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If there was one thing Ianto could thank his family for, it was his love of film. When his father worked late shifts and Rhi was at a friend’s, those were the best nights. He’d venture out beyond his room and walk, trancelike, down the long hallway towards the living room. For as long as he could care to remember, light bouncing off the wall at the end of that hallway was like a sign from heaven. They could never afford to live anywhere with a fireplace, but the telly’s warm glow could easily do just as well as any flame, if not better. His dad’s late night shifts meant curling up against his mam on the sofa, pulling a blanket over their legs and watching Star Trek: The Next Generation. It was the only sci-fi his mam could stomach, having grown up on the original series.
He thanked God for throwing him that pity bone, since having Rhiannon home usually complicated things on the Star Trek front, and having his father home by dinner ended it completely, full-stop. Neither Rhiannon nor his dad could give sci-fi the time of day. Rhi preferred dramas, romances, and comedies, as did their mam usually, while his father opted for plausible, realistic fiction. None of the fairytale nonsense. A noir mystery was the furthest he’d stretch his imagination. Otherwise, the news would do just fine, thank you. Luckily for Ianto, all of these elements could settle into a very delicate, precise concoction that the whole family could enjoy, to some degree: Hitchcock.
One of the clearest memories Ianto still retained was when he was four years old. His parents (or rather, his father) had decided that he was old enough to watch The Birds. Yes, he remembered flinching and curling closer to his mam when the talons did too good a job of slicing up the characters’ eyes, but what he remembered most was the absolute outrage set off by the ending. So abrupt. So heartless. Maybe he didn’t express himself in those exact words, but Ianto felt them, and strongly. Even as his mam led him by the hand to his bedroom, he was still rambling about how he couldn’t understand why anyone would think it was remotely okay to leave an audience forever in the dark. “The answer doesn’t really matter, love,” his man said as she tucked him into bed.
“But it matters to me. I want to know if they all end up okay! If the birds stop!”
“Directing’s a sort of art, Ianto. Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean Alfred Hitchcock definitely did an awful job.”
“Maybe he’s just not very good but people think he is.”
She laughed. “You’ll think differently when you’re older. For now, don’t let the movie bother you, or you’ll stay up half the night trying to figure out a way for it to end.”
His mam was right about both things. He did stay up half the night angry at the movie, and he most definitely changed his mind as he got older. Within a matter of a few years, Hitchcock was the family favorite. Rhi liked Rebecca, but especially loved To Catch a Thief. Ianto constantly teased her that she only liked the latter because she fancied Cary Grant. He stopped his teasing after a few years (after all, could he really blame her? No). Back in the days when his father was sober enough to have an opinion on this sort of thing, he swore on North by Northwest. His mam surprisingly would say that she liked every Hitchcock film she’d ever seen, except Suspicion. She never explained why. It vexed younger Ianto, since he adored the film. However, over the years he realized that maybe it hit a little too close to home for her sometimes.
And for his favorite? Ianto could never decide. One week it was Psycho. Then the next it was Rear Window. Maybe Vertigo. He had a soft spot for Marnie, thanks to Sean Connery (okay, now he really couldn’t chide Rhi for Cary Grant). Then he went back to Psycho. It was constantly changing. As he grew older, his family’s collection of Hitchcock grew bigger, and his choices became harder.
Usually, the Jones family would simply catch a film when it was on the telly and tape it for later. Eventually, their collection consisted of all the classics, leaving Hitchcock’s lesser known films that never played on the telly behind. So they started a tradition: on the first day of the summer holiday, they’d go out and browse a store’s VHS section for a Hitchcock choice.
This summer evening was like any other of the previous year’s summer evenings; alive for the stupidest of reasons. Electric for a cheap piece of plastic, screws, and ribbon. It took Ianto some time to stop caring about how much these evenings meant to him, and start accepting the strange cocktail of thrills from the film and calm from his family. After all, these films were just about the only thing that could pin down that sense of calm, as his father’s health slowly started collapsing under him.
