” He stands up, his ridiculously long fingers curling around the handle of Matthew's suitcase. “Right this way.”
“You're infuriating.”
“And yet you don't seem interested in getting rid of me. Says something more about you than me, I think.” Ioan grins and winks at Matthew, leading the way to the car.
They fall in step together without a thought, Ioan adjusting his long stride to Matthew’s slightly shorter one. “I don't suppose you've got anything for a headache, do you?”
“Don't believe in that stuff out here, 'm afraid. It's either all natural or the hard stuff.” Ioan's still smiling; Matthew can see him out of the corner of his eye.
“I'm sure the hard stuff would get rid of my headache.”
“I promised your mum I wouldn't allow you to get into trouble, Math.”
“That was nearly ten years ago.”
“I've done well so far. I'm not going to be the one telling her that you're hooked on heroin and strung out in the alley.”
“You think heroin will cure my headache, do you?”
“I can't say. And I'm afraid I can't allow you to find out. You'll just have to suffer.”
“I hate to tell you this, mate, but given that I haven't turned to serious drugs and alcohol after putting up with you for ten years, you can rest assured that this isn't going to do the trick.” Matthew claps his hand on Ioan's shoulder, the sharp sting of his touch taking all of it out of his words. “You do have a shower, right?”
“I have a hose out front. You can run through the sprinkler.”
Matthew groans softly. “Tell me again why I subjected myself to all of this to come out here?”
Ioan looks at him, a mild surprise in his eyes as he meets Matthew's. “You missed me.”
Matthew has to smile. “Yeah. Yeah. I did.”
**
Ioan's house, if Matthew is generous enough to call it that, is more like a shack with delusions of grandeur. It ostensibly had a bedroom and a kitchen and a dining room, but as far as Matthew can tell, it’s one big room with some strategically placed hallways. The kitchen has of a nook in it, though nothing resembling a table would fit in it, and the bedroom is barely large enough for a bed, much less anything else.
“Not a word,” Ioan warns him as Matthew looks around. “Trust me, I've heard it time and again from everyone I know and people I don't. So don't think you have anything to say that I haven't already heard.”
“I like it.”
Ioan blinks at him for a long time. “Okay. I haven't heard that one.”
“I mean, obviously, it'd be better with a bit of inflatable furniture, but as far as it goes, it's rather nice. Quaint.”
“Right.” Ioan's brow furrows. “Who are you then, and what have you done with Matthew?”
Matthew laughs. “It's nice, Ioan. Not exactly roomy or showy, but you're here on your own or you're off working. Not as if you're hosting wild parties or anything is it?”
“Well...er, no. Not as such.”
“Are you hosting non-wild parties?”
“Not...no, not parties.” Ioan's still frowning and Matthew sets his bag on the floor at the base of the sofa and tilts his head, glancing at Ioan curiously.
“Are they wild or non-wild events? Brouhahas? Shindigs?” Matthew walks into the kitchen, looking through the cupboards. He knows Ioan like this. He's got something to tell Matthew, and he's a bit embarrassed, so it's better for him not to have to look at Matthew. Also, Matthew's more interested in finding something for his pounding head than in whatever it is that's got Ioan mildly distressed.
“Well, it's just that...there's someone I'm sort of seeing.”
Matthew stops at the cabinet with all the booze in it. That's definitely a good thing to find. Possibly more important than the bit with the headache medicine. He takes out a bottle of whiskey and goes back to the cupboard he remembers had the glasses. They're cheap - Ikea, most likely - but they work, and the etched lines are a good guideline for him to know when to stop pouring. “Good on you, mate.”
“So she comes 'round sometimes.”
“Understandable.” Matthew sips his whiskey, careful not to drink it all down at once, exacerbate the pain pounding in his temples. “Wouldn't be much of 'seeing someone' if you weren't seeing her.”
“There's aspirin on top of the fridge.”
“Thanks.” Matthew glances up at it and then finishes his drink. He blames the headache for the fact that he doesn’t want to think about Ioan and a girl, much less an actual girlfriend. Too much information to process when his head is hurting. “Think I might be able to clean up a bit? I feel probably the most disgusting I ever have.”
“Oh. Yeah. Absolutely.” Ioan blushes and it brightens the sharp curve of his cheekbones. “I'll wash your jeans while you do that.”
“Thanks, mate.” Matthew goes over and grabs his bag, leaving the glass on the counter. He's not sure why this bothers him at all, much less so much.
