[for Ianto]

When things went badly and when Jack couldn't cope, he fell back on old habits. He'd been smoking pot since he'd left Dale's and taken his shower. He was clean and shaven, but he hadn't been anything but completely baked for hours now. For a long time he'd just laid stil in the field, smoking and watching the clouds drift by. As the sky began to darken, it took on the color he'd only seen in those Technicolor films and one thing broke through the haze of his brain and latched on firmly. West Side Story. Right, as if a boy yelled Maria in Spanish Harlem and only one girl came out. Ha! It'd be like yelling for Ianto in Cardiff. There had to be hundreds of Iantos in just the downtown area.

Ianto. West Side Story. Somehow they melted together into one stunningly brilliant idea and Jack hefted himself up, looked around, and started off in the direction of Ianto's hut...since he knew where it was and wasn't entirely sure how to get to Greg from here. Right. He'd go see Ianto. Ianto would know where he lived. Maybe he'd even sing...see how many Ianto's appeared.


"Ianto! I've just kissed a boy named Ianto, and suddenly I've found how wonderful a sound can be! Ianto! Say it loud and there's music playing say it soft and it's almost like praying. Ianto...Ianto, Ianto, Ianto..."