Summary: Things don't seem to work the way Ioan would like them too, but they get a little closer.
Feedback: Is lovely.
The words are spinning round his thoughts, blocking them. The circles ripple outwards, sidways, and between, but without chaos. Not chaos but turmoil; it's non-Euclidean geometry and Ioan doesn't understand it. His mind is angular, like his body, a fluid connection of lines, degrees, and theories. Hugh would say that many of his theories are complete bollocks, but he has them nonetheless. They make sense to him. Keira's curves do not.
Her lips remain slightly apart, still shaping the last syllable she'd uttered. Her mouth did that a lot. It puzzled him.
"Why do you do that?" His accent is very pronounced.
"Want to fuck? I've been surrounded by sweaty men with swords for the better part of the day, I need a relatively quick way to relax if I'm going to get any sleep tonight, and I've been wanting to see you without clothes since I started watching Horatio Hornblower." Her shoulder shrugs up like a comma, and it takes a minute before he realizes she's done.
His grin is filled with gratified modesty. "I actually meant your mouth," he explains on a half-laugh. He expects her to ask, to take the tangent. She doesn't.
The tang of caffeine dominates the kiss. Ioan gives in to its call of awakening, as he cedes dreams to dark coffee with only a hint of milk before call every morning and vague desires of sloth to Dr. Pepper during breaks. Hugh laughs at him for the latter, but he stays by Ioan till his water is gone before joining Keira at the archery range. He tells Ioan she wears high heels to dinner. Ioan's never seen her in anything but tennis shoes. She doesn't need heels to roll her tongue along his neck.
"Hugh already at the pub?" His voice sounds academic. Ioan had planned to attend tonight. Her eyebrow quirks when she nods. He traces it with his finger, the way Hugh traces Ioan's when they're raised. He cups her chin in his hand, and kisses her again. It's gentle, it's paced, it's slightly spicy. It's everything Hugh isn't when Ioan imagines kissing him. Her hair's in a ponytail, and he avoids even her neck. That's where the curls should be.
They get takeout, and drink beer instead of wine. Her sheets are rumpled. She twists more than is strictly necessary, curves stertching and contracting in images Ioan memorizes. He doesn't manipulate them, but observes. His body follows hers, exploring on its own while his mind feels an outsider. But the motion shoots pleasure through him in parabolas, in diagonals, in exponents. She curses when she comes, legs tight around him. Gripping her thighs, he releases himself. She rolls off of him, nestling against a pillow. Well, he thinks, her problem's solved. For now.
On his way to the loo, he trips over a heel. Rubbing his stubbed toe, Ioan looks at the mirror but can't think of anything to say. Which bodes terribly well for talking to Hugh. He wishes he could kiss him instead. He wishes Hugh hadn't left for the pub so early. He wishes Keira hadn't seen Hornblower. He wishes his toe would stop hurting.
Ioan sighs, and returns to his side of the bed. He faces the wall, lets the alcohol help lull him to sleep. He can wait till tomorrow. He can wait till she leaves, till filming ends. He can wait till Hugh's thoroughly pissed.
But it's time to stop wishing.