But anyways.
The routine often went more or less like this: Ianto and Rhiannon were sent off to gaze longingly at the tapes they would later beg for when it came close to their birthdays and Christmas, while their parents debated Hitchcock choices. If they couldn’t decide on a choice amongst themselves, they would round up their kids and take a vote. A simple process, but again, still something Ianto looked forward to every year. This particular summer evening, he was admiring the crisp packaging of a film called Independence Day he’d been longing to see when he heard his parents arguing in hushed tones on the opposite side of the shelves. Well, their version of arguing. A gentle push met by a brick wall.
“I actually think Rope is one of Hitchcock’s best films from the 40s.”
“It’s dull.”
A pause.
“Ianto likes paying attention to the shots and that sort of thing. He might like it.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. We’re getting Lifeboat tonight. Haven’t seen it in ages.” The slap of plastic scraping off the metal shelf followed by heavy bootsteps, and that was that. Their choice for the evening was made. No questions asked. Through the shelves, Ianto could hear a small sigh and the sound of heels clicking across the linoleum before his and Rhiannon’s names were called, telling them that they were ready to check out.
It was a decision that had to be made, and made fast. Swerving into the aisle his mam had just left, Ianto’s eyes frantically hunted for the title. “Rope….Rope…..Ah!” After stuffing the VHS into his oversized sweatshirt (which he wore specially for such occasions), Ianto met his family at the cash register. “What’re we watching tonight, then?”
“Lifeboat,” drawled Rhiannon. “Exactly what we’ll need to save us from this movie. The plot sounds so boring.”
“Brilliant,” he drawled back in a tone twice as agonized, and with a roll of his eyes for extra emphasis. His heart seemed to drop into his stomach and beat against the hidden tape he pulled closer. “Just brilliant.”
~^~^~^~
Everything had to be timed perfectly: Dad was working a late shift, Mam was visiting a friend (which usually meant being out as late as she could make excuses for), and Rhi was having dinner at her boyfriend’s. A rare night where the stars aligned in such a way that Ianto could have the house to himself. Nights like this were always soul-enriching. Maybe a stupid thing to say, but they were. Finally alone, this was the only time he could be himself. The only time it was safe to be himself. Ianto didn’t entirely know what that meant, but he did know that the air felt lighter and more refreshing in his lungs when he was the only one breathing it.
After carefully pulling the tape out from its hiding place under his bed, he rushed into the living room and shoved it into the VCR. The anticipation was starting to rev up. Why did his mam know he’d be interested, and why was that such a bad thing? Usually, Hitchcock was one of the only things he and his dad could talk about. What could possibly make this any worse than the time they’d argued over the Salvador Dali sequence in Spellbound? He settled onto the sofa, reheated pizza in hand, ready to see what all the fuss was about.
Seven minutes in, the pizza was long forgotten as molten nausea was seizing Ianto. He couldn’t move. He could barely see. All he could do was give in, close his eyes, and wait for the hot panic to solidify into a rock in his stomach. Still there, still tangible, but at least not coating his insides in red hot waves. So...that’s why his parents never watched this film. The way these two men looked at each other. The closeness. The heavy weight of sex and romance hanging in the air between them. Why the hell did he have to go and let his curiosity get the better of him? This wasn’t worth it. The feeling of dread--of knowing his father knew--was never worth it. All it ever did was leave him feeling the heat of his father’s eyes burning into the back of his skull, long after they’d all gone to bed.
He knew, he knew, he knew. And that’s why Ianto was always singled out, always the one who got the brunt of his father’s moods. He’d suspected it many times over the years, but he kept hoping that it was the anxiety toying with his mind. Well, except for that one time. That one time was pretty hard to ignore….He’d been listening to Queen all afternoon on one of his father’s day off. Just been stepping out of his room for a quick rummage through the fridge when a beer bottle whizzed past his shoulder and shattered against the wall. So, no more listening to his “fucking fag music”, as his father so charmingly phrased it.
