They've been poking and prodding and pushing at each other since the beginning.

When Ianto shot Owen, they thought maybe there'd be some sort of release. Some sort of mutual letting go. A knowledge of the similarities of their pain. But after Jack leaves they're back to shoving and pulling and grating.

Owen nags until Ianto slams the empty tray down and leans heavily against the table.

"I'm tired."

And Owen just stops. Because he knows. He really does. He's tired too, and he doesn't know what to do. There's so much pent up inside of them both, so much betrayal and guilt and anger and sadness and a feeling of loss the others could never understand. Owen knows that. He's exhausted, just like Ianto.

Later that night he goes round to Ianto's flat. He's slightly tipsy and full to the brim with depression and resentment and quite a bit of self-loathing that he'd never admit to aloud.

Ianto punches him in the jaw once, then pulls him into the flat and shoves him onto the sofa, handing him a beer. They sit beside each other in silence, uncommonly close, knees touching. Ianto sips his own bottle. Owen examines Ianto's face, notices the dark smudges under his eyes, the pale skin, the swollen pull of his mouth. He's about to ask if he's all right, if he's been sleeping, when Ianto turns his head and catches him.

Owen moves first, and he's not entirely sure why. Ianto pushes back against him, hesitant at first, but his lips part and they're battling for dominance once more.

They stop to breathe, foreheads pressed together, arms holding, fingers somewhere between a clutch and a caress. They pant into each other's mouths.

"I hate you." Ianto mutters, lips brushing, breath sliding.

Owen knows that, too.