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In the end, it isn’t even a choice.
Ian has been rationalizing his decision for almost two years. He wasn’t that person anymore. Trevor was a better fit. Mickey was a lit fucking match. But as the months bled away so did the excuses, one by one until all he had left was a single truth buried in a shitty ass swamp of lies.
He was afraid.
That day at the border, with the sun burning his skin almost as much as the regret he was already starting to feel, Ian was scared shitless. But it took him two fucking years and three empty relationships to figure out what of.
The Gallaghers have always had a steep learning curve, right?
He thought he was scared of throwing away his life, the one he’d worked his ass off to get back after the diagnosis. But that wasn’t it. He wasn’t afraid Mickey would ruin his life, he was afraid Mickey would become his life. Except no one ever bothered to tell him it was already too damn late for that. That he might as well have gotten Mickey’s name tattooed over his heart when he was sixteen.
It’s why he’s here now, roasting his ass off in fucking Mexico. Why he spent the better part of his savings and six weeks of his life paying off whoever he could to find him. Mickey isn’t a lit match anymore, he’s a needle in a haystack. But apparently with enough money and the right questions, any needle can be found eventually.
He’s not entirely sure what he was expecting. In all the years he’s known Mickey, he’s dabbled in any number of nefarious professions. Numbers runner, thief, conman, pimp, all of which exist in Mexico as far as Ian knows. Which is one of the hundred or so reasons why he freezes when his eyes finally land on someone he almost convinced himself he dreamed up in a coke-fueled haze.
He’s on a beach wearing sandals, just like he said, but there isn’t any tequila in sight. There is a boat, though, one Mickey appears to be fixing instead of stealing, judging by the grease smeared over tanned forearms. A tan that Ian follows up to bare shoulders, a bare chest, muscles taut with his work.
He’s wearing cutoff khakis and nothing else, an ever-present cigarette dangling from his lips. And his eyes are so lost in concentration that it gives Ian a few minutes to just look.
He almost can’t believe he’s here. That Mickey’s here, that he found Mickey, that Mickey still fucking exists like Ian thought he fell off the face of the earth when he crossed the border. But more than anything he can’t believe that he, Ian Clayton Gallagher, is standing on a beach in Mexico in a pair of flip-flops and jeans that feel like they’re permanently stuck to his skin, staring at the love of his fucking life.
Oh man, he thinks with a quiet laugh. What would happen if he voiced that particular declaration within earshot of Mickey fucking Milkovich? He’d probably threaten to deck him. Or kiss him so hard he’d stop breathing. Even odds on both of them.
God, he fucking missed him.
It’s weird to see him working so intently on something presumably legal. There’s no one else on the beach but them as the sun begins to die on the horizon, but it’s rare for Mickey not to notice someone watching him. And it makes Ian wonder what that means, that he no longer seems to have eyes in the back of his head, no longer feels the need to be on guard every second of the day.
Juvie, prison, living with Terry Milkovich as his father - Mickey’s spent his whole life in a defensive position. But it’s almost as if here, on the other side of the freaking world, he’s found a way to relax. And that…
Fuck, that makes something inside of Ian burn.
He starts to make his way towards the boat once he remembers that he needs more than looking. That right now he needs so much more. But when Mickey finally turns his head in his direction, Ian freezes again.
He’s struck with the sudden thought that maybe Mickey doesn’t want him here. Two years is a long time, and even though he’d finally told Mickey out loud, to his face, that he loved him, he’d still let him drive off alone. They didn’t say goodbye, or fuck off, or I hope I never see your pasty ass again, but they did part. And despite the fact that even his marriage and a year and a half in prison couldn’t make him stop loving Ian back, maybe Mexico did.
Jesus fucking Christ, what was he expecting? That Mickey would be down here pining away all this time, doing fucking charcoal drawings of Ian’s face and writing death metal love songs about him?
He shouldn’t have come. He should’ve just let Mickey be. But no, he had to go and have his Big Fucking Epiphany and drag Mickey into it like he’s dragged Mickey into so much shit in the past. Shot in the ass, shot in the leg, pistol whipped, too many guns to his face that Ian can’t count them anymore and really, what in the actual fuck was he thinking?
