Ianto Jones hated mess.
He hated the uncertainty and the disorder that accompanied it.
He lay on his bed, inwardly cringing at the crumpled sheets and the comforter lying somewhere on the floor. Looking over at the night table, he shuddered at the glasses and empty bottle still standing there. He sighed as he scanned the room to see the clothes strewn over the carpet instead of put in the hamper or neatly hung up in the closet. Although, he thought, the closet isn't much better lately. Half of the clothes in closet were haphazardly thrown on the hangers or just crumpled up on the shelves. He closed his eyes and thought of the unwashed dishes in the sink in the kitchen, the coat draped unceremoniously over the back of the couch, the towels lying damp on the bathroom tile.
What made all of this bearable to the incessantly neat and tidy Ianto Jones?
The man with the mussed hair and scrunched up face sleeping peacefully beside him.