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Ianto hates him.
He only realizes this months and months after Lisa, while he’s laying awake in a bed that isn’t his next to the man that killed the woman he loved.
How did this happen? How did Jack convince him to overlook this murder, this betrayal, and to love him?
Sudden hate fills Ianto’s chest until he can’t take it anymore, like two heavy walls are closing in on him and the air is being squeezed out of his lungs, and in sleep Jack rolls over and settles a hand on Ianto’s shoulder and he can’t stay in this bed any longer.
He hastily stands and pulls on his clothes (rumpled work garments from yesterday) and moves until he finds himself outside on Jack’s balcony in the crisp three-in-the-morning air.
It’s too much, the hate bubbling inside him and threatening to ruin his completely harmless tea-boy facade he’s carefully built up for his and everyone’s convenience.
He can’t act on it, though, so he lights one of the cigarettes he keeps in his jacket hoping that it will maybe numb the pain.
It doesn’t. It never does.
He sits there for he doesn’t know how long, but when he comes back to himself the sun is rising and a large, old coat is being draped over his shoulders by lingering hands.
“You’ll catch your death like this,” Jack murmurs quietly, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple before turning and stepping inside.
If only.
Ianto’s hands shake. His skin stings where Jack touched it.
He hates Jack, but he hates himself more.