For his part, Mickey just stares at him. The light is at his back, hiding his face in so many shadows that Ian wouldn’t be able to read his expression even if he were close enough to do so. But there’s something about the way he’s poised over the engine of the boat, every muscle tensing more than they were before, that makes Ian’s heart pound so hard in his chest it feels like it’s gonna crack a rib.
Move, he thinks. One foot in front of the other jackass, but he’s good and fucking frozen here. And at least Mickey is too, so that makes him feel a little bit better. But at some point one of them is going to have to move, even if it’s just Ian running away again. And since he swore to himself that he wouldn’t do that to Mickey, not one more goddamn time, not unless Mickey specifically told him in easy to understand language that he wanted him gone, this is on Ian and he knows it.
So he moves.
It’s slow at first, the sand washing over his feet as he literally shuffles down the beach. But once he hits roughly the halfway point between them, Mickey does something that makes him stop mid-stride.
He stands up slowly, tossing his cigarette into the sand before stepping out of the boat, his arms limp at his sides. And it’s not necessarily an invitation. It could just be Mickey, wanting to put his feet on solid ground before telling Ian to fuck off. But whatever the gesture is, it gets Ian moving again. Faster this time, like he’s practically running across the beach like some idiot in a stupid romcom but he doesn’t give a shit what he looks like right now. His head has taken a sabbatical and all his body wants to do is feel.
He’s gonna let Mickey make the first move, he swears. That was the plan anyway. Wait to see what Mickey wants then adjust accordingly. But as soon as Mickey is within arms’ reach, Ian’s arms reach, cupping his face and pulling him in until their bodies are flush against one another.
The word, “C’mere,” slips from Ian’s lips like some sort of echo from the past before he leans down and kisses Mickey. And it’s weird at first, reserved on Mickey’s end like he’s unsure of something, his arms still resting at his sides. But just as Ian is about to give up, pull back and cut his losses, he feels Mickey’s hands encircle his wrists.
He assumes it’s to push him away, but all Mickey does is swipe his thumbs over Ian’s pulse before deepening the kiss Ian was about to abandon. And it’s like Ian’s bones are liquefying, like the only thing holding him up is his grip on Mickey, his stubble rough under his palms. And if he lets go he’ll fall into the black hole that seems to have opened up just beneath his fucking flip-flops.
He needs so fucking much right now. A hard surface to pin Mickey against, his own skin pressed against tan, sweat-slick flesh, air to find another way into his lungs so he never has to stop kissing Mickey. He’s dreamed about this more times than he can count - two years full of dreams - but the reality is so much fucking better he feels like he’s gonna pass out.
He breaks the kiss so he can run his lips over Mickey’s jaw, slide them down to his neck, sucking at his pulse point as the word, “Need,” escapes on a ragged breath. Mickey doesn’t ask what he needs, though, he just moans in response to what Ian is doing and allows him to walk them both back towards the boat Mickey had been working on when this all started.
They tumble over the side in a tangle of limbs, but when Mickey goes to roll over, his hands already on the waist of his shorts, Ian stops him.
“No,” he hisses, grabbing Mickey’s forearms and pinning him to the boat. “Not… not yet.”
It’s the first time they’ve made eye contact in years, the first time Ian has been able to look into Mickey’s eyes through more than a picture on his phone. And there’s just… fuck, there’s just so much there. So much he can’t even decipher as he runs his thumbs beneath Mickey’s eyes before leaning down to kiss him again.
It’s harder this time, fierce, rough and a little painful, with Ian’s hands gripping the back of Mickey’s neck and Mickey’s fingers twisting in Ian’s hair, tugging. And he’s never wanted to be naked more in his entire life as he ruts against Mickey’s thigh to relieve some of the pressure threatening to tear him apart from the inside out.
“I knew you’d come,” Mickey says softly as he pulls back from the kiss. But though his voice falters, his grip on Ian doesn’t. And those words, spoken in that way, in this place, makes Ian’s blood boil.
It should never have come to this. He should never have left Mickey’s side. But they’re here now by some lucky fucking twist of fate, and Ian plans to make the best of this whatever number chance it is.
He lets Mickey take off his t-shirt, wraps his arms around Mickey’s back so he can pull them together again, skin to skin. He feels so warm, like his time in this country has bled the Chicago cold from his veins. And Ian wants to hear about all of it, wants Mickey to tell him every fucking story he has to tell, but later.
