"Stop," John snaps, and his hands come up to rub at his face. He's tired and the conversation is raking over his nerves, rubbing his fur the wrong way so he feels increasingly on edge. "This is not about you, alright? None of this is to do with you, it's me. I just -- can't."

It's not you, it's me. God, isn't he a cliche. Not even the good kind, either. The pathetic kind. He's a tragic mess, and he deserves every inch of judgement he's probably getting right now. He drops his hands and skims his eyes around the room, everywhere but Ianto, then flops backwards onto the bed and stares at the ceiling.

Great. Way to go, John, you're messing this up pretty well. Add it to the list.