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Title: Boys Will Be Boys
Author: Lilith (![[insanejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/ij-userinfo.gif)
lilithilien)
Characters: Ianto Jones/Jean-Luc D'Aoust (OC)
Summary: Ianto should be studying. But some temptations are hard to resist.
Rated: PG; refers to minors in a sexual context
Disclaimer: Ianto Jones belongs to Russell T Davies and the Torchwood franchise.
Notes: This story was inspired by and is set in the Shades of Ianto 'verse created by LiveJournal's sarcasticchick (written with her permission). It is set at Avalon; if you have not read her story, then this one will probably not make much sense. Ianto is 14 years old here; if you have a problem with underage boys thinking about or acting upon sexual situations (although it's very minor), then this story's not for you.
Ianto had no sooner opened his textbook (The Fundamentals of Psychokinesis and Physics, a weighty tome whose contents promised to be as dull as its title, if the detailed diagrams on the first page were any indication) than he felt a tickle at the crown of his head (the corona capitis, he quickly corrected himself, recalling the tedious anatomy lecture he'd been forced to endure that morning...and wasn't it unfair that his schoolmates were enjoying their summer, bathing at Bracelet Bay or heading to Vetch Field for a match. Not that Ianto wanted to be part of the Jack Army, but even an inane debate over the Swans' future was better than classes at Avalon under the not-so-watchful but ever-disapproving eye of his mother).
Ianto tried to ignore the tickle, focusing all his attention on studying a chart labelled "estimated relative dimension vs. distance as a measure of psychokinetic aptitude," but it didn't go away. Instead it started moving slowly across his forehead, like a fly delicately picking its way across a leftover slice of cake. Finally Ianto gave in to the interruption.
"What?!"
"You're getting better."
Ianto wanted to ignore the intruder—Jean-Luc was a sure recipe for trouble, as his mother (or "Ms White," as she demanded he call her here) had reminded him yesterday after he was presented in her office, still soaking wet, to explain why the fire sprinklers had erupted just as Professor De Wispelaere had begun the second tedious hour of his lecture on 18th century psi research. Even the head boy had nodded off. Jean-Luc had convinced him that it would be a good way to wake everyone up; Ms White did not agree. "I'm disappointed in you, Mr Jones," she'd admonished. "Mr D'Aoust is allowed certain...liberties due to his talents. For someone with no practical talents to speak of, I should think you would be more careful about whom you followed."
But Jean-Luc was hard to dissuade. Only two months older than Ianto ("but already 15!" as he kept insisting), his friend possessed an ease that Ianto coveted but knew he'd never have. Much of it came from those talents that Ms White had referred to—Jean-Luc had topped the scales on Avalon's psi tests in telepathy, telekinesis, and empathy, a true TKE—but it was equally due to his charm. And now it was turned completely on Ianto.
"You're getting really good, actually—six minutes 42 seconds before you even noticed
me.
Ianto couldn't help but beam at the praise. Jean-Luc had taken to measuring things this summer, recording it all on the trusty stopwatch he kept tucked inside his pocket. From the two minutes 13 seconds it took Professor Andropov to notice his briefcase levitating just outside the window of his fourth floor classroom to the 38 seconds it took the two boys to sprint across the courtyard (Ianto's longer legs pulled him ahead every time), he captured it all and committed it to memory.
And to actually hold the pride of Avalon at bay for more than five minutes? That was indeed an accomplishment.
But it would do no good to let Jean-Luc know he'd succeeded. Ianto steeled himself and tried to let a lone disgruntled thought float to the top of his public mind. "I'm studying. What do you want?"
"Meet me at the Porter's gate."
Now he didn't have to pretend his irritation. If Mother...if Ms White caught him again, he was sure the rest of the summer would be more miserable than it usually was. He didn't know quite how that would be possible, but he had no doubt she could make it happen.
"What part of studying do you not understand?" Ianto looked at the open pages on the desk. The words were already starting to blur, but he couldn't give in to his friend's temptation. "Besides, what if we get caught again? She'll skin me alive this time."
He couldn't explain how it felt exactly, but there in the crown of his head he could sense Jean-Luc's amusement. He didn't seem rebuked at all, and Ianto wondered if his friend wasn't used to being refused. He didn't even seem to recognise it, instead adding, "You're right, the Porter's gate is too obvious. The other side then, just behind the storage shed."
"Are you sure you're really an empath?" Ianto retorted. "Because you're having some trouble understanding me. I can't leave, I'm studying."
"Trust me, Ianto. This is far more educational than PsyK and Physics."
Not waiting for a reply, Jean-Luc pulled away from Ianto's mind; it was as gentle as a spring wind disturbing the curtain of an open window, but Ianto knew that he was once again alone in his mind. He stared back down at the page:
...many methods of determining psychokinetic ability. One of the original, and now viewed by most psy-auditors as too simplistic, models is the Cornwall scale, created by Dr. Philip Chase of the Cornwall Institute, which measures the dimensions of the object to be moved in conjunction with the mass of the object and the distance which the object is to be moved, with consideration of the distance from the object as the most significant determining factor in a potential kinetic's ability. This equation can be written as...