Now isn’t a time for words. Now is a time to remember Mickey’s body, to trace familiar flesh with a willing tongue, to do everything in his power to make Mickey split at the seams, moaning Ian’s name like it’s the only word he’ll ever say again because that’s the only thing Ian wants.
Mickey. His. Forever.
He knows he’s been with other people. He doesn’t need Mickey to tell him that to know it’s true. It’s how they’ve always been. But that’s part fucking deux of his grand epiphany, the realization that he doesn’t want anyone else ever again. And he really hopes he can get Mickey on board, boat pun not fucking intended.
So he works on making this as good as he can, as a sign of what’s to come if Mickey will just take him back, one more fucking time. Uses his mouth to practically attack all the places he knows make Mickey weak, the ones Ian learned over their years together that have brought tears to Mickey’s eyes. A smile spreading across his face when Mickey moans, “Jesus fuck, Gallagher,” as he tugs down the waist of Mickey’s shorts so he can suck on his hip.
It’s not the only thing he sucks.
He drags off Mickey’s shorts completely before pulling Mickey into his mouth, slow and sweet, licking down his length before swallowing as deep as he can go. And the way Mickey’s hips buck like a knee-jerk reaction, pure and simple, makes Ian’s smile deepen.
He doesn’t know where Mickey’s head is, knows even less where his heart is, but the one thing he knows for damn sure is that Mickey’s body will always remember his. And if anything, at least that’s a start.
When Mickey begins to thrust for real, trying to fuck his way up Ian’s throat, Ian grabs his hips and pushes down, pinning him to the boat again. He wants to take his time with this, savor every single second, just in case. So Mickey is just gonna have to be patient for once in his fucking life.
Mickey groans in protest, palming the back of Ian’s head to try to increase the pace from the other end. And Ian would laugh at the effort if his mouth weren’t otherwise occupied. So he just stops what he’s doing instead, waits out three aggravated moans before Mickey gives up trying to control the situation and lets Ian take the lead.
It’s how they’ve always worked, so Mickey’s impatience aside, he knows this is what he wants in the end.
Ian settles into a rhythm that has Mickey practically melting into the boat, and the noises he's making… they actually physically hurt Ian, make him ache in ways he’d forgotten existed and he doesn’t even have his fucking pants off yet.
He may die before all is said and done, and he also may not give a shit about that possibility.
A startled cry escapes Mickey’s lips when he finally comes, but Ian doesn’t stop what he’s doing until he’s wrung Mickey completely dry. Then and only then does he pull away.
It’s not for long, though. It’s only so that he can get out of his jeans, peel them from his skin like they were glued there before returning to Mickey’s body.
Mickey’s eyes are glassy when he looks up at him, like he’s drunk and high and everything in between. But he’s still with it enough to reach down to try and take Ian in his hands, make a play to return the favor. Only that’s not even close to what Ian wants right now.
What he needs.
So he grabs Mickey’s wrists, moves them up to his chest before reaching underneath him and sliding one sweat-slick finger inside of him.
“Want you,” he says, his voice low, dark, and almost unrecognizable as Mickey’s cock makes a valiant twitch at the implication. And he doesn’t even have to manhandle him this time. Mickey just rolls over so fast Ian wouldn’t be surprised if he got splinters from the shitty old boat they settled in.
As he presses along Mickey’s back, his heartbeat hammering again, he’s reminded of how well he and Mickey have always fit together. With Kash and Ned, Caleb, Trevor, and every other person Ian has fucked over the course of his life, he’s never had anything even remotely like this. Like their jagged edges are tailored to fit perfectly inside one another’s.
That’s what he’s thinking about as he retrieves the hopeful bottle of lube he’s been carrying in his pocket for a month and a half. Jagged edges and puzzle pieces, the way they just match up as he slides inside of Mickey and breathes.
It feels like he’s been holding his breath for his entire life.
Like the kissing of earlier, the sex is just as hard, just as rough. It’s been too long for both of them, too much time apart, that they wouldn’t be able to go slow even if they wanted to. Not with this.
Mickey is so tight, though, like he hasn’t been fucked since Ian and Ian knows, deep down, how true that is. How there’s this one part of Mickey that has always been his, no matter what. And that…
Ian has no fucking clue what to do with that.