He and Ioan have had girlfriends before, managed to live together during most of them even. The only thing he can figure, as he strips off his clothes and tosses them in the corner of the bathroom, is that he's here invited and that, having traveled so far and so long, he feels that Ioan should be his exclusively. It's patently ridiculous, as he's here for work, not for a holiday, and even if he were, he certainly never expected Ioan to put his life on hold for him.
He looks at himself in the mirror and blows out a breath. He looks tired. He looks run down. He looks like he's been in the air more hours than he's been on the ground in the past two days and he looks like he needs a good night's sleep, a hot shower and a lot more booze. Not necessarily in that order.
He turns the water on and lets the bathroom fill with steam before stepping under the spray. He groans and rolls his neck at the pounding of the water. He will say this for Ioan, he may not have the fanciest house, but he knows the important things in life.
The shower goes a long way to making Matthew feel human again and opening the curtain to see that his filthy clothes have been taken care of is kind of a surprise. Still, Ioan's always been frighteningly able to read Matthew's mood, so perhaps he realized Matthew wasn't quite himself covered in someone else's vomit. He dries off and dresses in shorts and a t-shirt, poking his head out into the hall and finger-combing his wild mass of hair. “Io?”
“Yeah?” Ioan walks out of the kitchen, a towel tucked into the waistband of his pants like a makeshift apron. “You hungry?”
“Um...sure. We've not got plans tonight, do we?”
“Nope. I thought we'd just watch the latest rugby, since you were somewhere over the ocean or the heart of America when it aired. Can even bet if you want.”
“You've likely already watched it. Do I look that stupid?” He holds up a hand as soon as Ioan's mouth opens. “Shut it.”
“Right-o.” Ioan snaps his mouth shut with a smile and heads back into the kitchen. Matthew gathers his things and then brings his bag back out to the living room, setting it behind the couch this time before going around to collapse on the cushions.
Ioan comes in with a plate of sandwiches and a bowl of crisps. Matthew's stomach rumbles and he realizes he hasn't had much more than a few tiny packages of peanuts for quite some time. “Oh, God. I'm starving.”
“You fail to take care of yourself in the most elementary ways,” Ioan informs him with a hint of grin. “It's a wonder anyone lets you out into the wild.” He sets the food down then heads back into the kitchen. “Beer okay?”
“I think I love you,” Matthew informs him around a huge bite of his sandwich.
“I'm suitably overwhelmed by your culinary affection.” Ioan comes back in with two beers and sits next to Matthew on the couch. He sets one of the beers down, grabs the bowl of crisps and then leans back on the cushions. He props his feet up on the coffee table and settles the bowl on his stomach, digging into it. “If I knew you were as easy as a turkey sandwich...”
“It's really a very good turkey sandwich,” Matthew manages to get the words out without losing any of his bite. He presses his hand to his mouth and swallows. “Really good.”
“I always trust the opinion of a starving man.” Ioan digs through the crisps and crunches one then licks the grease off his fingers. “Go on, eat up.”
“Put on the game.”
“Is my company that horrid already?” Ioan's grinning, so Matthew doesn't take offense, but he does roll his eyes.
“I didn't ask you to shove off, wanker.” Matthew takes another bite and then reaches over, digging his hand into the bowl of crisps. “I'd do that if I was sick of you.”
“Good to know. I'll keep that in mind.” Ioan sets the crisps on the couch and then leans over to grab the remote. He gets the game going and then settles back on the couch, his shoulder against Matthew's. “You want me to tell you who wins?”
Matthew bumps his shoulder against Ioan's, smiling as they fall back into familiar patterns without a bit of hesitation. This could be their flat in London, either of their parents’ houses in Cardiff. This is easy, right. Them. “Shut the fuck up.”
**
Matthew wakes up in the dark, blinking rapidly. His head still hurts, though the pain has dulled to a wicked throb. The TV is off and Ioan's gone, most likely to bed. Matthew is stretched out on the couch with a blanket thrown over him and a pillow under his head. The pillow smells like Ioan's aftershave. No doubt he was too bloody lazy to get Matthew anything fresh from the closet, just shoved a pillow and blanket from his bed onto the couch. Of course, given that Matthew seriously doubts Ioan has more than one set of anything, that's likely all he had.
Ioan's bedroom is dimly lit, so Matthew pads over to the door, glancing inside. Ioan's in bed reading something, his glasses on. “Script?”