Jean-Luc had told him to picture his brain's synapses as a sequence of doors that opened and closed in sequence with every mental process. Right now he could feel the doors slamming shut, one by one. If this continued, he'd be asleep before he finished the chapter.
Not to mention, Jean-Luc would be needling him again in just a few minutes. He was probably sitting there with his stopwatch now, waiting to see how long it took Ianto to join him.
With a resigned sign, Ianto shut his book and tucked it into his backpack, and left the library to join his friend.
* * * * *
There was no one behind the storage shed, or in front of it, or even by the Porter's station. His irritation brewing, Ianto checked once more at the place where Jean-Luc had said he would be. There was nothing there, only a large shrubbery framing the foundation of Avalon's girls' dormitory. And then as he looked the shrub seemed to blur, as if a raindrop had fallen in his eye. When it cleared he saw Jean-Luc standing before him, his face split with a knowing smirk. Ianto was taken aback for half a second; then he grinned back at his friend. "That's brilliant! How did you do it?"
"Stephen's training me to be a sentinel—I'm plugging into the same network hiding Avalon. But I figure it might be useful for other things, too."
"I'll say it will," agreed Ianto. "Is it hard?"
Jean-Luc shook his head. "Not really. It takes some concentration...like I don't think I can keep it up and read thoughts at the same time. But as long as I can focus on it, it's not too bad."
Ianto's mind reeled with the possibilities of his friend's latest talent; he knew Jean-Luc had no doubt already compiled and prioritised a list of pranks they could pull. "Where do you want to go first," he asked eagerly. "We could stock up on hall passes from the Porter ..." His eyes widened. "We don't even need hall passes anymore, do we?"
"Not really," Jean-Luc admitted, "but I told you I had something to show you." He motioned for Ianto to come closer. The younger boy did, wondering what more there was to see. With this new skill, they might never again be caught. He might never again be brought up before Ms White, ashamed, forced to explain why he's sullied the family name. Once Ianto had joined him, Jean-Luc's face went blank. Ianto glanced over his shoulder. He couldn't see anything necessarily, nothing more than the distorted haze of an unusually hot day, but he knew they were now safe from the outside world.
Jean-Luc dropped to the ground and began crawling on through the thinning part of the shrubbery, toward a basement window that Ianto hadn't noticed before. Ianto followed and peered inside. "Oh wow..." Patsy Clarke, the new nursery teacher at Avalon and subject of endless nighttime discussions in the boys' dormitory, was standing in the middle of the room wearing nothing but a full-length slip. Mr DuChamp, maths instructor and all around prat as far as Ianto could tell, was fondling her breasts through the silk. His mouth nuzzled her bare shoulders, and her long blond hair fell carelessly down her back.
Without taking his eyes off the scene inside, Jean-Luc whispered, "I thought you'd want to see this."
Ianto nodded just as Miss Clarke skillfully stripped the white starched shirt off Mr DuChamp's spotted shoulders. He fervently wished the maths instructor would take the hint and do the same for his partner. Ianto's closest exposure to female breasts had been watching Cause Célèbre with his father and Elaine. Helen Mirren's surprised reaction to having the bedsheets pulled away had been nothing compared to Broderick's as he belatedly tried to shield the eyes of two curious children. This had led a few days later to an embarrassing talk about the birds and bees with his father. Ianto had been left feeling inexplicably uncomfortable and unsure where to go with his questions. An aborted attempt at having a girlfriend (neither his idea nor her's, but Gwenyth Davies, determined 7th year matchmaker, was not easily dissuaded) had resulted in even more confusion and an untested certainty that Delia's 14-year-old breasts bore little resemblance to Helen Mirren's.
Or to Patsy Clarke's, as Ianto saw when the straps of her slip fell from her shoulders and the silk dropped to the floor, leaving Mr Duchamp holding two huge fistfuls of flesh.
"Lucky bastard," murmured Jean-Luc, somewhat breathlessly. "Look at those tits."
Ianto was definitely looking. They looked heavy, and soft, and for some reason he couldn't explain he wanted to bury his face between them. Apparently Mr Duchamp did too; he moved there post haste, lifting first one of her taut red buds to his lips and then the other, licking them as if they were an ice cream. At that, Ianto felt an uncomfortable stirring between his legs. He shifted his hips, but the friction in his trousers against the earth sent a shudder of pleasure through him.
Ianto groaned.
He didn't think he'd been loud, but in the quiet blanketing the two boys it sounded deafening. Jean-Luc glanced over at him with a cocky grin. "This the first time you've seen tits, isn't it?"