When he reaches around to help Mickey along, knowing instinctively that Mickey will be hard again by now, his lips begin sucking on his shoulder, the taste of sun tan lotion sweet on his tongue. And it’s not much longer after that that he comes, his teeth sinking into Mickey’s skin, marking him as Mickey spills warm over his hand.
It’s over too fast. This whole damn thing is over too fast. But if Ian is lucky, this won’t be the last time he’s allowed to do this, so at least he can take some solace in that.
He pulls out of Mickey as gently as he can, ignoring the mess in favor of catering to his bone-deep exhaustion as the weight of the last six weeks - the last two years - collapses on top of him. His breath raw in his lungs as he rolls onto his back and looks up at a sky streaked with so many different shades of purple and red it looks like a toddler painted it.
“Move over, ass wipe,” Mickey mutters as he rolls onto his back as well, elbowing Ian in the process. And then they’re lying next to each other, staring up at the same brilliant sunset, and Ian…
Ian has lost all ability to process reality right now. Check back later.
His lack of focus is probably why the first words out of his mouth are a derisive, “You smell like fucking cocoa butter.”
Mickey elbows him again. “Fuck off, dickhead. I spend twelve hours a day working in the fucking sun. Excuse me if I don’t want to be covered in burn scars for the rest of my life.”
Ian turns his head so he can catch Mickey’s eye. “You really expect me to believe you spend half of every day working?”
Mickey squints at him and bites the corner of his lip and fuck, he’s fucking gorgeous. Everything about him is just so fucking perfect that Ian’s finding it difficult to breathe right now.
“Fine,” Mickey says bitterly, “Maybe twelve was a fucking exaggeration, but the sun wasn’t. It literally never goes away here. It’s the weirdest shit.”
“You’re the one who wanted to live on the beach,” Ian says with a smile that crumbles to ash in his mouth as soon as the words escape.
From the shift in Mickey’s expression, he can tell his mind just slipped to the same place Ian’s did. To the two of them in that stolen SUV, Mickey’s dumbass cellmate stoned in the backseat, while Mickey opened up about what kept him going in the joint.
The beach.
Us.
Guilt floods Ian’s veins, the rush of it only getting stronger when Mickey says so quietly Ian almost can’t hear him from just a few inches away, “You’re real, right? Sometimes I… I trick myself into-”
He stops speaking when Ian reaches between them and takes his hand, squeezing it as tightly as he can. But he can already tell that Mickey said too much, that he’s ready to squirm out of the boat, so Ian decides to play his rare vulnerability off as a joke, for Mickey’s sake as well as his own.
“I’m pretty sure the mind-blowing orgasm is proof of my reality,” he says as cockily as he can, given the circumstances.
Mickey smiles. It’s half of one, and dangerously crooked, which basically means it’s fucking perfect.
“You’re welcome.”
Ian snorts and reaches over with his free hand to smack Mickey’s chest. “I meant your orgasm, shit head. Or should I say orgasms?”
The way Mickey rolls his eyes makes Ian’s stomach bottom out. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, fire-crotch. My mind wasn’t blown. Mental handy j at best, maybe some mental grinding, but not blown.”
“Bullshit. I counted no less than a dozen fucks back there, asshole.”
Mickey’s smile deepens. “Those were directions, in case you forgot what you were supposed to be doing.”
“They were directions, were they?” Ian asks with a hard shove that Mickey returns just as forcefully, rocking the boat in the sand.
“Yeah. Everybody knows you’re shit at figuring things out on your own.”
“Fuck you,” Ian replies as laughter begins to burn up the back of his throat.
“Been there, bought the t-shirt, wasn’t impressed,” Mickey shoots back and that is apparently all it takes.
One second they’re lying on their backs, relatively peacefully, and the next they’re wrestling like little fucking kids. Like their first time together, like their last night under the bridge, and like a hundred times in between.
It doesn’t turn into sex this time, though, it just turns into Ian using his long limbs to overpower Mickey’s hard muscles and once again pin him in the bottom of the boat. Their laughs breathless, their bodies covered in sheens of sweat as they take a few moments to just hold each other. To just be.
“I’m not gonna watch the fucking sunset with you, Red,” Mickey says as he readjusts his position so their hips are lined up.
