Chapter Text
Ian’s hand is squeezing his cup so tight.
It’s just a party, normally that doesn’t put him so on edge, but it’s the way everyone skates around the question that gets him antsy. Because he’s there alone. And everyone clearly wants to ask.
“Happy birthday Franny,” he smiles, when she rips the present from his hand. It’s just some art stuff, because Ian doesn’t really know what eight year old girls want, but he wrapped it with a bow and some fairy paper, so maybe he’s done well.
Debbie’s still scowling at him.
“Seriously?” She mutters. “You couldn’t make it last for another week?”
“He hasn’t left,” Ian groans, because in order to believe it he needs to say it out loud. “He’s coming back. He just has some things to take care of.”
“And that was more important than Franny’s birthday?”
The eye roll is so entirely unconscious. A bit of an escape from saying ‘yes, his errands are a bit more important than a kid he met for five fucking seconds,’ so Ian lets himself have it. He doesn’t need this shit. Not when he barely wanted to show his face to begin with.
Fucking Mickey. Mickey and his complete inability to be a normal fucking person.
“You didn’t break up though?”
Trying not to scowl.
“We weren’t together.” He hates how many times he needs to say it. “And we didn’t argue. He’s coming back on Friday.”
That is, if he was telling the truth. Friday, and not a second later. He may just change the locks if not.
Debbie whistles. “Four days left then,” she hums. Her head tilts, eyes analytical. “You planning on making things right?”
Fucking– “We didn’t break up,” he snaps. “There’s nothing to fix.”
And maybe he’s a little louder than necessary. Maybe he gets concern in the form of her flinching back, raising her brows like it’s Ian’s temper that was the issue. His anger, and not the fact that Mickey just waltzes in and out of his life whenever he feels like it. Yeah, he’s the one in the wrong.
They’re at a birthday party though, so they can be civil—scowl settled into permanence, hands itching to clench in his pockets. He was just levelling out and now this. It’s like he can never know peace.
“Whatever,” Debbie just huffs, beginning to walk away. “Don’t let Carl take another slice of cake, he’s already had two.”
Out of spite, Ian’s going to have three.
California.
It’s so many miles away. A road trip, down route 66. Ian thinks he could do it. Get a car, some shitty car, and pack up his life. He’d stop in Arizona, make a day out of New Mexico, and there’d be sun.
Maybe Mickey would come too.
Fletcher’s brows are furrowed—a constant. Simply the way he looks.
“And how did that make you feel?” He asks, steady low.
“I don’t know,” Ian says, because he hates that question. He hates having to stew on these thoughts, make sense of his emotions even though they’re swirling in his head. “Angry, I guess.”
“Angry.” Fletcher seems to taste the word, nodding slightly. “Not worried? I thought the two of you were growing close.”
“No, I am,” he insists, because the isolation of the two isn’t right. He can be angry that Mickey left, and yet worried, at the same time. “Of course I am. I just can’t understand why he won’t talk to me though. I thought we were past this.”
“Have you spoken about it? Have you communicated what you need from him in the future?”
“He’s run off.” Ian shakes his head. “How am I meant to talk about it when I don’t even know where he is?”
If the tone is harsh, Dr. Fletcher doesn’t comment on it. He sits there with that passive glance, and he purses his lips slightly. (Perhaps it feels judgemental, maybe it’s just paranoia.)
“Do you think he’ll come back?”
It lacks the roundabout words. Cuts to the point in a manner that causes Ian to frown.
Because Mickey will come back—that’s not the issue.
“Yeah.” And he believes it. “He’ll come back.”
“So don’t sit around and wait for him.” It’s as direct as it can get. “Your life will go on, Ian. Don’t fall into thinking it won’t.”
It sticks with him all day.
Mickey comes back on Thursday.
6A.M when Ian’s going on a morning run.
He’s sitting at the edge of the walkway, with his legs up to his chest and his hat tucked down on his head. And he looks like death. When Ian sees him, he goes undoubtedly still.
“Mickey?” He calls, quiet as not to wake the neighbours, but insistent nonetheless. “Mickey, are you awake?”
Bleary eyes meet his, open barely on the head that turns, and Mickey seems to sigh as he clambers to his feet, hooking his backpack up with gloved fingers. “Hey, Red. Miss me?”
(Ian thinks his lungs stutter for just a second.)
He’s got a black eye. A purple one. Like it’s healed for a day but couldn’t claw back entirely. And his whole demeanour seems small. As though now when he stands on two feet, he’s almost unsure of where they’ve taken him. Like he really still questions if he could be welcome here.
And Ian knows that he should yell.
He has self-respect, and he has some base understanding that this isn’t okay. He’s not a charity. And he’s not a last resort.
But he’ll forever be the bleeding heart that lets Mickey in, and for now he needs to hug him. He needs to pull him close.
“Whoa,” Mickey breathes, the wind knocked out of him at the force.
But Ian can’t stop to check on him. Not when he’s got his nose in that hat, (which has to come off, he pulls it away swiftly,) then his nose in that hair, and he smells so distinctly like Mickey. Not sandalwood, or soap, or the detergent that they always use—Mickey. He’s here.
He’s alive.
“Fuck you,” Ian breaks, punching him right on the shoulder. “Never do that to me again.”
“I left a note!” Mickey tries, and he pushes away from Ian’s chest. “Hey! I did.”
But a note is not enough. Not even close. Not when Ian’s two days off a down swing and just barely thinking they’ll be okay. When he dares to question if they mean something. When Mickey’s being so strangely nice.
He’s shaking his head. He thinks it’s disbelief in his eyes. Maybe it’s unclear to them both.
“Next time just talk to me,” he says. (That, he can be sure of.)
He watches that purple eye stay muddied. Thinks that every word he said to Fletcher, each angry phrase he studied in the mirror, they all led up to this. But that’s all the anger he can muster. Standing there, in his running gear, he’s got to hang his head.
Oh it’s a relief. Fuck. He can’t begin to describe how he feels.
So he deflects.
“Are you tired?” Reaching back out, bringing Mickey back close because it’s 6A.M and it’s barely bright, and God knows how long he’s been out here.
“A bit,” Mickey grumbles. “Mostly just hungry.”
The run’s abandoned now. Truthfully, from the second he saw him it was. So Ian doesn’t pretend to wait. He steps back, to the door, and lets Mickey into the house. The door closes. It clicks. It locks.
And he’s on him.
“What happened to your face?”
Touching immediately, spinning Mickey round by the wrist to make him stand under the bright kitchen lights. It’s worse than he initially thought. The purple looking more red, and the shine that sits where knuckles must have knocked him leaving little marks. But it’s not terrible. Ian sucks in a breath when seeing it. It’s fine, not too swollen—nothing a little ice and then a warm compress can’t fix.
“Met the wrong side of some motherfucker’s fist,” Mickey huffs. “You should see what I gave him, though. He got it worse.”
Jesus.
Ian can’t clamp down the scowl he’s sporting, pressing on Mickey’s face to try and see how healed it actually is. He digs his fingers in a little, as far as he’s allowed before he’s batted away.
“Fuck man,” Mickey winces. “Stop, that hurts.”
“Just let me look,” he frowns, trying to hold Mickey’s chin so he can study it further. “I’m trying to see if it’s infected.”
“Oh, you tryna work your paramedic magic on me?”
That grin. God he’s missed that smile.
He can’t let it show just yet though. Not when Mickey’s turned up looking like he’s been street fighting and Ian still doesn’t know why. It’s real annoyance that he holds.
“Just let me look.” He’s got a bit of bruising on his jaw too. A cut running along his forehead. “Jesus, are you hurt anywhere else?”
“Nah, just the face.”
This mother fucker. “They manage to knock any sense into you?”
He gets the middle finger immediately.
They should get a band-aid for the cut at least; Ian fishes his first-aid kit out from under the counter. Just a little one will do, for after he’s done wiping the grime off of the wound. He goes to grab a damp paper towel.
“I can do it,” Mickey says, shaking his head.
“No.” Too sharp. “I want to.”
“Gallagher…”
“No, Mickey.” And he didn’t realise how much he meant it until now. “Let me do this.”
The look is long and analytical and thankfully, it ends with Mickey nodding softly.
It kind of feels like a rock settling between his ribs, sitting there cold and heavy. A lump in his throat that only grows once he’s wiped the area over his head. And Mickey’s skin is soft. Even when it’s scuffed and red and looks like it’s going to hurt, he’s still pale and familiar and entirely grounding to hold.
Because when he touches him, it’s a reminder that he’s real. Oh, he’s real and he’s back, and Ian can’t explain it, but the relief is still there. Mangled with the anger, and the upset, and the sanity, it’s the pure shock of seeing him there on his doorstep a day early.
Fuck, he’s missed him.