“Jesus.” Ioan jumps about three feet off the bed, dropping and spilling the script all over the floor. “Jesus Christ, Math.”
“Well, I'd have warned you, but I'm afraid warning you likely would have scared you just as much.” He moves over and sits on the side of the bed, leaning down to pick up the script. “Something good?”
“Decent.” Ioan shrugs. He and Matthew used to read each others' scripts all the time. Used to know what was best for each other. That was before Hollywood though, before it was about maybe doing something more than surviving in the business, about maybe being more than 'look there's that bloke who's in every other British movie!' In America they talk about what an honor it is to work with the likes of Helen Mirren, of Dame Judy Dench, of Sir Antony Hopkins. In England, while it's an honor, it's also rather unavoidable. It's easier to name a British actor not in a Harry Potter movie than it is to name one actually in them.
Still, just because it's not regular practice anymore doesn't mean Matthew doesn't remember how to suss out what's bothering Ioan. “Go on, shove over.”
“This is my bed.”
“Yeah, I'm not trying to steal the covers. I'm trying to read the script. Tell me about it.”
“While you're reading?”
“I'm not looking for nuances, Io.”
“Good, because I don't think there are any.” He moves over and props his pillow more securely against the headboard. Matthew pages through the script, frowning every now and then. It's not great literature. Hell, it's not great anything, but he imagines that Ioan's got bills to pay. He knows he does. In a lot of ways, he's glad he didn't have the first surge of success that Ioan did with Hornblower. Being lauded as the next big thing can't be easy when the thing after the next big thing comes along or, even worse, when the next big thing simply fails to find the right thing to make him big. Ioan's made good choices and bad. They all have. Everyone has movies they'd rather not talk about, movies that paid the rent and nothing more. Still, to go from being a golden boy to being the bottom rung of the Hollywood ladder had to be tough.
“What do you think?” he asks finally, glancing at Ioan.
“I think it's likely crap.” Ioan laughs. “But it's likely crap that will make money, which allows me to maybe at some point do something less likely crap that won't.”
“It's a lot of spandex.”
Ioan laughs again and steals the script back from Matthew. “Yes.”
“They'll give you a codpiece or something, yeah? I mean, you don't want to embarrass yourself.”
“Matthew!” He jabs Matthew hard in the ribs and Matthew laughs, moving with the blow so it doesn't hurt as much as it could.
“I mean, think of your poor parents. They go to see their son on the big screen and there he is, all decked out in spandex, tightly revealing all of his shortcomings, and there's a long shot of your crotch and oh, the embarrassment. They'll have to leave Cardiff. Move to somewhere no one will know their son is built like a very small guinea pig.”
“You...” Ioan warns before he shoves Matthew hard, sending him spilling off the bed. Matthew's laughing too hard to really catch himself, so he makes a rough grunt when he hits the floor. “You've lived with me for over ten years, you fucker. You know perfectly well I'm...” Ioan blushes hard and dark and Matthew just looks up at him and laughs more. Ioan's a bit of a prude sometimes, shy and less comfortable with himself and his body than an actor probably should be. “I do just fine in that department.”
“Of course you do, mate.”
“Besides, how do you know about the sex organs of guinea pigs? Or is that something I should save for the talk show circuit and the National Enquirer.”
“I assure you,” Matthew informs him as he gets back on the bed. “Enquiring minds don't give a right fuck about me.”
“Not yet.” Ioan flips through the script. “It's a summer thing. Could make a lot of money.”
“It could.”
Ioan sighs and frowns at the script, his voice resigned. “I could be humiliated and never face my family or friends again.”
“You've been humiliated plenty of times before, Io,” Matthew laughs, obviously teasing him. “Don't let it stop you now.” Matthew blows out a breath. “This is the kind of thing that could make a career.”
“Or kill it.”
Matthew nods and leans against Ioan's shoulder. “Good thing you're thinking positive, mate.”
Ioan turns his head and grins at him. “Somebody's got to be the realist here.”
“And that's you?” Matthew can't quite keep the incredulity out of his voice. “If that's the case, we're in a hell of a lot more trouble than I thought.”
Ioan laughs and then they lapse into silence, comfortable and familiar. After a moment, Matthew closes his eyes. The bed’s far more comfortable than the couch anyway.