"No," Ianto said adamantly, hoping his denial would be enough. It wasn't, of course, and Jean-Luc's arched eyebrow forced him to continue. "I had a girlfriend last year."
"And you saw her tits?"
"Well, I..." Ordinarily Ianto could not contemplate lying to Jean-Luc, even to defend his honour. The empath would know the truth before the words even left his mouth. But with Jean-Luc's attention was directed towards their shield, Ianto was emboldened. "We fooled around some, yeah."
"You did not."
"Did so."
"Did not."
"Did so," Ianto insisted, and resolving to take full advantage of his friend's temporary blind spot added, "Take that back."
"No way," Jean-Luc retorted. "I don't believe you."
"I don't care whether you believe me or not," Ianto shrugged, hopefully nonchalantly. "It's the truth."
Jean-Luc narrowed his eyes at Ianto. Even knowing that his mind was momentarily safe, the scrutiny made Ianto feel bare. "I bet you never even kissed her."
"I did." He could say that with conviction. In the bus returning from a school trip to Cardiff, Ianto had summoned up all his courage and kissed Delia. He'd considered it a moderate success at the time—she hadn't run away screaming—but he didn't see what all the fuss was about. Apparently she didn't either; two days later she decided that it was best they break up. Ianto hadn't disagreed.
"Prove it."
Ianto looked at Jean-Luc sideways, desperately wishing the other boy would forget about it and let him get back to watching the show in front of them. Mr DuChamp's trousers were around his ankles now and Miss Clarke was kneeling before him. Ianto couldn't see what she was doing, but he had an idea, and he desperately wanted to see if it was the right one. But all he could see were her long fingers clutching Mr DuChamp's back. Even without a clear view, this was worlds more interesting than anything he'd ever done, or even imagined doing, with Delia Morgan. With as much irritability as he could muster Ianto said, "Prove it how? What, you want to ring her up to check?" He blanched as he made that suggestion; knowing Jean-Luc, he would. Quickly Ianto added, "Sorry, I don't remember her number." 508 324 67 43, but that was a secret he knew he could tuck away from his nosy friend.
"No," Jean-Luc said, his voice suddenly sounding sly. "Show me."
Ianto's breath caught, forcing him to cough, when he heard the request. He looked at Jean-Luc in surprise, certain he had misunderstood. "What did you say?"
Jean-Luc held Ianto's gaze as he repeated, as he would for one of the younger students, "Show me."
Ianto squinted, not wanting to be mistaken for one of those younger students but still not quite sure he'd understood. "You want me to kiss you?" When Jean-Luc just nodded, never breaking his piercing gaze, Ianto asked incredulously, "Can boys even do that?"
Jean-Luc laughed at that, making Ianto really feel like one of the youngers. "Of course they can. What do they teach you out in Wales?"
Angry and defensive, Ianto shot back, "Not to be poofters, anyway." Jean-Luc just smirked, then shrugged and turned back to the window. Ianto looked too. Miss Clarke was sitting on a school desk now and Mr DuChamp was crouched on the floor below her, head buried between her thighs. Ianto felt a strange surge of excitement when Mr DuChamp's hands gripped her calves and scissored her legs wide.
He wondered what it'd be like to touch a girl's—a woman's—legs like that. They were different, of course he knew that, but he'd never thought about kissing them down there. Mr DuChamp seemed pretty interested though, if the eager bobbing of his head was any indication. What if someone wanted him to do that? How would he know what to do? He didn't even really know how to kiss a girl on the mouth, as his experience with Delia proved.
Ianto looked at his friend. Jean-Luc seemed absorbed in the proceedings on the other side of the windowpane. How would he know what to do, if the situation ever arose? Maybe he did need to practice. How different could it be with a boy anyway? He wished Jean-Luc would bring up the subject again, but he seemed to have lost interest. Almost hoping for a challenge, Ianto broke the silence. "I don't care if you believe me or not, I did kiss her."
Jean-Luc smiled, but didn't respond. After what seemed like an extraordinarily long minute, Ianto added, "I can prove it if you want."
"I thought you didn't care if I believed you or not," Jean-Luc mocked, turning his face lazily towards Ianto.
Cursing that frustrating turn of logic, Ianto leaned forward suddenly and pressed his tightly closed lips to the other boy's. He held them there for a moment, staring the whole time into Jean-Luc's blue eyes. After a decent amount of time had passed he pulled away, waiting for his friend's reaction.
Jean-Luc laughed out loud.
"Fuck off!" Ianto snarled, his pride sorely ruffled.
"No, no..." Jean-Luc consoled him. "Just, if that's how you snogged Delia, then no wonder."
"Yeah? Well I suppose you could do better?"