He’s really, really missed him.
“Where were you?” He asks.
He needs to know. Needs to be told why Mickey has managed to slip back into his life looking so rough, and if it’s another thing to worry about. If he’s going to start turning up bloody and limping and Ian’s going to have to nurse him back to health every time. Maybe he would too. Maybe, his chest is doing a funny little thing that feels like snapping, each time he thinks about the fact that Mickey was out there for so long, and he’s coming back so hurt.
It’s overwhelming.
“Aw man, you don’t want to talk about that,” Mickey tries, and his eyes squeeze shut. They deflect in the way that Ian has really grown tired of.
“I really do.”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
“It’s…” Mickey sighs for a second, lets Ian put the band-aid over his forehead. “It’s not pretty.”
His chest tightens. “I didn’t expect it to be.”
And he doesn’t think that it’ll start pouring out. He doesn’t really think that Mickey will be silent one moment and then laying his soul out on the table the next. But the shrug he gets is downright infuriating.
“Not today.”
Of course he’s angry. Of course it makes him mad. Of course every stupid feeling that he’s been having the past few months is coming barrelling out, because there is no way this guy is here refusing to tell him this right now. There is no way that he’s turning up bruised and bloody and–
A hand catches his wrist. When he looks up, he sees wide eyes.
“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” Mickey’s saying and it’s earnest. Ian doesn’t know how to explain it but it is. “Just not this second, okay?
Maybe it’s pouty. “Why not?”
“It’s difficult.” His hand goes to itch the side of his face, mouth twisting up. “And there’s something I want to do first.”
“What do you wanna do?”
It takes a second.
Mickey standing there and not saying anything. He keeps his eyes averted, and his head tilts up, and it’s like he breathes and breathes and breathes, right before coming back. As composed as anything, he tilts his head.
“Do you have work today?”
He squints. “Yeah.”
“Think you can get off early?”
“Probably not.”
Exasperation lines Mickey’s breath.
“Can you try?”
It’s persistent in a way that Ian can’t understand. He feels himself frown. “What for?”
Enough for Mickey to want to backtrack. It’s clear as day, there in how he flicks to one side, his eyes running away and then back and not knowing where to settle. They can just talk after work, Ian’s about to interrupt to say it when Mickey starts to speak.
“Uh.” He thumbs his nose. “I was just thinkin’ maybe you should try get all pretty for 7 tonight.”
Pretty?
Ian blinks, willing his mind to catch up.
“What’s at 7?”
A shrug. “Somethin’.”
At first, he can’t understand it. It’s just a turn of phrase, Mickey wasn’t calling him pretty, or well, telling him to actually get pretty. He’s just being Mickey and Mickey’s weird.
“You’re being strange.” He says it out loud, confusion finally seeping into his tone. “What’s at 7?”
“It’s a surprise,” Mickey says, all huffy. He doesn’t look at Ian, as though there’s something forcing him away, but eventually, he starts to settle. Gaze falling over. It’s quieter. “You think you can make it?”
Well… It’s one shift. Maybe he can get someone to cover. He could ask if anyone needs hours, make a few calls?
He just can’t place that look. Everything about it feels so strange.
So his lips part. “I can try.”
And Mickey nods. “Good,” he bites off, a bit too quick and like he has to blink himself into existence. “7, okay? Wear something nice.” He pushes out of the kitchen. “I should shower.”
Before Ian can say anything he’s gone, leaving him to stand in the kitchen by himself. It doesn’t quite make sense, and by now he’s definitely not going to make the morning run. So he’ll just be confused.
Mickey’s back. He hates how normal it feels.
Rita is going to start hating him. Honestly, she’s already on the edge.
It was a condition of his onboarding really—he doesn’t get special treatment. Even if his head is starting to mess with him, he puts in the time no matter what, and he makes sure the decision to hire him was a good one. And Ian thinks over the years he’s made good on his end of the deal.
He powers through the headaches and unless he’s directly throwing up into the toilet bowl then he’s there to wipe the blood and make sure everyone is stitched up. What he’s trying to say is that the past few months have been a fluke. Entirely out of character and truthfully not very cool of him to do.
So asking if Rita can come in a few hours early to cover the last 4 hours of his shift is pretty shitty, but he does it anyway. And against everything, she agrees.
(“Wait, where do you need to go?”
“I don’t know, it was weird.”
“You’ll take my Sunday?”
“I can, yeah.”
“Fine, just try not to wake me up when I’m sleeping again.”)
So, come six-thirty Ian is rushing through the door to shower and slick back his hair, and pull on a pair of jeans that actually do something for his legs. They’re going out, that bit is sure. Maybe they’ll smoke weed and Mickey will try and get him relaxed enough to let it go. Either way when he goes down the stairs he sees him..
Mickey, in a button down shirt?
“That what you’re wearing?” Ian asks, raising his brows.
It looks good, that’s not the issue. The same one he wore when he was meeting the family for the first time. A simple black button down, his dark wash jeans and a belt. Ian just frowns because it’s impulse. They’re going to go get a beer or something, why does he need a button down shirt?
“Yeah,” Mickey nods, hopping up. He gives Ian a quick assessment before nodding to himself. “You look good.”
It’s just a white tee and some jeans—fitted well, sure, his biceps are definitely on show, but it’s nothing special.
He shrugs. “Guess we both clean up nice.”
That should be the end of it, but Mickey keeps on looking. A fixed look over Ian’s jaw. Normally, that kind of thing wouldn’t make him insecure, but today it’s weird. A continuation of the first time they’re seeing each other in so long, and Ian doesn’t know what Mickey expects. It’s still just him.
As mundane and as boring as it is.
It’s going to be 7 soon.
“Where are we going?” He asks, as he reaches for his coat.
Mickey’s already pulling his on. “You’ll see.”
“Mickey,” Ian sighs. “I called off work for this. Where are we going?”
“I said, you’ll see.”
There’s something so strange about it, but unfortunately curiosity has him by the neck. Because Mickey is dressed up and ready and is really adamant about them getting out the door on time. (Enough so, that when Ian thinks there’s a chance he may have forgotten his phone, Mickey’s just herding him out anyway, saying “it’s fine, you need to get off that thing anyway.”)
“Why are you being so secretive?” He asks, when they’re getting off the L. “What’s happening?”
They’re pretty far out, stumbling into a sector of the city that Ian doesn’t visit too often. Maybe when he was dumb and thought the, albeit massive, amount that Monica left would get him something bigger. But all in all, he definitely doesn’t frequent here. Not a place where the street lamps work and the roads hardly have any potholes. He knows how hard he’s staring at Mickey, it’s like he wants to burn holes through him.
“Holy shit, Gallagher,” Mickey exhales, hands in the air. “Just, go with the flow, okay?”
The flow?
Well, the flow takes them through a busy high-street, down the path and then turning onto the next. Then, it spits them out next to a big sign with tall glass windows, gold embellishments and a wide door. Northside fucks really have it nice.
“That place is fancy,” he can’t help but say. Because they’re walking past the sign and it’s just getting prettier. Yellow lights leading to the door, fake hedges with plants sewn in. Maybe it’s then that he notices they haven’t stopped yet. That when Mickey turns into the door, Ian’s left scrambling to follow. “Wait, are we going in there?”
It’s hard to explain. Before he knows it he’s standing by the host stand of a very fancy restaurant, making eyes at a guy who won’t look him in the face. Because this place is nice. Really nice. With candles on the tables and yellow, hanging lights, and Ian is struggling to take it all in.
He’s in a t-shirt. This cannot be right.
“Table for two,” Mickey says. “It’s under Gallagher.”
What? His confusion must be written on his face, clear as day, but the host smiles at him anyway, nodding as she reaches to grab two menus.
“Follow me.”
Are they actually– oh they’re following! They’re following and this lady’s talking to him and reaching out her hand. His coat? No, he’ll keep it. Uh. What?
“Are you going to sit?” Mickey asks. It’s his voice that manages to cut through. Him, standing there in this fancy (expensive) restaurant and raising his brows, something that should be so out of place and yet fits. Grounding, in Ian’s little world.
He can take him apart with his eyes and realise this is real. They’re here, and they’re going to eat, and Mickey asked him to get off work early for it. He had a plan. He didn’t waltz back into Ian’s life without one.
Holy fuck.
He sits, because they’re going to start getting weird looks, and folds his coat over his chair. In front, Mickey does the same. Hands flexing to be sure this isn’t a dream. Mickey’s taking him out? Is Mickey going to pay?
His eyes are wide, hissing, to keep his voice low. “You made a reservation?”
Mickey’s far too calm when he takes his gloves off, far too steady when he picks up the menu. “Course I did.”
Somehow the words hit him again. His brows furrow. “When did you have time for that?”