**
Matthew lets himself into the house, tossing his bag aside onto the sofa. He toes off his trainers and walks into the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the refrigerator. He lifts it to his mouth, then realizes he’s not alone, misses his mouth completely and pours half of it down his shirt. “Bloody fucking hell.”
“Oh. God.”
“You're naked.”
“Oh. God.”
“Go on!” Matthew manages to upend and save some of his beer, too shell-shocked by the sight of a naked woman to worry much about the puddle at his feet. “Put some clothes on. My God, woman!”
“Cyndi? Everything all right?” Ioan comes into the kitchen, tugging his boxers up to his hips. “Oh. Hullo there, Math.”
“'Hullo, Math'? That's what I get? Hullo? Are you daft, you stupid...” Matthew breaks off to glare at the girl. “Go and put some clothes on!”
The girl - not a bad looker, Matthew has to admit - shakes her daze off and rushes from the kitchen, hurrying back to the safety of Ioan's bedroom. Ioan watches her go then looks back at Matthew. “You all right?”
“She made me spill alcohol.”
“Ah. Well. I should break up with her then?”
Matthew ignores Ioan's smirk. “You should teach her to put some bloody clothes on before she goes traipsing around your house.” Matthew takes a long swallow of what's left of his beer. “She does know you have company.”
“Well, she certainly does now.” Ioan leans against the doorframe. “She's a looker, hmm?”
“Yes. Quite lovely.” Matthew glares at him. “All of her, including the parts I should never have seen.”
“Yes. I got that bit.” Ioan sighs. “How'd the audition go?” He moves into the kitchen, settling on one of the mismatched chairs beside the table as Matthew tosses a towel onto the spilled beer and swirls it around with his foot. “Good? Bad? Indifferent?”
“You know she's going to do something horrible to your stuff if you don't go in there and console her and pretend she wasn't a foolish bint walking around naked like that.”
“That bad, huh?” Ioan winces and gets up, getting two new beers from the refrigerator and passing one to Matthew. “What was it?”
“Some CSI sort of thing. Decided they're looking for something more Mediterranean.”
“You're an actor. Imagine you could swing Greek.”
“And with tits.”
“Ah.”
“Perhaps I could suggest Cyndi for the role. She certainly fulfills that criteria.”
“Yes,” Ioan sighs happily. “She does have very good tits.” He takes a long drink. “I should probably go check on her.”
“Yeah.” Matthew slumps against the counter and kicks half-heartedly at the towel by his foot. “Should call my agent.”
“I'll get rid of her. We'll go out to the local pub, have a few, watch some rugby, yeah? Have a bit of fun?”
“Not too much.” Matthew smiles. “I have a screen test tomorrow.”
“No. Hardly any fun at all. I'll make sure of it.” Ioan smiles back and gets to his feet. “C'mon, Math. I mean, this is an epic day.”
“Yeah?” Matthew raises an eyebrow. “How d'you mean?”
“Well, first naked girl you've ever seen, yeah?”
“Oh, you didn't.” Matthew pushes off the counter, launching himself at Ioan. Ioan turns on his heel, well-schooled in exactly the havoc he's just caused, and takes off down the hallway. Matthew tackles him halfway to the bedroom, pinning and straddling him. “You're in for a world of hurt, Gruffudd.”
“Ioan?”
Ioan tilts his head back as Matthew looks up. Cyndi is standing there, thankfully fully dressed. “I'm going to go.”
“Yeah. I mean...” Ioan shoves Matthew off, getting to his feet and tugging up his shorts in what has to be the most awkward set of movements Matthew has ever witnessed. “Let me walk you out.” He kicks at Matthew's leg, but Matthew moves out of the way before it connects.
“Pleasure to meet you, Cyndi.”
She smiles thinly. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Matthew raises his eyebrows, getting up off the floor after Ioan and Cyndi walk past. He waits until he hears the door close then moves to the couch, sprawling on it, pretending not to notice when Ioan walks back in.
“Well, I have to say, you make a stunning first impression.”
Matthew opens his mouth, affronted. “She was the naked one!”
“You were quite rude, apparently.”
“She's your girlfriend, and she was naked. What was I supposed to say? Nice tits? Pleased to meet you?”
Ioan’s brow furrows as he thinks. “Other way 'round, I think. Pleased to meet you first.”
“I'll keep that in mind next time I get assaulted by a naked woman in your kitchen.”
“She’d just had sex with me,” Ioan informs him. “She certainly didn't assault you.”