Without a word in response, Jean-Luc stretched his long neck towards Ianto. His hand reached out to cup Ianto's chin, pulling him gently toward him until their lips met. The pressure was lighter than before, just warmth really more than anything, and then ... was Jean-Luc licking his lip? Yes, that was definitely a tongue, warm and wet, and Ianto was simultaneously disgusted and intrigued. It felt good, anyway, and Ianto started to relax. Maybe he could get into this kissing thing. Jean-Luc seemed to be taking his time. He was almost sucking on Ianto's bottom lip, and that felt even better than the licking. And then, when Ianto relaxed even more, allowing a tiny crevice between his lips, Jean-Luc's tongue slipped inside. Oh, and that was even better. Ianto had never known his teeth were sensitive, but to have a tongue—someone else's tongue—brushing over them, probing them, it was a feeling unlike anything Ianto had ever experienced before.
It was about then that Ianto remembered that he'd never told Jean-Luc his girlfriend's name.
He started to protest, but was held fast by Jean-Luc's hand tangled in the hair at the back of his head. The occipital bone it was called, he unwittingly remembered. It was his last thought for a while; as soon as Ianto tried to speak Jean-Luc's tongue slipped between Ianto's teeth. Delia was forgotten completely, as was any need for oxygen—instead his senses were flooded with the touch of another tongue's slow slide against his. Ianto had never imagined kissing would be like this. It was messy and wet and confusing, and it was the best thing Ianto had ever felt in his life. Jean-Luc's mouth was all sleek, wet warmth, enticing him to sink completely into it.
Ianto opened his mouth wider, giving Jean-Luc's seeking tongue permission to explore his mouth. Jean-Luc took it willingly, a gentle tug of his hair tilting Ianto's head back for a better angle. As their tongues curled together, Ianto heard a deep groan; he realised seconds later that it had come from his throat. Jean-Luc's answer was to wrap his arm around Ianto's shoulders and, never ceasing the languid motion of his lips, shifting the other boy until Ianto fit snugly under his arm. Ianto reached up to brush his fingertips across Jean-Luc's chin. As heightened as his senses were, he felt every subtle movement as he stroked the smooth skin stretched taut over Jean-Luc's sharp jawbone. Jean-Luc's hand fell from his shoulder, trailing down until it rested on the curve of Ianto's back, where he clutched at his thin tee-shirt.
And always his lips kept moving, kept speaking to Ianto in this new language that Ianto didn't know, but that he was more than willing to learn.
Finally, though, the need for oxygen resurfaced, and Ianto was forced to pull unwillingly away. As he drew a deep breath, he opened his eyes (he didn't recall shutting them) and looked straight into Jean-Luc's. They beamed back at him, so close they should have been blurry, but Ianto was sure he'd never seen anything as sharp and clear as that glacial blue. Jean-Luc held him in place a second longer, again suckling Ianto's bottom lip as he had done earlier. Then he rolled to his side and reached into his pocket.
Ianto heard a distinct click.
"Four minutes 28 seconds."
Is that all, Ianto wanted to say? It seemed an incredibly short time for such a momentous thing. Instead he mock glared at Jean-Luc. "Bastard."
Jean-Luc just snickered. "Think we can break five next time?"
Ianto was about to answer when he heard voices coming near. He looked back through the shrubbery but couldn't see the protective distortion. His friend's concentration must've wavered. Ianto couldn't blame him, but he still whispered tersely, "Jean-Luc…"
"Bollocks, I don't have time to set up...here, come on." Ianto followed Jean-Luc, scrambling out of the bushes and standing up just as Mr Harrison, the Porter, rounded the shed with the groundskeeper. Jean-Luc quickly ducked his head as if he was searching for something in the bushes. Ianto nervously tried to follow suit without meeting their eyes. Fortunately neither were empaths, but that didn't mean they couldn't spot a guilty teenager from 50 yards away.
Mr Harrison stopped short as soon as he spied them. "Mr D'Aoust, Mr Jones, what do you think you're doing back here?"
Jean-Luc looked up as if surprised to see them there. "Oh, hello, Mr Harrison. We're just looking for the football. The first years were playing with it earlier and they said they left it here, but we can't find it anywhere." He looked as earnest as Ianto had ever seen him when he asked, "You haven't come across it, have you?"
"No, I haven't," Mr Harrison replied shortly, giving them both a judgemental stare, "and I imagine both of you have better things to be doing than playing football. Stephen was just asking after you, Mr D'Aoust..."
"I'll go see what he wants straightaway then." Jean-Luc turned to Ianto. "Do you want to come with? Stephen'll probably have work for both of us."
"Sure," Ianto agreed, quickly falling into step behind his friend. Mr Harrison continued explaining the hedge trimming to the groundskeeper as soon as they'd passed, and Ianto realised that they'd won a reprieve. He grinned at his friend.
Jean-Luc grinned back. "Five minutes you think?"
Ianto nodded, fighting back the blush warming his cheek. "Definitely five." He broke into a run, hearing Jean-Luc's footsteps close behind as he raced across the courtyard.