Because in between going missing for a week and taking a nap on Ian’s doorstep, when would Mickey have been able to plan this all out? The thought makes him woozy. A guy he’s almost had sex with actually wanting to do dinner. Mickey wanting to do this with him.
It has to mean something. Or has the thought of missing him made things weird?
He inhales, slow, and forces himself to be casual. “Are you going to take that off?”
Mickey’s hand goes to touch his hat. “Do I have to?”
“We’re in a restaurant, Mick. I think it’s fine.”
The ‘FUCK’ hand goes up to rag at the fabric, hesitating before pulling it off. “Fine,” he grumbles. “But if I get any weird looks we’re leaving.”
He’s missed that snark.
“Yeah, yeah,” Ian snorts. “Look at the menu.”
It’s a nice menu too, like a binded book that he has to hold open. It’s the little details that really make him look around. Every table packed, every chair filled other than the ones still being bussed. Fuck, he has to ask.
“When did you do this?”
A little confused, a bit like prying.
Mickey just shrugs. “Been thinkin’ of it for a while,” he says, in his button up shirt, with his neatly done hair. “Figured, it was my turn to do the winin’ and dinin’.” He sucks in a breath. “Apparently, the steak’s good.”
He can’t be reading it wrong. It must be exactly what he thinks. Wining and dining? Getting pretty? It’s a date, this is an actual date and Ian’s on the receiving end. Mickey wants him.
He has to blink himself back into existence. Force his eyes to focus and his head to stop scrambling every thought. He whistles, low, taking a sweeping glance over the menu.
“The steak’s expensive.”
“That’s why it’s good.”
A smile. “Is that what you’re gonna get?”
“Fuck yeah.”
So if Ian’s getting wined and dined he’s going to have a fucking steak too. It’s not money out of his bank account, he hopes. It shouldn’t be, right? If they’re actually doing this, it won’t be.
“I’ll do the same.”
When the waiter comes up, Ian’s about to clear his throat. He doesn’t manage to get that far.
“You want a coke?” Mickey asks, looking forward. “Or a beer?”
The way he keeps his eyes trained on Ian almost feels like he’s digging into his skin. A bit more startled than anything. Ian tries to smile at the waiter to make it less obvious.
“You don’t want to split a bottle of wine?” He quirks. Might as well get the full experience after all.
And it’s not as though Mickey’s trying to be rude. Just, every time he begins to drift back to the waiter it’s like he’s shocked back into his seat. (Ian sneaks a glance too. Just a normal dude. Some hybrid guy in a white shirt and pants.)
“You think you can handle that?” Mickey says, casual, but not. “Don’t you have work tomorrow?”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ll take a coke.”
So they order.
They order and Ian is definitely not thinking about the fact that Mickey almost looks shy in front of this guy. That somehow he’s sat there, ordering for them both and getting the steaks how they like it, and Ian’s not the thing first on his mind. There is no way that’s an ex or something, please, that would be just his luck.
The second the waiter walks away, he breaks.
“Okay,” Ian breathes. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“That.” He waves a hand in the air. “Do you know him or something?”
Mickey’s pupils flicker. Eyes a little scattered, definitely caught out, and just when Ian thinks he’s going to have to pry the information out of him, shoulders shrug. Offhanded, “He was a coyote.”
He says it as though that’s meant to mean something. As though Ian’s not just going to frown and gesture for him to continue.
“Y’know, like a fuckin’ dog.”
“I know what a coyote is, Mick.”
“So you get it.”
“No, I really don’t.”
With a huff, he leans back. “Coyote’s,” Mickey draws out. “Like the predators. The things that eat any raccoon they can catch.”
Frowning. “Okay?”
“Okay?” Mickey echoes. “I’m telling you he hunts my kind and all you can say is ‘okay?’”
No way… Ian can’t stop his scoff. “That guy’s not going to eat you,” he says. “I’m pretty sure that’s against the law.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
Indignant. It’s a scrunched nose. Mickey’s arms go to cross in front of his chest. “It’s instinct, asshole. I’m not fuckin’ scared of him.”
“You looked pretty scared of him.”
“You, shut the fuck up.”
He’s stifling a smile behind his palm, just from the way those brows have shot up. “I didn’t know there was an actual hybrid hierarchy.”
“There isn’t,” Mickey huffs. He manages to hold it for a few seconds before he’s trying not to smile too. “I don’t get how it works either, s’not like I’m going to go eat some rabbit-dude.”
“No,” Ian shrugs. “You’ll just dig holes in gardens and rifle through the trash.”
“Shut up. You were throwing out some perfectly good stuff.”
“I was throwing out mouldy food.”
“Cut the green parts off and you’re fine.”
Jesus– “I don’t know how you’re still alive.”
Mickey grins, toothy and dumb. “Be glad I am, otherwise you wouldn’t be getting steak tonight.”
Drinks are placed down on the table, so sudden that Ian barely has time to say ‘thank you’ before the waiter’s gone. He plays with the straw in his glass for a moment before stilling. Questions. Questions. Swirling the glass. He has to try and make sure they come out right.
“Is that where you were?” He asks. It falls a little easier now, when there’s nowhere to run. “Getting money for this?”
The careful measurement of keeping everything calm. Mickey’s sensitive—that much hasn’t changed over the weeks. And so as to not spook him, Ian’s got to keep his eyes adrift. Like it doesn’t even matter. Other tables, their candles, then Mickey.
His ears twitch.
“And some more,” he mumbles. “The economy kind of sucks.”
Amen to that.
“But uh…” His bottom lip is tugged between his teeth. His head tilts, then clicks back. Slow. “Can’t say I don’t take you anywhere.”
Cogs stutter. Hands hesitating, then pausing, then falling still.
Holy shit, Mickey Milkovich is actually taking him out on a date. Fuck.
Because this is a date, right? Taking him out, getting the money to pay. He made a reservation for God’s sake. This is a date. It has to be. It’s…
He needs to blink.
Fuck, he’s wearing a t-shirt—this gnawing feeling in his gut. Their first real date and he’s not even dressed for it. A sip of his drink. Hands flexing on his thighs. Play it cool. He’s being relaxed about this.
“Were you safe?” He asks, saying that instead of everything else.
He needs to see the look in Mickey’s eyes to really understand it. How they can have the talk—the one where Mickey tells him to get over it, that this, them, is allowed to happen—and yet still not know if it’s real. Going with the flow. Letting Mickey want him even if he’s a bit fucked up and not all there.
(Or is it reading into things? Is it one date and then sex, because that’s all guys ever really want. It’s all he’s ever known.)
Lips tug up. “You care about my safety?” The way he teases, so relaxed.
So, why lie? “Of course I do.”
Something about Mickey’s smile tries to lull him back. “I was safe,” he mutters. “No point doing all that shit if I couldn’t come home in one piece.”
Home. Ian’s mind catches the word and doesn’t let go, any attempt he had at being cool falling flat. It’s all fruitless now that Mickey’s said home and made reservations and hasn’t stopped once to question if the wording’s right. Fuck, it’s hard to process. Everything hitting all at once.
He has to ask.
“Is this a date?”
The second it hits him is clear.
Mickey stills. Whatever he was thinking falling away so suddenly. And he pauses. Hesitates, even. Living seconds where Ian thinks he’s going to break his world.
Then his lips part. “Yeah,” he nods. “Of course it is.”
It’s kind of amazing.
Floaty. Ian’s still there when the food is set down.
“This is so good,” he half-moans. Steak that’s fucking tender and a nice little salad that makes it light. He feels like an animal when he rips into it. Better than homecooked, just maybe. But he’s on a date right now so who gives a shit about the meal? It could be cardboard and he’d still enjoy it. It’s the company.
He stabs at the plate.
“You get into any trouble while I was gone?”
Said around a bite of food. Rough around the edges and very, very Mickey.
“No more than usual,” he shrugs. “You’ve got to tell Mandy to start answering her messages though.”
“She’s probably already tossed that phone,” he says. “Can’t imagine her keeping it for more than a few weeks.”
“She’s back now though, right?”
“Yeah,” Mickey hums. “I saw her.” He takes a second, like feeling it out. “She looked healthy and everything. Don’t think this guy is a total prick.”
“Good,” Ian says, and he means it. “Glad she’s safe.”
A sip of his drink.
Now that he’s back it’s like remembering a thousand things that happened that he couldn’t quite tell anyone else. Little stories, bits from the job, and running club and things he saw on the news. Nothing noteworthy, just the type of thing he would say over dinner. He has to reign himself back in to not fall into overdrive.
“Y’know, you missed Franny’s birthday party.”
“Your sister’s kid?” Mickey frowns. “I didn’t even know it was happening.”
“I didn’t have a chance to tell you,” he says, pointedly. “Someone ran off in the middle of the night.”