“Surprised then.” Matthew sighs and hooks his foot around Ioan's ankle, tugging him closer. “C'mere.”
“Thought we were going to the pub.”
“Are.” Matthew nods, though he keeps tugging Ioan in toward him. “You like her?”
Ioan frowns slightly and sits down next to Matthew. Matthew closes his eyes and rests his head on Ioan's shoulder. “'m sorry. I'll apologize to her. Don't want to ruin your good thing.”
“You didn't actually do anything wrong.”
“Still. I wasn't exactly nice. I'll put it right.” He glances up at Ioan and smiles. “I miss you, you know.”
“What?” Ioan looks down at him, his frown deepening. “You're being terribly emotional, Math. How much have you had to drink?”
“Not enough for this,” he admits. “But 's still true.” He kisses Ioan's shoulder. “I'll shower then we can go, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Ioan is silent until Matthew reaches the bathroom door. “Hey, Math?”
“Yeah?” Matthew turns around, a hint of a smile on his face. Ioan sounds almost confused, but he clears his throat, his voice strong.
“I miss you too.”
**
“'m ver' drunk.”
“Yes,” Matthew agrees for the fifth time. “I'm quite aware.”
“There're four of you.”
“Seven, actually, but we left the other three back at the pub.”
“Shoul' g' back 'n get them.”
“They'll make their way.”
“An' they're bringin' the booze?”
“Think you've had quite enough, mate.”
“Wales won.”
“I know, Ioan.” Matthew hooks his arm more securely around Ioan's waist and hoists him out of the taxi. “It was a game from 1987.”
“Still. Could've come out different. Never know with these things.”
“Yes, yes. Suppose it could've.” Matthew pays the driver and steers Ioan up to the house. “Why exactly are you drunk again?”
“Think it was all the ale.”
“You're very bloody clever.” Matthew wrangles the door open and guides Ioan inside. “C'mon, mate. T' bed with you.”
“No. No. 's early.” Ioan loops his arm around Matthew's shoulders.
“For you, maybe. But then, you've got a job, don't you?” Matthew shuts the door behind them, heading toward Ioan's bedroom. “C'mon.”
“You'll find something, Math.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Not a big deal though, you know.” He dumps Ioan on the bed and looks down at him, all splayed out - arms and legs far too long and gangly still, as if he hasn't grown into them during the past ten years.
“'s not?” Ioan frowns up at him. “Why not?”
Matthew shrugs, sitting on the end of the bed and tugging off Ioan's shoes. “Didn't just come out here for that.”
Ioan's brow furrows. “Then what?”
Matthew tosses Ioan's shoes to the floor and sighs, tapping him on the knee. “Came to see you, you daft boy.”
“Yeah?” Ioan smiles, the smile that always destroys Matthew - open and honest and delighted. “I'm glad you're here.”
“Suppose I'm decent comic relief for you between your bouts of being famous and such.”
“I'm not famous, Math. Never will be or have done. Just want to do well, you know?” He turns his head, his dark eyes serious. Matthew gets lost in Ioan's eyes, chocolate dark and a million years deep.
“Yeah, I know the feeling.” Matthew sighs and pats Ioan's knee. “Get some sleep. I'll see you after the thing tomorrow.”
“You'll be ace, mate.”
“From your lips to God's ears,” Matthew laughs.
Ioan grabs his hand, squeezing it tightly. “I mean it, you know. Be lucky to have you, they would.”
“Going to make me blush, Io.” Matthew squeezed his hand back. “Go on. Sleep it off. You'll be embarrassed enough come morning.” He watches Ioan's long lashes settle against his cheeks, dark against the pale drunken flush. He brushes Ioan's hair back and smiles down at him. “G'night, mate.”
**
Matthew expects Hollywood to be more like it is in the movies and on television, all bright lights and movie stars. He wants to walk down the street and see Harrison Ford and Steven Spielberg and the like gathered at coffee shops and making deals in restaurants. Instead there are too many tourists and too much dirt, the floodlights and neon trying to disguise the worn-down promises and cracks in the pavement.
Ioan doesn’t see any of it though. Ioan was born too late, Matthew thinks. He’s a throwback to the days of old Hollywood and glamour, to Carole Lombard and Cary Grant, to David Niven and Myrna Loy. Ioan looks at streetlights shining on spilled beer and urine and sees spotlights on opening night. He breathes it in, exuding what Hollywood should be in his excitement.
