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“Where are we going?” Jack giggled. He was more than a little tipsy, but Ianto’s hand in his own kept him steady.
“Just a bit farther,” John said, glancing back at them.
The party was a smash hit. Everyone was having a wonderful time.
Except for John.
John could have had anyone there. He’d flirt a little, flash a smile (or maybe something else), and have them wrapped around his little finger.
But not these two. Oh, they’d flirt back, laugh and smile, even go to bed with him – which they had, multiple times – but never anything more. And he wanted more.
He had done everything he could – lavish dinner invitations, kinky sex, parties in their honour – everything short of actively asking. And either they didn’t get his hints or they were letting him down gently.
But John wasn’t the kind of person to beg, and he wasn’t the kind of person to be rejected, no matter how gently. No, they were going to pay.
They reached the cellar. All the bottles John was willing to share were already in the kitchens, being poured into glasses and served to the guests, so no one would come down here for more. It was perfect.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” John said once they entered the room. “Just give me a minute, I’ll be right back.”
“What did you forget?” Ianto asked.
John smirked and winked. “It’s a surprise.”
Jack laughed, and John sauntered out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Then he locked it.
“John?” Ianto called from inside, but John didn’t reply. “Did he lock the door?”
“Probably just to make sure no one would barge in on us while he’s gone,” Jack said. “How about we warm up for him, hmm?”
Ianto sighed. John leaned against the wall opposite the door and slid down it until he was sitting on the floor.
He really did love them. It was the least he could do to sit and listen while they lived out their last few days in that room.
It took them half an hour of ‘prep’ to realise he hadn’t come back yet.
It was less time than he had expected, but more than he would have liked. They called out for him, tried the door, then started discussing the possible reasons why he hadn’t come back.
Then they had sex, and it was another hour before they started asking after him again.
John sighed quietly and leaned his head against the wall. The door was thin enough to let most of the conversation through, and John just let the sound of their voices wash over him. He wasn’t going to change his mind.
“He wouldn’t leave us, right?” Ianto asked.
“Something must have happened upstairs,” Jack replied. “He’ll be back as soon as it’s resolved.”
“I hope you’re right.”
A beat of silence, then:
“In the meantime, want to get drunk off his personal stash?”
That got a laugh out of Ianto and almost a snort out of John before he remembered he didn’t want them to hear him.
They spent the next two hours getting progressively more drunk and having louder and louder sex.
“Oh, John!” Jack sang. “You’re missing out! Come join us!”
There was no way Jack knew he was still there, listening in. He wanted to open that door and join the sexcapades more than almost anything.
But the one thing he wanted more held him back. He would see this through.
They finally quieted down near dawn, at which point John packed up his creaky bones and forced himself back up to the rest of the mansion, then to his bedroom. His servants gave him knowing looks, the kind he usually didn’t mind but set his teeth on edge now.
He collapsed onto his bed and slept.
He didn’t sleep for long, and the sleep he did get was riddled with strange and unpleasant dreams he couldn’t remember once he awoke.
He went back to the cellar. Jack and Ianto were still asleep. One of them was snoring lightly.
He leaned against the wall and sat once more. And waited.
The cold stone at his back chilled him. It passed through his jacket, his shirt, layers of skin and muscle and sinew, right to his bones. Even his heart, nestled as it was between his lungs and his spine, shivered from it.
Hours later, when Jack and Ianto finally awoke, it was with groans of headaches and dry mouths.
Then they noticed the door was still locked.
They whispered softly, murmurs that couldn’t pass through the door, but John knew the topic nonetheless: it had to be about him.
Where was John? He was sure they were asking. Why did he lock us here? Why did he leave us?
They would never find out.
It was on the third day that things became dire.
They had wine enough to keep them for weeks, but it wouldn’t sate their hunger. John listened to their conversations on the topic, going round and round in circles.
They knew no one would come to rescue them.
On day four John was jolted out of his haze by a scream.
It had become a sort of ritual, sleeping during the morning so he could spend all his time down here, on the cold, hard floor, listening to them. They still fucked, often and loudly, if only to pass the time.
But they were becoming languid, John could tell. With no food and only wine to drink they were losing their energy fast.