At the very least, the shrug is sheepish.
“Either way, she kept asking where my cat friend was.”
That gets a glare, a scowl around the fork. “M’not a cat.”
“I know,” Ian grins. “Would be kind of cute if you were though.”
It’s worth it to see Mickey’s eyes widen. “Say that again and I’ll rip your tongue out of your head.”
“Mickey the catboy.”
“I’ll kill you.”
“Okay,” Ian breathes, rolling his eyes. “You’ve got to make it up to her though.” Then, “And probably apologise to Debbie too. You know how disappointed Franny was when she didn’t get a glock for her birthday?”
(He only knows because he had to hear it over and over again until blocking Debbie’s number was easier than dealing with the texts.)
“Hey, that’s not my fault,” Mickey shrugs. “The kid wants what she wants.”
“A fucking gun?” He scoffs. “You can’t promise to get kids guns, Mick.”
“I didn’t.”
Ian likes him so much it makes him stupid.
“Hands off,” Mickey grumbles a few minutes later. “You wanted the side salad; you don’t get my fries.”
“But Mick…” he trails off, doing his best pout. He’s half draped across the table, already finished with his plate and now trying his best to pick at the other’s. “...You’ve got to share when you’re on a date.”
“If I’d have known you wanted fries we could have just ordered extra.”
“I don’t want fries,” he complains, because he didn’t. He already eats enough grease as it is. “I just want a couple.”
“Gallagher.”
A warning.
Ian can’t take it seriously though when he’s already letting up.
“Just a few.”
It’s exasperation, sure. But Mickey’s raising his palms in defeat, fighting the way his lips are trying to curve. “Fine.”
And his ears are laid back, falling against his hair. In that sense they’re almost missable, like Ian has to strain to see them. But he likes it like that. Because there, they look natural. There, they aren’t making Mickey’s hands raise to flatten them every few seconds, they aren’t pointing up, and they’re not doing anything at all. It’s just him.
Ian finishes off the fries with ease.
“Next time you’re getting your own,” Mickey tuts.
“Next time?”
He doesn’t mean to make him shy. In fact, he’s not entirely sure that’s what this is. Still, Mickey’s shoulders raise. “If you want.”
There’s a knot in his chest.
“I want that.”
The posture loosens. Mickey downs the rest of his drink.
“Can we get the bill?” He asks when the waiter comes to clear them up.
It’s hard to focus when they’re in such a nice place. Ian barely knows how to act. So he lets Mickey take the lead and finishes his drink too. This was nice. This was actually really nice.
A breath.
“You ready?” Mickey asks, palms flat on the table, one brow raised so slightly.
Ian can feel his face scrunch. “Ready?”
“To run,” Mickey says, slow. “Think I can see him going to the kitchen. So, you ready?”
Like dread. Ian’s heart drops.
“What the fuck, Mickey?”
Of course. Of fucking course. He should have expected this shit. Why couldn’t it just be a normal date? Why would he possibly expect anything else? Of course they’re going to dine and dash, of course they’ve racked up a bill that Mickey has no expectation of paying for. Fuck this is not a date. This is not–
Mickey’s laughing.
The sound so sudden and burst that Ian has to look up.
“Your face,” Mickey grins. He’s digging around in his pocket. “Relax man, I’m just kidding. I’m good for it.”
Dumbfounded.
“What?” Maybe Ian feels a bit bad. Rash. Guilty.
“You seriously thought I’d make a booking if I was going to run out on the bill,” Mickey scoffs. “They’ve got your fuckin’ name and phone number.”
“You put down my number?”
Mickey rolls his eyes. “Couldn’t put down mine.”
Brows raise, daring when Mickey smiles, and like this it’s difficult to fake any negative emotion. Because goddamn it, he’s fucking adorable. In this boyish, rough around the edges way. He’s got a grin that’s nothing short of taunting, and his ears are poking up stark against his slicked hair. And Ian really likes to look at him.
Except Mickey doesn’t like to be looked at. Like insecurity, his hand raises, flattens down his ears like they want to pretend they’re not there. Ian doesn’t know how to tell him to stop.
“Here you guys go,” their waiter interrupts, sliding a closed cheque book down in the centre of the table. “Call me over if you need anything else.”
Before Ian can think to look at it, Mickey’s taken the book for himself, expressionless as he opens his wallet and slips two crisp hundred dollar bills under the clip in the centre. Ian can’t speak. Scoffs a bit under his breath.
Huh.
Okay.
“Now, you ready?” Mickey asks, brow quirked.
And Ian hasn’t figured him out quite yet, in the grand scheme of things, he’s barely even started. But fuck, this guy is nothing short of intriguing. Months later and he’s still thinking the same thing. Mickey Milkovich is just that never ending spiral, and he’s circling the drain there too.
He watches him stand, pull on his coat.
“Come on, Gallagher,” he says. “I want dessert.”
They walk home.
Take the L, then the streets.
The whole way there it feels like a daze. Like, when he inhales that secondhand smoke, it’s slowly getting him high. Because Mickey just took him out on a date, and now they’re in Ian’s house, and it feels good. Right. Kind of like the walls want to collapse, and more as though they’re trying to figure out how to build themselves higher. But it’s doable. He can navigate it without breaking a sweat.
Because it’s not sex.
Right now, when he’s hanging up his coat and slipping off his shoes, Mickey’s not looking at him like he wants to devour him. No, in the slowly building heat, he’s wearing his hat, and his hands are fidgeting and it’s small.
They’ve been on a date. Okay. That’s new.
Perhaps it’s awkward. Because Ian doesn’t know what to say.
He should feel more than the base fact that that was strange and different and he enjoyed it more than he should. That on some other day, before Mickey left and came back and shocked him into thinking that all of this could go away at any second, he would have resisted.
Never asked what it was. Not allowed himself to question things.
But he has.
So now he has to squint. He chews his lips as he stays in place.
“That was nice,” he ends up on, because Mickey isn’t going to break the silence. He’s done his big thing, now it’s back to being cold. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” he huffs, it isn’t icy. “I wanted to.”
Ian blinks. He swallows. “I should probably go upstairs. Work tomorrow and all that.”
It’s like waiting for something that isn’t going to happen. His hands string together, eyes staying still on Mickey’s figure. Anything. He could say anything right now and it would work, but Mickey’s lips stay pursed, and Ian starts to back away. Down the hall, by the stairs, before it happens.
“Hey.” When Mickey happens, a little started, like the word has blurted itself out, but it’s him. His hands doing a little wave thing, his eyebrows pulling together in the centre. He catches his breath, just in time for Ian to take it all in. “Can you just stay here for a second?”
His feet have already grounded themselves, so he nods.
Mickey’s eyes are down, hiding behind his lashes as he inhales quietly. Then, his head snaps up, so fast it’s indescribable. He fixes to a point, and doesn’t waver this time when he speaks.
“I just wanted to say, I really do like you.” Understated, and calm. “I know it doesn’t always seem like that, but I do.”
The air is punched out of him.
“Yeah?”
“I haven’t liked a lot of guys before,” Mickey continues. “My dad’s a dick, y’know? I couldn’t exactly date when I was living there. But uh– I like you. You’re nice to me, too nice, and I don’t get it.”
Ian’s clinging onto every word, stood frozen in place as he watches them escape Mickey’s lips.
“Most guys just want a quick fuck, and I didn’t get why you wouldn’t do that… But I respect it. I get that you didn’t just want something meaningless.” It’s a shrug. “I know it was just one date, though. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to do it again.”
Ian doesn’t know how to respond. At first, he can’t fathom if he’s heard it right. If right now, right here this is how it happens. How Mickey slowly takes him apart, starting by the brain and ever so slowly taking his lungs, stealing the breath from them with every little utterance.
Because one date was just one stepping stone. It was the first thing in a long line of things that would allow him to wrap his head around this mystery (the feelings). But when he looks at Mickey all he sees is uncertainty. And Mickey’s not insecure, that’s not him. But it is. When Ian looks at him he sees the insecure guy he tries to hide.
And he can’t help the way he melts.
“Mickey…”
He’s stepping forward.
“Just let me know,” he says, shaking his head. “If you really do want to kick me out, then I’ll go.” It’s like he can’t hear anything but himself. “Mandy’s pretty much fixed on Florida, she’s got space for me.”
“Yeah?” Closer now, face to face.
Mickey’s eyes are blue. “Yeah.”
So maybe it’s the date, or the words, or the combination of them all, but either way Ian’s speechless. Entirely, entirely, speechless.
Mickey is attractive.
He’s known that since he met him.
Except now, when Mickey stands in front of him, with his coat off, hat pulled low, and his cheeks flush. After a date. A hot meal. A moment where Ian could think, fuck, this is real. He’s had the confession and he’s had the action, and he can know it all for sure. Mickey likes him too. Mickey’s seen him sob and cry and do all the things a well adjusted guy shouldn’t, and he still wants in.