It’s clearly a taunt, the positioning, the spark in his eyes, the way his tongue flicks across his lower lip. But this is a game that two can play, so Ian rolls his hips in a way that makes an indescribable noise escape Mickey’s mouth.
The closest he can get is half cough, half sob, and all music to Ian’s ears.
“I fucking love you,” Ian says because he honestly can’t help it. But something flashes across Mickey’s expression before he can catch himself. Something that looks painfully like doubt.
Ian leans onto an elbow so he can free up one of his hands to cup it over Mickey’s jaw before he says, more forcefully this time, “I fucking love you, Mickey. And I’m… fuck, I’m so goddamn sorry I’m late.”
Mickey shrugs, his eyes unreadable as he says levelly, “You’re here now. That’s what counts.”
It makes Ian think of all the people who’ve told him Mickey was shit over the years, that he wasn’t worth Ian’s time, that Ian could do better. And all this time Ian was the one that didn’t deserve him.
It’s something he’s known for a while now, at least the last two years if not longer. That Mickey’s brand of loyalty is the kind of thing you don’t find everyday. But Ian left him at the border. After everything Mickey did for him, he just left him, made him wait two fucking years, and yet here Mickey is, taking him back like it’s no big deal.
“I am, you know,” Ian says because he can’t think of any other way to make Mickey believe him. “I’m here. And not just now, Mick, for fucking ever.”
Mickey’s eyes crinkle up with a smile that looks at least half forced, his voice tinged with the same strain when he jokes, “You fucking proposing to me, Gallagher?”
It’s meant to lighten the mood, bring them back to when they were wrestling, when things weren’t so real. And Ian has every intention to go along with the switch if that’s what Mickey wants, except when he opens his mouth, the only word that falls out is, “Yes.”
Mickey blinks a few times like he’s rebooting before shoving Ian off of him and saying, “Fuck off.”
For some reason, even though it wasn’t even remotely in his plan, Ian decides to push this. Rolling back onto Mickey before he has a chance to sit up, grabbing his face again, and saying, “I’m serious,” because he is apparently.
That’s… interesting.
“You actually wanna marry me?” Mickey asks in the voice he uses when he thinks the person he’s talking to is full of shit.
“If you want to, yes.”
“Why?” he asks. And if that’s not a trademark Mickey Milkovich brand self-deprecating question, Ian doesn’t know what is.
“You digging for compliments? Because I could probably spend a couple hours at that while we watch the sunset together.”
“Fuck you, dickhead. I mean why… why are you here? After all this… all this time? What is this?”
The last part is spoken more quietly than the rest, and it breaks Ian’s heart a little to hear it. To realize that his presence here, with Mickey, after all this time, is still something Mickey doubts.
So much for the grand fucking gesture.
“This is me, asking you to take me back. This is me, moving to Mexico - a country that is hot as balls, by the way - because I realized that you were the only good thing to ever fall into my shitty ass life. And this is me, asking you to be my gay ass fucking husband, because I’ll do anything to get you to trust that I’m here. That I’m not gonna bail again. That’s what this is.”
Mickey stares up at him for a few excruciatingly long seconds, his eyes searching for the truth in Ian’s words. And in the end, he must see something that he likes because he’s smiling again.
It’s a different one this time, something soft that Ian’s only ever seen a few times before, and only ever with him. And it’s enough to make his chest ache.
“I don’t need a fucking piece of paper to trust you,” he says, his voice soft but in a different way as well. Open instead of cautious, happy instead of scared. “If you say you’re in, then you’re in.”
“I’m in,” Ian bites out before Mickey can even finish his sentence. And then he’s kissing him, over and over and over because he’s here. Finally. Because he took the risk, leaned back into the trust fall, and Mickey caught him just in time for Ian to catch him right back. But then, that’s how they’ve always been, haven’t they? Taking turns holding each other up when there was nothing but a rockslide beneath their feet.
They do end up watching the sunset together, but that’s mostly because they’re too tired to get out of the damn boat. They spend the whole night there, in fact, with Mickey’s head on Ian’s chest and Ian’s arms wrapped so tightly around Mickey’s body his muscles ache.
He doesn’t care, though. About aching muscles or starting a new fucking life in Mexico or anything between those two points because he has Mickey. And it might have taken him a couple years to figure everything out, but he finally realized that’s more than enough.
So yeah, in the end, it isn't even a choice.