At least, no more listening to it out loud. That was the summer he’d invested in a Walkman. And by invested, he meant nicked from the shop via his trusty sweatshirt. The rock in his stomach started to become molten again, thinking about the sound of that beer bottle becoming nothing but shards of glass he had to pick up, so Ianto quickly pulled himself out of his thoughts and back to the film.
Big mistake.
Ianto groaned and held his face in his hands as the man in the blue suit--Brandon, he remembered--started fisting the neck of a champagne bottle in a poor attempt to open it.
“We've killed for the sake of danger and for the sake of killing. We're alive, truly and wonderfully alive. Even champagne isn't equal to us, or the occasion.”
“I'll take it, though,” replied Philip. Ianto recognized him from when his family had watched Strangers on a Train. And how couldn’t he, when the actor had a face like that?
“You’re not really frightened anymore, are you, Philip? You can’t have fear, ya know. Neither of us can. That's the difference between us and the ordinary man, Philip. They talk about committing the perfect crime but nobody does it. Nobody commits a murder just for--”
“Here,” said Philip, taking the bottle Brandon was struggling with and opening it easily.
Ianto paused the film. Took a breath. Took another, maybe two. He scanned the cassette tape’s package. How on Earth did this get made in 1948? How was Hollywood so stupid to let this slide right under their noses and be released to the public? The imagery and innuendo was like a punch to the gut: painfully present. But maybe, he thought as the lava-like panic started to flow to his head again, maybe you only notice if you’re looking for it. Maybe I’m looking for it, and maybe Dad’s looking for it. Looking for things that will condemn me.
He swallowed before pressing play.
“Brandon, how did you feel?”
“When?”
“During it.”
“I don't know, really. I don't remember feeling very much of anything….Until his body went limp, and I knew it was over.”
“And then?”
“And then, I felt tremendously exhilarated. H-how did you feel?”
“Oh, I...I….”
The telly clicked off. It felt like the lava had resolidified and settled in Ianto’s feet, making them dead weights as he walked over to the VCR. After pulling the tape out, he raised it above his head, ready to smash it against the coffee table when his fingers suddenly gripped the tape tight in retaliation. His shoulders sagged as he brought his arms to his side. He couldn’t do it. He didn’t even really want to.
Once the cassette was safely back in its packaging, Ianto walked to his room and stuffed the cassette behind some of his taller books. Another day, he decided. Another day at home--alone--he’d be ready to try again. At least he’d be prepared then.
~^~^~^~
“You know, for someone who’s a self-proclaimed neatfreak, you sure do have a whole lot of crap lying around.” Jack toed a box tightly packed with notebooks and diaries across the floor towards Ianto. Earlier that day the couple had gone out and bought new furniture for the flat, which was a pleasantly domestic way to spend the day. Or at least it was at the time. They hadn’t considered where exactly the furniture was going to go, which had led to this not-so-pleasant domestic task of purging their unwanted and unneeded belongings.
Ianto scoffed. “I’m not a self-proclaimed neatfreak. Only you and Owen call me that, so it can’t be self-proclaimed. You’re just jealous of my archiving skills. And that’s not crap, those are important to me.” He picked up the box and put it in the continuously growing “keep” pile.
“What’re you going to do with them all? You can’t exactly publish an autobiography about your life as a top-secret, alien-catching, super-sexy agent.”
“Maybe not, but what would be the point of writing all of that down if I wasn’t going to keep them? I’d be throwing away years and years of hard work and documentation. Hey, put that back!” He snatched a diary labeled “1997” out of a giggling Jack’s hands.
“Oooh, Ianto Jones: The Teen Years. What sort’ve mischief did you get up to, hmm? Maybe you’re right, Ianto, these could be a good keepsake.”