It almost knocks him off his feet.
Fuck.
It’s more than want could ever entail. Mickey’s not just attractive. He’s so much more.
And that’s dangerous. It makes all the reasons that they shouldn’t, seem feeble. It makes it seem less like giving in, and more like letting something happen.
Ian’s staring.
“What?” Mickey asks.
And the thought comes so suddenly that Ian can’t reel it back. His hand reaches out—to the material of Mickey’s beanie—and he pulls it off. Without asking, though he should. Because for some reason it’s bothering him more than usual. Then, he watches.
Slow, as Mickey’s ears sprout upwards from his hair. Once patted down where the hat had been, and now poking out like little tufts, hidden ever so slightly. God. Breathlessness.
“Hate that fuckin’ hat,” Ian says.
He means it. He really does.
Mickey’s eyebrows raise. (It’s not as tough as it wants to be. Reads more like a front, than anything else.)
“Oh yeah?” He hums. “Why’s that?”
Ian steps forward. “Because you shouldn’t have to hide this.” He shouldn’t touch, no matter how much he wants to. “And I hate that you ever thought you did.”
Eyes. They’re dragging him down. Lips, pressed together just below. Ian can’t tell what goes on Mickey’s head, he’s never been so in touch that he can for anyone. But he knows it must be mirrored in his own reflection.
Down.
“Ian,” Mickey says.
A second.
A moment.
Two.
Then Ian kisses him.
It’s so much, all at once.
“God,” he mutters.
Cigarettes—the one Mickey smoked on the way back here, the ones clinging to his clothes even after they’ve been put out. He tastes like nicotine and the cold, and it’s so entirely Mickey that it can only make sense. This is what he pictured. He needs to taste it again.
So Mickey’s hands have grabbed his waist. They’re demanding and Ian’s letting it happen. He’s letting himself be pushed back, down the hall, because God, Mickey’s lips. How could he have denied himself this for so long? Why would he stop this when it feels so good?
Mickey kisses as though he’s starving.
Has his mouth open as he drags Ian in. And his tongue is rough, maybe it’s a hybrid thing, maybe it’s a Mickey thing, but it’s not sweet in the way that Ian’s used to. It’s completely ferocious and demanding. The first time they’ve kissed and he’s already ruined for anyone else. This is it. It has to be.
All of it goes straight to his head, makes him woozy, because Ian needs to kiss back, he needs to crowd into Mickey and make him feel just how bad he wants it. There’s no point denying it. There never really was. He just wants to kiss him. He wants to make him feel good.
So they make out. Dirty as anything. In the liminal space between each room, the hallway, the kitchen anywhere. And maybe he’s too eager, their noses knock together and they can’t quite make a rhythm with them both pushing forward, but Mickey’s tongue is in his mouth and he really doesn’t care. This is it, this is what he needs.
So, Mickey’s hips kant forward, and Ian’s breathing rushes. Because he’s hard. Mickey’s hard against his waist and he’s not stopping anytime soon.
He pulls away, to catch himself, but Mickey’s got a hand on the back of his neck. “C’mere,” he says, and he pushes his tongue back into Ian’s mouth. So completely wanting that it’s almost too good to be true.
Hand sliding down. Mickey’s fucking calculated. He presses the palm of his hand against Ian’s crotch.
“Fuck,” Ian groans. Maybe he whines it a little, maybe he’s never heard himself so absolutely wrecked, but Mickey’s got him pinned against a wall and he’s losing it. He’s got his waist in his hands and he’s holding so tightly it’s going to bruise. It would be ridiculous not to whine.
Fuck. Fuck.
Mickey lets go. He grinds forward, enough for their jeans to touch but only slightly. His teeth are sharp. “Want to touch you.” He says, clumsy and desperate and pleading but controlled. “You going to let me?”
“We shouldn’t,” Ian says, though he’s kissing. They should wait beyond one date but he’s kissing and his hands are scrambling to find Mickey’s neck, to pull him close, hold him hard.
Mickey’s frown is more confused than anything. Like he knows he’s fucking addictive, like he understands just how good of a kisser he is, how ridiculously intoxicating, and he just doesn’t get why Ian can’t have it. “Why not?” Fingers tugging on the clasp of Ian’s belt. “You want it, don’t you?”
And Ian can’t remember how to think. Not when his belt is being pulled at, pulled off, and he’s still being kissed with such ferocity that it renders him brainless.
“Gallagher?” Mickey breathes. “Ian. You want it, right?”
He has to catch up.
“Yeah.” Has to help by unbuttoning his jeans. “Yeah, fuckin’ want you.”
And the look Mickey gives him is relieved. It’s so wrapped in this incessant want that Ian has to remind himself just how reckless this all is. How utterly ridiculous it can be to take someone in and then let them worm their way into his pants, but fuck it, he wants this. He fucking needs it. And Mickey’s just perfect.
“Good.”
He’s shoved his hand down Ian’s pants, in his jeans, down his boxers and the squeeze he gives is so fucking good. Ian knows he’s getting harder, knows he’s filling out in Mickey’s palm. Maybe it’s dry, just slightly, the touch is rough, but God Mickey’s hands are warm and tight and Ian has to fuck into it. He’s got to chase that fleeting pressure.
Fuck. He needs to fuck him. Needs to bend Mickey over and make him take his dick until he cries. Until he can’t help but go dumb, goes fucking stupid with how well he’s being fucked. And God, Mickey would look so good with tears streaming down his face, he’d look so gorgeous begging to come, for Ian to let him come.
“What’s going on in there?” Mickey smiles, eyes that are so blue looking up at Ian’s. “You thinkin’ about something good?”
The slowest stroke. Ian’s breathing into his mouth.
“You should tell me.” Mickey’s tongue. How his lips curl up.
The control slips.
Ian’s back is against his wall and they haven’t even bothered to go into the bedroom. The living room. But he doesn’t care. His thoughts repeat like a mantra: Mickey. Mickey. Mickey.
His jeans are barely pushed down but it’s enough. Enough so that Mickey can finally take him out of his boxers, let cool air hit his skin.
“Fuck,” he breathes. Eyes wide. “You’re big.”
Pride is a disgusting feeling.
“Yeah?” Ian exhales, slow, enough to settle. He doesn’t know what character he slips into when it starts, just that it’s dirty and he relishes in it. How Mickey goes dumb when he’s spoken to like nothing. “You think you can take it?”
That look. “I know I can.”
He’s perfect.
“Yeah?”
Foreheads pressed together but Mickey’s looking into the space between them, holding Ian’s cock as it hardens completely. And he’s always been big, doesn’t have to be a grower to know that, but Mickey’s hands are small and it makes him look giant in comparison. Like he could split the guy apart if he wants to.
God. He wants to.
Mickey’s eyes are so fixed that Ian has to taunt. “Think you deserve it?”
They flick up. “Why wouldn’t I?”
It feels like tugging him on a string.
“I don’t know,” Ian takes himself into his hand, guides Mickey’s wrist so he can thumb the underside. A hiss of everything, pleasure. “You did disappear for a week.”
“I left a note.”
“Wasn’t enough.”
Coy. “Tonight not make up for that?”
“It did,” he nods. “But maybe I’m feeling a bit wired up.”
Mickey’s eyes have to spark.
“Yeah?” He goads, squeezes. And he uses that spare hand to trace the start of Ian’s v-line, right where the hairs on his stomach start to wisp. “You want to take it out on me?”
His tone is dark.
Ian’s nose flares. “You want that?”
Looking down, Mickey’s still just touching. Glued to what he can see.
“I kind of want to put it in my mouth,” he says slowly, before meeting his eyes. Those lips turn snarky. “You okay with that, Red? Think you can handle it?”
And it snaps.
“Knees.” Like an order. “Get down.”
Ian’s batting his hand out of the way. He’s pressing himself back and Mickey forward. Because if this is what Mickey wants, it’s what he’ll get. He’ll get the rough treatment, he’ll get the pain.
“There we go,” Mickey huffs, and he’s such a fucking brat that it’s too predictable. He’s got to stop giving in.
But fuck.
Mickey’s down on his knees and it’s like a rush. When Ian towers above him. When his defiance stares up. On his knees, Mickey’s head tilts, his gaze nothing short of wanton and the realisation creeps on slowly because the fucker planned this. He knew that tonight a fancy meal and a pout could get Ian to give to him, eating out the palm of his hands.
But it doesn’t feel like a loss.
This is power.
“God.” It slips out. “Look so perfect.”
Because watching a man so mouthy be docile when Ian towers above him causes that to happen. As he holds himself in the palm of his hand, gripping the base of his cock and just tapping it against Mickey’s face, simply because he can. It’s fucking degrading and yet Mickey takes it, doesn’t offer so much as a frown when Ian holds himself against his cheek.