The sounds had begun to blend together in John’s ears, despite how much he wanted to listen, to hear them shout and beg and moan, to know they were thinking of him every waking hour.
The waking hours were growing shorter and shorter now.
John wasn’t eating much, himself. With all his time spent here or asleep, he rarely remembered to stop by the kitchens to grab a bite. He didn’t leave for lunch or dinner, worried he’d miss a conversation.
But despite the brain fog, despite the sounds growing muffled in his ears, he could still recognise them, categorise them. He had listened long enough, even before these days in the cellar. He knew.
He knew Jack’s hand was wrapped around Ianto’s cock, stroking him slowly as Jack whispered sweet nothings in his ear. He knew Ianto was gripping Jack’s shoulders, holding on for dear life as he whimpered and moaned. He knew Ianto was leaking. He knew he was close.
And that’s when the scream came.
It was Jack’s, John was certain of that much. But he wasn’t sure if it was pleasure or pain he was shouting, or what the catalyst had been.
And then there was another sound, one he knew quite well, recognised from years long gone, one he had never heard from Jack or Ianto.
The distinct, ringing, echoing sound of blood slowly dripping on stone.
For a long, horrible moment that was the only sound in the passage.
Then there was shouting, and groaning, and moaning as Ianto realised what he had done.
“Jack, Jack, are you okay? Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t–”
“Shh, Ianto, shh, it’s okay.” Jack’s voice was strained, laced with pain. “I understand. I know. Shh.”
“It’s not okay! I– I bit you, Jack, you’re bleeding! There’s–”
The wet splat of spit and flesh hitting the floor. John’s eyes widened.
“Ianto, listen to me.” Jack’s voice was weak but serious. “It’s okay. You– you should keep going.”
“Jack–”
“No. Listen.” A deep breath. “It’s better this way. Better you live than we both die.”
“I…I can’t. I won’t.”
“You’ll have to. We don’t have medical supplies here. This will almost certainly get infected. We’re starving. You’ll have to, sooner or later. Why not minimise our suffering?”
The silence stretched. The blood kept dripping.
“A double suicide,” Ianto offered quietly.
“No,” Jack replied immediately. “No, Ianto, you have to promise me you’ll keep living. Please. Someone will come down here eventually. You know how John likes his wine. You’ll be found.”
“We will. Please, Jack.”
“It’s too late for me. You have to survive this.”
Silence again. John found he was holding his breath, and released it slowly. He couldn’t afford to hyperventilate. They would hear him.
Then the silence ended with a sound. It was that soft moan of pleasure-pain Jack made whenever he was trying to hide that it was just a bit too much, too far to turn to proper pleasure, not enough to be purely pain.
There was a wet squelch, then a slurp. Even through the door dimming the noises, John could recognise the sound of chewing raw meat.
They kept at it through the night. John wasn’t even sure whether the sounds they made were agony or pleasure, whether the wet noises were those of blood or sex.
Near dawn, they quieted.
Only Ianto’s sobs remained in the silence.
It was in the evening of the seventh day that one of John’s servants went looking for him.
For all his lavish parties and wild sex, he was still the head of the house and still had a job to do. True, he usually made someone else do all the paperwork, but at least he was around to sign it when it was done.
He had shirked his responsibilities for a week now, and it was time for someone to find him.
It was a pair of them who came upon him on the floor, staring hollowly at the door in front of him. They had the master key, and John didn’t stop them when they went to open the door.
He rose on unsteady legs and looked into the room as the door swung open.
On the stone floor, between rows of shelves, laid the dead body of Jack Harkness.
Or, his partial remains, at least. He was missing both legs and an arm, a considerable chunk of his right shoulder and neck, and his stomach had been torn open, his innards spilled to the ground, organised neatly in the pool of blood surrounding the body. The liver was missing.
In the corner of the room sat Ianto Jones, face, hands, neck and chest all caked in blood. His eyes were as hollow as Jack’s stomach.
The two servants helped him up, and he went willingly. When his eyes met John’s on the way out of the room, he paused.
He didn’t freeze or flinch. Just stopped for a moment.
Then he opened his mouth, the dry blood cracking, and said, with a voice remarkably clear considering where he had spent the past week, “We loved you.”
And it was John who was gutted on the floor of the cellar.