“Fuck off,” he chuckled as he leaned over to push the diary back in its place in the box. He tutted to himself as he noticed things had shifted around in the box when Jack had removed the diary, making it more than a little difficult to slot the diary back in its designated spot. After pulling a few more things out, a soft smile settled on his lips as he found the culprit that’d been blocking the diary. He turned the VHS over and over in his hands, refamiliarizing the feeling of the smooth casing under his fingertips.
“A cassette tape? You really have held onto things too long. And why would that be in with all your diaries?”
“It practically was a diary,” Ianto said fondly as he passed the tape over to Jack, who gave him a raised eyebrow almost on par with Ianto’s own infamous eyebrow.
“Rope, directed by Alfred Hitchcock.” His eyes sparkled. “Oh, I definitely remember this film….” He began reading the plot summary on the back aloud. “‘Brandon Shaw (John Dall) and Philip Morgan (Farley Granger) murder their friend with a noose right before hosting a dinner party with their victim’s closest friends and relatives, including his fiancée (Joan Chandler) and their previous college professor (James Stewart).’ Practically a diary, you said. What, are you trying to tell me you and some secret past boyfriend used to kill people for some good old-fashioned, lighthearted fun?”
“Fuck off,” he said again childishly. “I didn’t mean it literally. I just meant the film was important to me. I watched it a lot when I was younger.”
“Behind closed curtains, I imagine,” Jack said, his voice a little gentler now.
Ianto nodded. “You know how we used to watch Hitchcock all the time? Well, never this one. My dad was adamant about that. You know how the saying goes. Curiosity killed the cat.” He grimaced before adding, “but satisfaction brought it back. I hated the film at first. Couldn’t even get more than ten minutes in….Actually, that’s not fair. I didn’t hate it. I just hated...knowing. Knowing that my dad had watched the film and picked up on all the gay parts and that’s why it wasn’t allowed into our family film nights. Or he was afraid it’d, you know, corrupt me even more than I already had been.”
Jack paused for a moment, taking his time to reel in the anger bubbling to the surface. “You know, I actually met John Dall once. Did you know he got off on being tied upside down? Could do it all night. I tried, but the headrush was too much after about an hour or so, so I said, ‘John, I know you’re a little tied up, but could you maybe get someone to help me down from--’”
“Stop,” Ianto said quietly. He sighed. “I know you’re upset. I know you hate hearing what my dad was like, but it’s fine. I’m fine now. I got over it.” He tried his best at a convincing chuckle. “I got over hating the knowing. I let myself enjoy the film. Actually, I enjoyed it so much I barely watched anything else that summer, at least when I was alone. It’s in my top three favorite Hitchcock films, and it was one of the first DVDs I bought when I got my own flat.” He kissed Jack softly for an extra level of reassurance, as well as a little secret comfort for himself.
“It’s...in with my diaries because teenage Ianto got some hope from them. From the characters. I mean I know they’re murderers and that’s awful and it’s awful that gay men had to be represented as murderers to be acceptable in film at the time. You know, the film student spiel. But still...they had a classy flat together. A life together, with friends and family who probably had an idea that they were a couple...maybe their friends and family didn’t even mind.” He shrugged, a blush creeping up his cheeks. Even though they’d just gone and bought their furniture for their flat, talking about domestics aloud could sometimes be a difficult tightrope to cross when it came to Jack. “It was something to look forward to. I just hoped there’d be a little less murder and a little more champagne,” he added with a wry smile.
Jack’s eyes flitted across Ianto’s face, taking his time to digest what exactly his boyfriend had just opened up about, what tiny glimpse of his younger self he’d allowed Jack to be blessed with. Wrapping his hand around the back of Ianto’s neck, he pulled him close and kissed his forehead. “You still have that DVD?”
Ianto blinked. “Uh, yeah. It’s in my P through T DVD box.” He pointed over to the “keep” pile. “Why?”
After grabbing Ianto’s car keys, Jack laced their fingers together and pulled him to the door. “C’mon, we’ve got shopping and a movie night ahead of us. I may not be able to promise less murder with this job, but I can definitely promise you some champagne.”