Instead, his eyes go blissed. Like this is what he wants. He needs.
Nothing to do other than track it.
Guiding himself down. There. To the part of that mouth.
“Fuck.”
His spare hand goes to grip Mickey’s hair, tugging it close, the sides of his fingers tracing the shell of his ears. Mickey should know how attractive he is, it’s criminal he doesn’t.
Ian’s thoughts are too cloudy to fully articulate it.
“That’s it,” he mumbles, because Mickey’s tongue is there, on the tip of his cock, just waiting. “Fuck.”
It’s wet heat. Jaw slack.
Mickey’s lips stretch to try and take him in and it’s obscene, frankly. Because the whole time he stays looking up, making the eye contact that causes Ian’s breathing to labour. It’s warm. Fuck, his mouth is warm and hungry and it feels like bliss as he takes him down.
Fuck. Oh. Yeah, okay, yeah.
Mickey giving him head. Mickey slick around him.
Ian’s practically throbbing from the stimulation.
“There you go,” he hears himself mumble, gone completely. “Look like you’re made for it?”
Hips push in slow. He lets his hands glide through Mickey’s hair. And that tongue. That tongue that’s just slightly too rough, it’s there on the underside as Ian’s halfway there. Like feeding himself in. Like Mickey’s waiting for it, barely able to stretch around the girth so he tries to go slow, so pathetic on his knees.
Barely, his fingers trace those ears, like petting him, like calming him when he starts to get to the base. Because he’s going to see how much Mickey can really take, if he’s just as cut out for it as he’s been saying he is. Slowly.
Then a sound. A hum. Maybe a word. Mickey tries to say something and it’s a struggle not to fuck into his face. Ian has to will himself to stay still, because those vibrations, wet and hot around him, they feel too good to ignore. And it takes a second, when Mickey’s taken eight inches of cock down his throat and his eyes are hazy and he’s trying to swallow, that he gags.
Splutters. Makes a sound that causes his throat to convulse and his eyes to water, practically rolling back. Ian stares. He’s not holding down. He’s just stroking Mickey’s hair to keep him relaxed, because there’s a grip on his thighs where Mickey tries to take more. Everything. So much more. And it’s fucking incredible.
Because of course Mickey’s a slut for it. Of course Mickey’s going to choke on his cock like it’s all he knows.
“Shit,” Mickey breathes, pulling off for a moment.
He holds the base of Ian’s cock and strokes slowly, intentionally. Ian bites down on his lip. His everything feels heavy. His resolve hanging on by a thread. God, he wants to fuck Mickey’s face until all he can do is choke. Wants to see just how far he can take it. If Mickey’s going to get off how he did last time, barely touched and still reeling.
He’s so hot.
He takes the tip back into his mouth. Sinks down. Looks up. He’s messy with it. Clunky at times like he’s not as experienced as he could be, but the way his lips are slick with spit, and his cheeks are hollowed, and his eyes just read desperation, is so damn good.
Ian watches himself slip out.
There’s pre-come forming on the tip and his thoughts are disgusting. He presses himself against Mickey’s cheek once again, smearing it there like ownership. Mickey’s lips are blown. He taps himself on the bottom one.
Lost in thought.
They should have done this earlier.
Mickey’s voice is sudden. “Fuck my f’ce.” Croaky, slightly, muffled as he says it against Ian’s thigh.
“What?”
It’s not shock, more awe. Like all the fantasies can come to life.
Mickey’s defiant. “Fuck my face.”
“You don’t have to–”
“Want to.” His smile is so lazy, so confident because no matter what he knows he’s getting what he needs. “Make me gag.”
And there’s no way to say no to that. It’s impossible to look him in the eye, the perfect picture of sex and craze and not give him exactly what he’s asking for.
This guy’s been in Ian’s house for months. In his mind since the very day they met. Ian knows he wants him. He’s gone through the holding back, he’s studied every thought that’s suggested this is a bad idea and now it’s all heading up.
He’s hard, and pressed against Mickey’s face. Bites his own bottom lip as he holds his dick in one hand and jerks himself slowly, keeping himself pent up.
“You tap my thigh if it’s too much, okay?”
Mickey’s going to be the end of him. He nods.
“Say it.”
There’s an eye roll, because it’s Mickey, so of course there is. And if it wasn’t working to make Ian smile then he’d slap it off of him, take that snark and make him feel until all he can do is apologise for it. But that darkness just creeps in the back of his head, sitting stoic while Ian stares down.
Mickey knows who’s in control. He’s only bratty because he likes to be reminded.
Ian lifts a brow.
“I’ll tap your thigh if I can’t breathe,” Mickey relents. And that feels good. It sends a spark, something hotter than pleasure through Ian’s cock as he strokes himself.
“Good boy.”
So good for him, even when he forgets his manners.
Mickey’s eyes widen. Marginally. By a fraction. And yeah, fuck, Ian’s going to check that off for later.
His hand threads through the strands of Mickey’s hair, with permission fully. And he’s not petting him, not slowly guiding him through it, instead he’s pushing into Mickey’s mouth and watching him take it without complaint. He’s keeping his hips still for a moment even though the feeling swells.
“Fuck.” It’s too good. “Fuck, Mick.”
He tries to start off slow.
Brings Mickey down by the head leisurely, so he can pull back if he wants. But after a moment, minutes of just letting Mickey’s jaw grow slack, allowing him to get used to the weight of Ian’s cock on his tongue, that resolve dissipates.
He pushes his hips forward. The way Mickey’s hands scramble to find something to hold feels too perfect to ever describe.
Then he fucks his face.
Clumsy. Thrusts himself in and out and in and out.
He wants his jaw to ache in the morning, wants to make him feel the fact that Ian’s claimed him here, from the inside, for days. His eyes water and it’s gorgeous, Ian needs to burn the image into his skull as he drags Mickey back, by his hair, rough as he fucks his face and hears him try to stop the spit from running down his chin.
God, it feels too good. Ian can’t remember the last time he was this hard.
Right now he’s a ragdoll, a fucktoy for Ian to use until he gets off. And Mickey fucking loves it. That’s the part that makes it better. Mickey’s groaning and breathing and trying to stay cool as Ian thrusts into his mouth, but he just can't. Because he wants it so badly. So badly it should be embarrassing. Fuck. Mickey likes this just as much as he does.
He’ll taste pre-come, Ian. He’ll taste just what it’s like to get throat-fucked to oblivion, to be used so gorgeously. And oh God, Ian’s got to hold off his orgasm because it’s coming and it’ll hit like a tidal wave. Mickey feels so good. Oh fuck.
“There you go,” he groans. “Doing so well.”
He can barely control his actions. His hips pistoning forward, driving himself deeper because he knows that Mickey can take it. That when his eyes water, he’s getting off on the slither of embarrassment he gets from being used like this. Lips stretched.
The sounds are filthy. The way Mickey can’t stop them.
And there, the look he wears is nothing short of bliss.
Pleasure buds. Building in Ian’s stomach, then lower, lower. He stops abruptly, forces Mickey’s face down so his nose is pressed against his base, making him take it all and then just sit there, gagging on it. It feels so good. Mickey’s throat tight, lips wet and parted and so fucking messy. And he thinks if this is just his mouth, then fucking him is going to feel like owning the world.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“Fuck,” Ian sighs. He’s getting close. So close. His orgasm teetering on the edge.
He holds Mickey down for that moment more.
Tap tap.
Then lets go.
“You okay?” He asks, as Mickey slinks back, spit on his lips, on his chin, everywhere.
“Yeah.” His voice is hoarse. “That’s good.”
“Doing so well for me.” Ian’s hand goes to his ears, traces down, lulls him. Maybe his own desperation is on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t want to show it all just yet. He bites it down, lets Mickey nuzzle into his palm because this is what he wants. He wants to be good.
Fuck.
Fuck, Ian really does like him. It shouldn’t be this moment that realises it, but he does. Because Mickey’s soft and he’s mouthy, and sometimes he’s gruff, but right now, he really wants to please. And Ian wants him to be happy. He wants Mickey to feel the same way when he looks back up.
“S’fuckin’ big,” Mickey mumbles, taking the tip just back in.
“Of course you’re a size queen.”
“M’not,” Mickey smiles. “Just no point taking something if it’s not big enough to feel.”
“You’re disgusting,” Ian chuckles, but his own gasp cuts the sound short. His groan as Mickey swallows him down, and fuck, he’s so close. The inability to speak starting to catch up with him. The pressure building below his stomach as his hips move with the bobbing of Mickey’s head.