Author: Lilith (
lilithilien)Characters: Ianto Jones/Jean-Luc D'Aoust (OC)
Summary: Ianto should be studying. But some temptations are hard to resist.
Rated: PG; refers to minors in a sexual context
Disclaimer: Ianto Jones belongs to Russell T Davies and the Torchwood franchise.
Notes: This story was inspired by and is set in the Shades of Ianto 'verse created by LiveJournal's sarcasticchick (written with her permission). It is set at Avalon; if you have not read her story, then this one will probably not make much sense. Ianto is 14 years old here; if you have a problem with underage boys thinking about or acting upon sexual situations (although it's very minor), then this story's not for you.
Ianto had no sooner opened his textbook (The Fundamentals of Psychokinesis and Physics, a weighty tome whose contents promised to be as dull as its title, if the detailed diagrams on the first page were any indication) than he felt a tickle at the crown of his head (the corona capitis, he quickly corrected himself, recalling the tedious anatomy lecture he'd been forced to endure that morning...and wasn't it unfair that his schoolmates were enjoying their summer, bathing at Bracelet Bay or heading to Vetch Field for a match. Not that Ianto wanted to be part of the Jack Army, but even an inane debate over the Swans' future was better than classes at Avalon under the not-so-watchful but ever-disapproving eye of his mother).
Ianto tried to ignore the tickle, focusing all his attention on studying a chart labelled "estimated relative dimension vs. distance as a measure of psychokinetic aptitude," but it didn't go away. Instead it started moving slowly across his forehead, like a fly delicately picking its way across a leftover slice of cake. Finally Ianto gave in to the interruption.
"What?!"
"You're getting better."
Ianto wanted to ignore the intruder—Jean-Luc was a sure recipe for trouble, as his mother (or "Ms White," as she demanded he call her here) had reminded him yesterday after he was presented in her office, still soaking wet, to explain why the fire sprinklers had erupted just as Professor De Wispelaere had begun the second tedious hour of his lecture on 18th century psi research. Even the head boy had nodded off. Jean-Luc had convinced him that it would be a good way to wake everyone up; Ms White did not agree. "I'm disappointed in you, Mr Jones," she'd admonished. "Mr D'Aoust is allowed certain...liberties due to his talents. For someone with no practical talents to speak of, I should think you would be more careful about whom you followed."
But Jean-Luc was hard to dissuade. Only two months older than Ianto ("but already 15!" as he kept insisting), his friend possessed an ease that Ianto coveted but knew he'd never have. Much of it came from those talents that Ms White had referred to—Jean-Luc had topped the scales on Avalon's psi tests in telepathy, telekinesis, and empathy, a true TKE—but it was equally due to his charm. And now it was turned completely on Ianto.
"You're getting really good, actually—six minutes 42 seconds before you even noticed
me.
Ianto couldn't help but beam at the praise. Jean-Luc had taken to measuring things this summer, recording it all on the trusty stopwatch he kept tucked inside his pocket. From the two minutes 13 seconds it took Professor Andropov to notice his briefcase levitating just outside the window of his fourth floor classroom to the 38 seconds it took the two boys to sprint across the courtyard (Ianto's longer legs pulled him ahead every time), he captured it all and committed it to memory.
And to actually hold the pride of Avalon at bay for more than five minutes? That was indeed an accomplishment.
But it would do no good to let Jean-Luc know he'd succeeded. Ianto steeled himself and tried to let a lone disgruntled thought float to the top of his public mind. "I'm studying. What do you want?"
"Meet me at the Porter's gate."
Now he didn't have to pretend his irritation. If Mother...if Ms White caught him again, he was sure the rest of the summer would be more miserable than it usually was. He didn't know quite how that would be possible, but he had no doubt she could make it happen.
"What part of studying do you not understand?" Ianto looked at the open pages on the desk. The words were already starting to blur, but he couldn't give in to his friend's temptation. "Besides, what if we get caught again? She'll skin me alive this time."
He couldn't explain how it felt exactly, but there in the crown of his head he could sense Jean-Luc's amusement. He didn't seem rebuked at all, and Ianto wondered if his friend wasn't used to being refused. He didn't even seem to recognise it, instead adding, "You're right, the Porter's gate is too obvious. The other side then, just behind the storage shed."
"Are you sure you're really an empath?" Ianto retorted. "Because you're having some trouble understanding me. I can't leave, I'm studying."
"Trust me, Ianto. This is far more educational than PsyK and Physics."
Not waiting for a reply, Jean-Luc pulled away from Ianto's mind; it was as gentle as a spring wind disturbing the curtain of an open window, but Ianto knew that he was once again alone in his mind. He stared back down at the page:
...many methods of determining psychokinetic ability. One of the original, and now viewed by most psy-auditors as too simplistic, models is the Cornwall scale, created by Dr. Philip Chase of the Cornwall Institute, which measures the dimensions of the object to be moved in conjunction with the mass of the object and the distance which the object is to be moved, with consideration of the distance from the object as the most significant determining factor in a potential kinetic's ability. This equation can be written as...