Clubs are a dime a dozen and quite a few of the ones they roll by cause Matthew to look twice. He’s certainly no prude - one doesn’t participate in the great tradition of British acting without the propensity to drop trou - but he’s not used to the blatant disregard for privacy, of intimacy. Not to mention the fact that Matthew’s fairly certain a few of the things he sees are highly illegal, possibly unethical and most certainly immoral.
Ioan continues to be oblivious, which makes Matthew think maybe he is being a bit prudish. Of course, Ioan spends so much time in his own head, it’s also quite possible he just doesn’t realize what’s going on around them. Matthew settles on that explanation quickly when they get where they’re going and Ioan gives the car over to the valet, stopping dead as he turns around and nearly runs into a group of people dressed, as near as Matthew can tell, for the circus. They’re nothing compared to some of what Matthew had seen on the drive, but Ioan sidesteps to get out of their way, looking back over his shoulder as they make their way inside.
“D’you think we’re underdressed?”
“If that’s what they’re all wearing inside, I’m fairly certain how we’re dressed is the very least of our problems.” Matthew eyes the queue outside the club dubiously. “Is this really Hollywood?”
Ioan looks at him, obviously surprised, no doubt by the uncertainty of Matthew’s voice. “A piece of it, yeah.”
“Is this where you go out?”
“Not usually. No.” Ioan blushes a bit and shakes his head as the line shuffles forward a few steps. “I thought you wanted to see the scene.”
“I did. I mean, I do, I suppose. I just didn’t know the scene was quite so…”
“Right.” Ioan laughs, and it’s rather a relief to Matthew. He can see Ioan relax, and he does the same. “Really I rarely go out, and if I do, I usually just go to the pub by the house. Drinks are relatively cheap, people dress in proper clothes, and there’s usually rugby or cricket on the telly.”
“So if I were to suggest…”
“That we bugger off and go someplace proper?” Ioan nods and starts back toward the valet. “Sounds ace, mate.”
“Oh, thank God.” Matthew is close on his heels, not once looking back.
**
“Well?” Ioan's sitting on the arm of the couch, feet bare against the cushions, arms wrapped around his knees. “C'mon. Tell us.”
“What do you think of me as a private investigator?”
Ioan blinks a few times then sinks down onto the couch properly. “Really?”
“Well, you could sound a bit more enthusiastic, you know.” Matthew kicks his shoes off and sits on the other end of the couch. “I mean, it's not completely inconceivable, is it?”
“People who aren't American are the bad guys. Not the heroes.”
“Not always. The British are usually spies.”
“You'd be an even worse spy. Is that better?” Ioan sounds dubious, as if he knows the answer. “Maybe you could be a double agent? Spying for the Russians.”
“This isn't 'Cambridge Spies', Ioan. Just a regular bloke. PI with an assistant.”
“An assistant?”
“Yeah. You know, a girl Friday. Sassy vixen with a heart of gold, completely unaware of her sexual being.”
“Then you hire her and she falls in love with you?”
“Well, not right away.” Ioan bites his lower lip, barely managing not to laugh. Matthew narrows his eyes, glaring at him. “What's so bloody funny?”
“It's just...and you...” Ioan stops fighting it and laughs out loud. “I mean, you're not exactly Sam Spade, are you?”
“I could be.”
“Hell, you're not even Columbo.”
“Thank you,” Matthew bites out, words brittle and stiff. “You're support and encouragement are over-fucking-whelming. Careful how you lay on the sodding praise, Mr. Fantastic.”
“Oi, Math!” Ioan watches as Matthew gets up off the couch, stalking into the kitchen. Matthew can hear Ioan following close behind and, when Matthew glances at Ioan from the corner of his eye, Ioan's expression is rueful. “No need to get tetchy.”
“You insulted me.” Matthew's voice is thick with incredulity. “How else should I respond to that exactly?”
“Have a bit of a sense of humor, maybe.” Ioan raises an eyebrow knowingly. “I mean, I'm to play Mr. Bloody Fantastic, the stretchy bloke who, despite being a certified genius, is apparently a stupid git. Don't think I don't know that makes me the butt of more than a few jokes.”
“Yes, but girls will come up to you and ask you to prove that you're fantastic.”
“Which, according to my last few girlfriends, I'm not.”
“Whereas they'll see me in my trench coat and assume I'm going to flash them.”