And it’s dirty, it’s so fucking dirty. That pretty face still welling up with tears from just how big Ian is when he’s taking him in. It’s not just sex, sex with anyone couldn’t possibly feel this good. It’s sex and it’s Mickey, and his tongue is merciless. It’s enough to make Ian fall apart in seconds.
“I’m going to– fuck,” he curses. Mickey’s moving by himself. “You want it in your mouth?” Fuck. “Or on your face?”
Mickey doesn’t answer. Keeps his lips tight as he takes it at the perfect pace. Ian’s so hard, the pre-come is relentless. The hottest arousal there and not relenting.
“You’ve got to choose,” Ian grits. His voice goes soft, “Fuckin’ hell,” like the words are just punctuation marks. He keeps himself halfway in Mickey’s mouth. “You want both?”
The nod is so faint.
But it makes Ian’s eyes go fuzzy. His gaze darken. He’s not a strong enough man to make it tidy, not composed enough to stop the sounds that leave his throat. Because it’s electrifying. Nerves on fire. An embarrassing sense of eagerness that he’d usually have more control over. But he can’t stop. His orgasm getting closer and closer and–
“Fuck,” he curses. Like darkness washes over him, ecstasy and pleasure and all the drugs he’s ever taken. He’s spilling into Mickey’s mouth before he can stop it, pulling out for just a moment to paint streaks over his face. Ruin him. “Fuck, Mick.”
He’s got to lean against the wall to catch his breath.
Falling back.
Mickey’s a mess.
Come on his nose, on his cheeks, all over his mouth where Ian couldn’t help it. And he just kneels there with his eyes half closed, soaking it in. Allowing himself to linger.
“So fucking perfect,” Ian says.
He thinks it.
So of course he hauls Mickey up by the elbows the moment he gets the chance. He sticks a palm, slick with his own spit and come and whatever the fuck else, down his boxers and jerks him quickly, roughly, so that Mickey’s knees buckle and he’s leaning on him for support.
Ian breathes in every sound that he makes. Each whimper, each whine, and Mickey’s fucking gorgeous like this. He’s so damn pretty.
“Fuck me,” Mickey says against his lips, because the kissing is back. Again in full force. “Fuck, get on me Gallagher.”
“Another time,” Ian promises. He can’t get it up again, no matter how much his dick is trying. “This okay?”
“Fuck you, you know it is,” Mickey breathes. “Oh God.”
And Ian’s got to hear that sound again–has only ever heard Mickey orgasm twice and both were so perfect. He’s been driving all of his nightly jerk off sessions, all of his dirty wishes off of that sound, so now it’s back in his palms he’s got to let it burst. He’s got to watch. See how his face scrunches.
Ian twists on the upstroke, he tugs down, just the right tightness, how he knows he’ll like it.
“Oh fuck,” Mickey’s voice wavers, shakes. “Fuck, Ian, yeah, like that.”
And when his orgasm hits it’s blinding. If the way he half-collapses can say anything. Mickey presses himself against Ian’s chest and there’s come on their clothes. On their hands. It’s fucking messy. But Ian wouldn’t have it any other way. No. He really wouldn’t.
He’ll catch Mickey’s breath by inhaling it. He’ll scan for any sign of a comedown, a realisation, a flinch.
But Mickey just smiles.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Knew you had it in you, Gallagher.”
He’s so fucking intriguing.
“You’re amazing,” Ian needs to admit, quiet.
“I know.” Mickey’s hands go to buckle up his pants. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
When Ian sits in bed that night he doesn’t feel guilty.
He’s showered. Brushed his teeth. Even moisturised.
And not a single part of him has the courage to feel guilt. Not right now.
Because Mickey is passed out beside him and he looks so peaceful. In one of Ian’s shirts, big enough that it drowns him slightly. In Ian’s sheets, so stark against his pale skin. Not a part of him can feel guilty because it isn’t wrong to want a man. It isn’t wrong to want to chase a feeling. It’s not wrong that Mickey wants him too.
He doesn’t want to fuck this up.
Gentle, a hand goes to the hairs around Mickey’s ears. The little raccoon-like things, that remind him just how different they are. Why Mickey’s such a tough shell to crack. Why sex came first and the intimacy came after.
Ian likes him.
Tonight, they can sleep side by side.
It’s a mindfuck.
He’s smiling too much, knows it when he closes his locker at work and can’t seem to stay still. It’s just hard to forget, really. Difficult not to picture Mickey still sound asleep when he got up that morning, to push the image of him flushed red and smiling and taking him out on their first real date.
Maybe it’s letting inhibitions down. Maybe it’s a bad idea, but he can let himself have it, for now. So he sighs against his locker, and floats his way to work.
“The look,” Rita points out, when they’re finding out their points for the day. “You’ve got it again—the boy look.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ian tries. “I don’t have a look.”
She lifts her brows. “No,” she says, leaning forward. “Something happened.”
And okay, he’s grinning. He can’t help it. Not when something did happen. Something amazing and incredible and enough to make his face feel warm. Mickey even let him touch his hair. He planned it all out. It’s too good to be true.
Rita’s staring at him. “Spill.”
Fine. “I kissed Mickey.” He’s got stars in his eyes when he says it, leaning back in his chair just to hang his head.
“Okay?”
His posture straightens. “Okay..? We went on a date, Rita.” It’s breathless. “An actual date that he paid for.”
“And this is a good thing?”
“Of course it is,” he sighs.
Mickey wants to date, that’s what it means. Not just come over for free food and take advantage of the kindness, he wants to hold hands and go out to dinner and kiss because that’s all they need to do. Of course that’s a good thing. Ian’s going to collapse.
Still, Rita’s narrowing her eyes. “What happened?” She frowns. “Because last time I checked you were adamant about not liking the guy?”
“Love happened.”
He has to dodge the pen that’s launched at his head.
“No, he’s trying,” he says to stop her glare. “He likes me back.”
“I could have told you that,” she huffs. “The guy that stormed off when you were talking to other people. No wonder he’s a raccoon.”
“What?”
“They’re territorial,” she shrugs, with a light grin. “Of course he didn’t like me. He’s your one and only, Ian, how cute.”
The eye roll is instantaneous. Nose scrunching when he gives her the middle finger. “I think we’re dating.”
Teeth click. “You established that?”
“No, but he took me on a date,” Ian hums. “We kissed.”
“Lots of people kiss.”
“Well this one meant something,” he says, thinks.
It’s easier to believe when he does it like that. Puts his own head at the back and lets his mouth do the talking. Still, there’s a look in his eyes and it’s similar to pleading—silently asking for Rita not to push this. Let him have it. Let him breathe.
“Well fuck,” she mutters eventually. “Finally.”
“I feel so stupid,” he groans, digging his palms into his eyes. That’s been the main thought. The one he’s been rattling with since the second they first sat down. “God, Rita. Why didn’t I let this happen sooner?”
A barely hidden grimace. “Because everyone thought he was an asshole. Including you.”
“Not really.”
Her brows raise.
“Okay, maybe,” he groans. Honestly, he should learn not to shittalk the guys he’s into, then he wouldn’t have to deal with this talk every time. “But I like him. Even back then, I liked him.”
Now he’s got it. Slowly, everything clicking into place. Like the weather could clear up, and the tomatoes would grow again, and Mickey’s not running away. So Ian’s not going to run either. He lets himself be analysed, and lets Rita shake her head.
“Well, good luck,” she sighs, and it looks like she’s about to get up when she stills, stops with her hand straight out. Lips purse, eyes narrow. “Don’t let him hurt you. Men are pigs.”
It’s enough to make him smile.
“Okay, okay,” he half-laughs. “We should probably get to it. Andy’s waiting for me.”
“Fuck,” she groans. “Stop making me late.”
(Somehow he manages not to spill his guts to Andy in the eight hours they spend together. It takes more effort than he’d like to admit.)
There’s a gun thrust into Ian’s hands the second he walks through the door.
“What the–”
“I got this for Franny,” Mickey says, stepping back. “Didn’t wrap it or whatever, but she’ll like it.”
It’s heavy and he’s tired, and that’s why his mouth hangs agape. What? Disbelieving. “You’re joking.”
“She said she wanted one,” he explains, like that really changes anything.
Because Ian knows they’re doing a whole, fresh start, new leaf type deal, but that doesn’t explain why Mickey is all of a sudden buying birthday presents for Ian’s niece. That’s– that’s too much.
He has to stop for a second.
It’s the shift. That’s why his mind’s slow.
“Debbie’s gonna freak if I give her this,” he mutters, looking at the plastic toy gun in his hand. “Franny’s in a Barbie-princess only household.”
“The kid wanted a gun; give her a gun.” Mickey deadpans. “S’not like she’s gonna start shooting rabbits.”
Well… Ian quirks a lip, a look to catch.
Corrected. “Hopefully not.”