Jean-Luc had told him to picture his brain's synapses as a sequence of doors that opened and closed in sequence with every mental process. Right now he could feel the doors slamming shut, one by one. If this continued, he'd be asleep before he finished the chapter.
Not to mention, Jean-Luc would be needling him again in just a few minutes. He was probably sitting there with his stopwatch now, waiting to see how long it took Ianto to join him.
With a resigned sign, Ianto shut his book and tucked it into his backpack, and left the library to join his friend.
There was no one behind the storage shed, or in front of it, or even by the Porter's station. His irritation brewing, Ianto checked once more at the place where Jean-Luc had said he would be. There was nothing there, only a large shrubbery framing the foundation of Avalon's girls' dormitory. And then as he looked the shrub seemed to blur, as if a raindrop had fallen in his eye. When it cleared he saw Jean-Luc standing before him, his face split with a knowing smirk. Ianto was taken aback for half a second; then he grinned back at his friend. "That's brilliant! How did you do it?"
"Stephen's training me to be a sentinel—I'm plugging into the same network hiding Avalon. But I figure it might be useful for other things, too."
"I'll say it will," agreed Ianto. "Is it hard?"
Jean-Luc shook his head. "Not really. It takes some concentration...like I don't think I can keep it up and read thoughts at the same time. But as long as I can focus on it, it's not too bad."
Ianto's mind reeled with the possibilities of his friend's latest talent; he knew Jean-Luc had no doubt already compiled and prioritised a list of pranks they could pull. "Where do you want to go first," he asked eagerly. "We could stock up on hall passes from the Porter ..." His eyes widened. "We don't even need hall passes anymore, do we?"
"Not really," Jean-Luc admitted, "but I told you I had something to show you." He motioned for Ianto to come closer. The younger boy did, wondering what more there was to see. With this new skill, they might never again be caught. He might never again be brought up before Ms White, ashamed, forced to explain why he's sullied the family name. Once Ianto had joined him, Jean-Luc's face went blank. Ianto glanced over his shoulder. He couldn't see anything necessarily, nothing more than the distorted haze of an unusually hot day, but he knew they were now safe from the outside world.
Jean-Luc dropped to the ground and began crawling on through the thinning part of the shrubbery, toward a basement window that Ianto hadn't noticed before. Ianto followed and peered inside. "Oh wow..." Patsy Clarke, the new nursery teacher at Avalon and subject of endless nighttime discussions in the boys' dormitory, was standing in the middle of the room wearing nothing but a full-length slip. Mr DuChamp, maths instructor and all around prat as far as Ianto could tell, was fondling her breasts through the silk. His mouth nuzzled her bare shoulders, and her long blond hair fell carelessly down her back.
Without taking his eyes off the scene inside, Jean-Luc whispered, "I thought you'd want to see this."
Ianto nodded just as Miss Clarke skillfully stripped the white starched shirt off Mr DuChamp's spotted shoulders. He fervently wished the maths instructor would take the hint and do the same for his partner. Ianto's closest exposure to female breasts had been watching Cause Célèbre with his father and Elaine. Helen Mirren's surprised reaction to having the bedsheets pulled away had been nothing compared to Broderick's as he belatedly tried to shield the eyes of two curious children. This had led a few days later to an embarrassing talk about the birds and bees with his father. Ianto had been left feeling inexplicably uncomfortable and unsure where to go with his questions. An aborted attempt at having a girlfriend (neither his idea nor her's, but Gwenyth Davies, determined 7th year matchmaker, was not easily dissuaded) had resulted in even more confusion and an untested certainty that Delia's 14-year-old breasts bore little resemblance to Helen Mirren's.
Or to Patsy Clarke's, as Ianto saw when the straps of her slip fell from her shoulders and the silk dropped to the floor, leaving Mr Duchamp holding two huge fistfuls of flesh.
"Lucky bastard," murmured Jean-Luc, somewhat breathlessly. "Look at those tits."
Ianto was definitely looking. They looked heavy, and soft, and for some reason he couldn't explain he wanted to bury his face between them. Apparently Mr Duchamp did too; he moved there post haste, lifting first one of her taut red buds to his lips and then the other, licking them as if they were an ice cream. At that, Ianto felt an uncomfortable stirring between his legs. He shifted his hips, but the friction in his trousers against the earth sent a shudder of pleasure through him.
Ianto groaned.
He didn't think he'd been loud, but in the quiet blanketing the two boys it sounded deafening. Jean-Luc glanced over at him with a cocky grin. "This the first time you've seen tits, isn't it?"