Ioan bites his lower lip again. “Maybe chat with the costuming folks about that bit?”
“The trench coat or the flashing?” Matthew laughs softly then hoists himself up on the counter. “It was either the PI or some sort of angel.”
“I can't...” Ioan swallows his laugh and shakes his head. “I can't even go there. Really.”
Matthew picks at the knee of his jeans. “You know, you do this Fantastic thing, they'll make you an action figure.”
“Did you miss the bit about me being all stretchy?” Ioan smirks. “Probably be made of Silly Putty and children around the world will roll me up and shove me in a plastic egg.”
“There are worse fates.” Matthew reaches out, catching one of the thick curls that falls over Ioan's forehead.
“Name one.”
“Could just be forgotten. A has been. A never was.”
“That won't be us. Won't be you.” Ioan reaches up for Matthew's hand, tangling their fingers together. “And even if it were - we're not doing it for the accolades, right?”
“Not just for the accolades.” Matthew moves his leg, drawing Ioan between his thighs. “But I must admit the accolades are nice.”
“Promise I'll stay your number one fan,” Ioan assures him.
Matthew nods, watching Ioan carefully. They're close together, bodies pressed tight, Ioan's hips against the inside of Matthew's thighs. “My only fan.” He doesn't mean for it to come out like it does, to linger in the air between them.
“Math?” Ioan's voice is barely above a whisper, his eyes gone wide.
Matthew bites his lower lip, his eyes dropping down to Ioan's mouth. Ioan's tongue darts out, leaving his lips wet and barely parted. This isn't entirely new - they'd gotten drunk one night and debated sexual politics until Ioan had shut him up with a kiss and that had started…something. They’ve had moments, kissing and more, that just happened, but it’s never been like this. This is different. This feels different.
Chest tight, breath caught in his lungs, Matthew swallows and dips his head. Ioan doesn't move and their lips barely brush.
“What was that?” Ioan breathes.
“Dunno. A kiss.” Matthew swallows again, hard to force it down past the air in his chest and his heart in his throat. “Maybe.”
“Wasn't a kiss,” Ioan informs him, pressing closer. “Kiss is more...” He stops and brushes Matthew's lips this time, a hint of his tongue skating over Matthew's lower lip.
“More what?” It's another whisper as Matthew curves his legs around the back of Ioan's thighs, holding him there.
“Like this.” Ioan breaths, mouth finding Matthew's surely this time, moving with and against it. Matthew parts his lips to the slide of Ioan's tongue, his legs tightening further as his hands move up to Ioan's neck, settling on either side of it before moving up to the dark tangle of Ioan's hair.
Ioan moans softly, hungrily. His body arches toward Matthew as his fingers scrape at Matthew's thighs before catching in his belt loops. Matthew gasps, breathing in the instant before the next kiss.
Ioan pulls back eventually, his face flushed. Matthew can’t help but reach out, brushing the tips of his fingers over Ioan’s cheek. “What was that?” he asks softly.
Ioan shrugs, his lips curving into a slight smile. “Dunno. Just seemed like the right thing to do.”
“Your girlfriend might beg to differ.”
“Never stopped us before.” Ioan’s mouth is crooked in a hint of a smile.
“That’s not exactly true. We never found ourselves doing this when there was a girl in the picture.” Matthew suspects he should stop, that by stroking Ioan’s lip with his thumb he’s rather undermining his own argument.
“What about when you dated Maureen?”
“That wasn’t really dating so much as desperate, drunken fondling.”
“For six months?”
“I was very drunk.”
Ioan gives him a full-fledged smile and shakes his head. “For six months?”
“Yes.”
The smile transforms into a soft laugh. “You weren’t that drunk.”
“Actually I was.” Matthew laughs, tightening his legs around Ioan in what is apparently a further effort to contradict himself. “Plus, she was amazingly good in bed.”
“So why did you spend half your time snogging me?”
“Because good in bed was about all she was.” Matthew shakes his head. “You like this girl?”
“Well enough, I suppose.”
“Then we really shouldn’t.” Matthew loosens his hold on Ioan, his expression no doubt slightly wistful as Ioan steps back. Something aches inside him and he claps his hands together before rubbing his thighs, erasing the feeling of Ioan before he can miss it. “So, what’s on our agenda? You going to show me around this town or what?”
Ioan watches him for a long moment before finally answering. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
**
Part Two