"No," Ianto said adamantly, hoping his denial would be enough. It wasn't, of course, and Jean-Luc's arched eyebrow forced him to continue. "I had a girlfriend last year."
"And you saw her tits?"
"Well, I..." Ordinarily Ianto could not contemplate lying to Jean-Luc, even to defend his honour. The empath would know the truth before the words even left his mouth. But with Jean-Luc's attention was directed towards their shield, Ianto was emboldened. "We fooled around some, yeah."
"You did not."
"Did so."
"Did not."
"Did so," Ianto insisted, and resolving to take full advantage of his friend's temporary blind spot added, "Take that back."
"No way," Jean-Luc retorted. "I don't believe you."
"I don't care whether you believe me or not," Ianto shrugged, hopefully nonchalantly. "It's the truth."
Jean-Luc narrowed his eyes at Ianto. Even knowing that his mind was momentarily safe, the scrutiny made Ianto feel bare. "I bet you never even kissed her."
"I did." He could say that with conviction. In the bus returning from a school trip to Cardiff, Ianto had summoned up all his courage and kissed Delia. He'd considered it a moderate success at the time—she hadn't run away screaming—but he didn't see what all the fuss was about. Apparently she didn't either; two days later she decided that it was best they break up. Ianto hadn't disagreed.
"Prove it."
Ianto looked at Jean-Luc sideways, desperately wishing the other boy would forget about it and let him get back to watching the show in front of them. Mr DuChamp's trousers were around his ankles now and Miss Clarke was kneeling before him. Ianto couldn't see what she was doing, but he had an idea, and he desperately wanted to see if it was the right one. But all he could see were her long fingers clutching Mr DuChamp's back. Even without a clear view, this was worlds more interesting than anything he'd ever done, or even imagined doing, with Delia Morgan. With as much irritability as he could muster Ianto said, "Prove it how? What, you want to ring her up to check?" He blanched as he made that suggestion; knowing Jean-Luc, he would. Quickly Ianto added, "Sorry, I don't remember her number." 508 324 67 43, but that was a secret he knew he could tuck away from his nosy friend.
"No," Jean-Luc said, his voice suddenly sounding sly. "Show me."
Ianto's breath caught, forcing him to cough, when he heard the request. He looked at Jean-Luc in surprise, certain he had misunderstood. "What did you say?"
Jean-Luc held Ianto's gaze as he repeated, as he would for one of the younger students, "Show me."
Ianto squinted, not wanting to be mistaken for one of those younger students but still not quite sure he'd understood. "You want me to kiss you?" When Jean-Luc just nodded, never breaking his piercing gaze, Ianto asked incredulously, "Can boys even do that?"
Jean-Luc laughed at that, making Ianto really feel like one of the youngers. "Of course they can. What do they teach you out in Wales?"
Angry and defensive, Ianto shot back, "Not to be poofters, anyway." Jean-Luc just smirked, then shrugged and turned back to the window. Ianto looked too. Miss Clarke was sitting on a school desk now and Mr DuChamp was crouched on the floor below her, head buried between her thighs. Ianto felt a strange surge of excitement when Mr DuChamp's hands gripped her calves and scissored her legs wide.
He wondered what it'd be like to touch a girl's—a woman's—legs like that. They were different, of course he knew that, but he'd never thought about kissing them down there. Mr DuChamp seemed pretty interested though, if the eager bobbing of his head was any indication. What if someone wanted him to do that? How would he know what to do? He didn't even really know how to kiss a girl on the mouth, as his experience with Delia proved.
Ianto looked at his friend. Jean-Luc seemed absorbed in the proceedings on the other side of the windowpane. How would he know what to do, if the situation ever arose? Maybe he did need to practice. How different could it be with a boy anyway? He wished Jean-Luc would bring up the subject again, but he seemed to have lost interest. Almost hoping for a challenge, Ianto broke the silence. "I don't care if you believe me or not, I did kiss her."
Jean-Luc smiled, but didn't respond. After what seemed like an extraordinarily long minute, Ianto added, "I can prove it if you want."
"I thought you didn't care if I believed you or not," Jean-Luc mocked, turning his face lazily towards Ianto.
Cursing that frustrating turn of logic, Ianto leaned forward suddenly and pressed his tightly closed lips to the other boy's. He held them there for a moment, staring the whole time into Jean-Luc's blue eyes. After a decent amount of time had passed he pulled away, waiting for his friend's reaction.
Jean-Luc laughed out loud.
"Fuck off!" Ianto snarled, his pride sorely ruffled.
"No, no..." Jean-Luc consoled him. "Just, if that's how you snogged Delia, then no wonder."
"Yeah? Well I suppose you could do better?"
Without a word in response, Jean-Luc stretched his long neck towards Ianto. His hand reached out to cup Ianto's chin, pulling him gently toward him until their lips met. The pressure was lighter than before, just warmth really more than anything, and then ... was Jean-Luc licking his lip? Yes, that was definitely a tongue, warm and wet, and Ianto was simultaneously disgusted and intrigued. It felt good, anyway, and Ianto started to relax. Maybe he could get into this kissing thing. Jean-Luc seemed to be taking his time. He was almost sucking on Ianto's bottom lip, and that felt even better than the licking. And then, when Ianto relaxed even more, allowing a tiny crevice between his lips, Jean-Luc's tongue slipped inside. Oh, and that was even better. Ianto had never known his teeth were sensitive, but to have a tongue—someone else's tongue—brushing over them, probing them, it was a feeling unlike anything Ianto had ever experienced before.
It was about then that Ianto remembered that he'd never told Jean-Luc his girlfriend's name.
He started to protest, but was held fast by Jean-Luc's hand tangled in the hair at the back of his head. The occipital bone it was called, he unwittingly remembered. It was his last thought for a while; as soon as Ianto tried to speak Jean-Luc's tongue slipped between Ianto's teeth. Delia was forgotten completely, as was any need for oxygen—instead his senses were flooded with the touch of another tongue's slow slide against his. Ianto had never imagined kissing would be like this. It was messy and wet and confusing, and it was the best thing Ianto had ever felt in his life. Jean-Luc's mouth was all sleek, wet warmth, enticing him to sink completely into it.
Ianto opened his mouth wider, giving Jean-Luc's seeking tongue permission to explore his mouth. Jean-Luc took it willingly, a gentle tug of his hair tilting Ianto's head back for a better angle. As their tongues curled together, Ianto heard a deep groan; he realised seconds later that it had come from his throat. Jean-Luc's answer was to wrap his arm around Ianto's shoulders and, never ceasing the languid motion of his lips, shifting the other boy until Ianto fit snugly under his arm. Ianto reached up to brush his fingertips across Jean-Luc's chin. As heightened as his senses were, he felt every subtle movement as he stroked the smooth skin stretched taut over Jean-Luc's sharp jawbone. Jean-Luc's hand fell from his shoulder, trailing down until it rested on the curve of Ianto's back, where he clutched at his thin tee-shirt.
And always his lips kept moving, kept speaking to Ianto in this new language that Ianto didn't know, but that he was more than willing to learn.
Finally, though, the need for oxygen resurfaced, and Ianto was forced to pull unwillingly away. As he drew a deep breath, he opened his eyes (he didn't recall shutting them) and looked straight into Jean-Luc's. They beamed back at him, so close they should have been blurry, but Ianto was sure he'd never seen anything as sharp and clear as that glacial blue. Jean-Luc held him in place a second longer, again suckling Ianto's bottom lip as he had done earlier. Then he rolled to his side and reached into his pocket.
Ianto heard a distinct click.
"Four minutes 28 seconds."
Is that all, Ianto wanted to say? It seemed an incredibly short time for such a momentous thing. Instead he mock glared at Jean-Luc. "Bastard."
Jean-Luc just snickered. "Think we can break five next time?"
Ianto was about to answer when he heard voices coming near. He looked back through the shrubbery but couldn't see the protective distortion. His friend's concentration must've wavered. Ianto couldn't blame him, but he still whispered tersely, "Jean-Luc…"
"Bollocks, I don't have time to set up...here, come on." Ianto followed Jean-Luc, scrambling out of the bushes and standing up just as Mr Harrison, the Porter, rounded the shed with the groundskeeper. Jean-Luc quickly ducked his head as if he was searching for something in the bushes. Ianto nervously tried to follow suit without meeting their eyes. Fortunately neither were empaths, but that didn't mean they couldn't spot a guilty teenager from 50 yards away.
Mr Harrison stopped short as soon as he spied them. "Mr D'Aoust, Mr Jones, what do you think you're doing back here?"
Jean-Luc looked up as if surprised to see them there. "Oh, hello, Mr Harrison. We're just looking for the football. The first years were playing with it earlier and they said they left it here, but we can't find it anywhere." He looked as earnest as Ianto had ever seen him when he asked, "You haven't come across it, have you?"
"No, I haven't," Mr Harrison replied shortly, giving them both a judgemental stare, "and I imagine both of you have better things to be doing than playing football. Stephen was just asking after you, Mr D'Aoust..."
"I'll go see what he wants straightaway then." Jean-Luc turned to Ianto. "Do you want to come with? Stephen'll probably have work for both of us."
"Sure," Ianto agreed, quickly falling into step behind his friend. Mr Harrison continued explaining the hedge trimming to the groundskeeper as soon as they'd passed, and Ianto realised that they'd won a reprieve. He grinned at his friend.
Jean-Luc grinned back. "Five minutes you think?"
Ianto nodded, fighting back the blush warming his cheek. "Definitely five." He broke into a run, hearing Jean-Luc's footsteps close behind as he raced across the courtyard.
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