He’s shrugging off his jacket as he comes in, finally able to take off the heavy toed boots he’s got to wear when on-shift.
“Where’d you get this from anyway?” He asks, twisting it up to see the fake dart bullets packed in, and the actual trigger function. Kids toys these days, damn. “It looks techy.”
“Saw it in a shop,” Mickey shrugs. “Went in and got it.”
“With your mystery money?”
It gets a middle finger. “You gonna give it to her or not?”
And Ian’s barely in the room before he’s wondering how weird this week can really get. “Yeah,” he says, breathy, light. “I will.”
Kissing Mickey is something addictive.
It’s strange, slightly, to think that they went for so long without this—just kissing. But when Ian’s lying on his stomach, his waist bracketed by open thighs, he half-thinks he was an idiot for ever denying himself this. The kissing.
Because Mickey is clumsy with it. A little frantic, like inexperience. His hands grip onto Ian’s shoulders, and his neck reels up whenever Ian tries to slow it down, and he’s clawing at everything, for everything, all of the time. Wanting.
“Wait,” Ian says against him. “It feels better if you slow down.”
“Don’t care,” Mickey huffs. His fingers rake through red hair, turning to a grip when the lips don’t come down. “Fuck me.”
“Not yet,” he breathes, but Mickey makes it hard when he’s grinding up. A kiss to the side of Ian’s mouth, another on his lower lip, sweeter than he could ever imagine. “We’re waiting, remember? It’s got to be special.”
“This is special,” Mickey insists. “Right now, just us.”
But it’s not enough.
Ian’s got to kiss him again, get lost in the feeling of hands, and tongues, and all things Mickey. Because he’s kissed a lot of people in his life, had sex with so many more. But none of that was like this. It wasn’t as slow, or as sweet, and now Ian’s got to savour it.
Savour this.
Mickey.
Mickey.
“No.” He pulls away, forehead falling down and hitting the other’s with a soft thud. But he doesn’t really leave, still lets Mickey try and lick into his mouth. “We need to wait.”
“Why?” Mickey groans. His thighs tense around Ian’s body, enough to feel the hardness pressed between them.
“It’s got to be special,” he repeats, mutters, murmurs, the lot. It’s all pressed against those lips.
“Gallagher.”
“Mickey.” Hands that clamp around his waist, shove him down so he can’t keep rolling his hips. “I want to wait.”
Mickey lets him have it. He sinks into the cushions, and lets himself go limp.
There are certain things about hybrids that Ian doesn’t know.
After all this time he almost feels embarrassed about it.
So, one shift where he’s sitting on break and wolfing down his sandwich, he pulls out his phone. A quick search wouldn’t hurt, right?
So, Lip needs to do some shopping.
Maybe it’s preparation for the baby, maybe just some new underwear, whatever, Ian didn’t ask. He just got the message and he showed up. They don’t hang out enough as it is.
“You’ve got a list,” he groans, because he’s tired. Coming off a night shift and still not feeling clean enough for the next. The last thing he needs is some hike from one store to the next, not being allowed to leave because they haven’t found what they need just yet.
“We’d get lost if I didn’t,” Lip says, pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket.
It’s folded up in a square; Ian plucks it straight from his fingers.
“Baby clothes, a crib, paint samples…” Jesus Christ. “Lip you guys don’t even know the gender yet.”
“Tell that to Tami,” he drones. “She wants to be prepared. And it’s not the worst to start getting these things, it’ll make it easier when she’s eight months in and hardly wants to walk.” He knocks their elbows. “I didn’t realise you had to be convinced to hang out with me.”
“I don’t,” Ian insists. “I just thought I’d be spending my day off a little differently.”
Like, not going up the escalator of the mall, barely awake and getting ready to do a shopping trip with his brother.
No, in his mind it had gone a little different. Maybe working out a bit, checking up on the garden, then some making out. Dinner, a movie—that was the plan, or it could have been.
That morning Mickey disappeared as usual, in his weird Mickey-style fashion. It’s less alarming now, easier to function around when he knows to say directly that he has some errands to run. Even kissed him goodbye. That was enough to put Ian’s mind at ease, but the fact he had to eat breakfast alone was kind of boring. That’s the only reason why he ended up here. In the mall.
“What? With your raccoon boyfriend?”
“Not my boyfriend,” he corrects, just the guy he’s seeing. The one he lives with and sleeps with and is fumbling around with in the dark.
“Yeah?” Lip asks. “Why is that exactly?”
“Because we’re taking things slow.” He bulldozes past the knowing tone. “No labels, just yet.”
But that just means he gets the Lip-ism in full force. “That’s so stupid,” he scoffs. “You’re not even fucking anybody else.” He quirks a brow. “Is he?”
“Shut up,” Ian scowls. “No, he’s not.”
Or, at least, he doesn’t think so. Well, how many errands can one guy have? It’s not like he’s going for groceries every other day. He shouldn’t dwell on that thought, there’s no way it’ll go well for him in the long run. Thanks, Lip, for that.
They manage to make things relatively speedy. It’s quite simple when they stop questioning Tami’s requests and just put the stuff in the basket. That’s the thing about being financially stable, he supposes—they’re still picking out the cheapest option, but there’s less of a fight about actually buying it. They have saving accounts and steady incomes, and it’s actually kind of scary to think about.
Lip’s got an iron grip on the list. “Next up, maternity wear.”
“That’s not going to go down well,” Ian whistles lowly. He’s made enough mistakes trying to buy Debbie jeans to not try and shop for women anymore.
“She put it on the list.”
“Where do you even get maternity wear?”
Lip shrugs. “Fuck if I know.”
Probably with the rest of the clothing stores on the second floor, that’s where they search anyway. Lip leads the way and Ian follows. He probably needs some new shirts too, most of his are either grass-stained or getting ratty. Maybe they should hit up a GAP.
“Is that Mickey?”
Ian’s barely paying him attention.
“What?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “No, why would Mickey be here?”
But Lip’s stopping. His feet have slowed and he’s resolutely not moving, staring at one concrete spot.
“That’s Mickey,” he deadpans. His eyes widen. “Since when did he hang around here?”
Ian’s just about to laugh in his face when he stops too. Blinks.
“Holy fuck,” he breathes. “That’s Mickey.”
On the other side of the mall, leaning against a shop window and screwing his brows together in what seems to be disgust. He’s just scanning people as they walk by, watching the mall like he isn’t interested, but it’s Mickey. From head to toe, with a cap covering his hair, that’s him.
“Yeah,” Lip half laughs. And it’s like they’re both locked on that spot, the long beige pants, the belt keeping them up. The tone holds both of their surprise. “He’s wearing colour.” Then, “Holy shit, does he work there?”
Ian can’t close his mouth.
No way Mickey Milkovich is wearing a pink shirt right now. Does he work there? Is he wearing a headset?
“What the fuck?”
His feet move of their own volition, sending him surging forward with Lip barely managing to keep up. It’s just, he needs to get closer, needs to see if that’s really him.
Staring. Ian is in such shock. He knows his voice shows it. “Mickey?”
That head whips up.
Like stuttering, Mickey freezes. “Gallagher.” He stands up straight, pushing away from the wall. “What are you doing here?”
“I was about to ask you the same question.”
And he knows it sounds accusatory but it’s really difficult to do anything else. To not feel imposing and towering and like he’s trying to back Mickey into a cage, because seriously, he needs answers. The last time he checked, this wasn’t what errands meant.
Mickey’s short-circuiting. He sees Lip too, clearly, and whips his head back. Like a goldfish, mouth open then closed, and not knowing what to do. It makes Ian’s voice lower.
“...Mick?”
“I uh– got a job?” He tries, nose scrunching.
“At the mall?” Immediate. “At a clothing store?”
“As security, asshole,” Mickey scowls, and it’s as though he snaps into himself, rubbing his brow then finding what to say. “Get to tackle the motherfuckers that think they can get away with stealing this ugly shit.”
Ian doesn’t know how to think.
“When did you start?” The questions rattle around in his brain, forcing themselves out of his lips without too much screening. “Do you just do security here or the whole mall? When did this happen?”
And any sort of progress he was making starts to dwindle. “Look,” Mickey says, the word slow, the voice hesitant. “I’m on the clock, can we talk about this later.”
The Mickey in his mind wouldn’t care about being on shift. Well, the Mickey in his mind also doesn’t have a job so that might not be a reliable source. So he stands there for a moment, processing everything that’s going on because it’s still a bit hard to digest.
It’s weird to see Mickey in a uniform, at an actual corporate establishment, and think that it’s fitting.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, churning, mulling, trying. “Uh– pizza for dinner?”
Honestly, he thinks he’d cut off a thumb tonight if he tried to cook.
“Yeah, sure,” Mickey nods. That’s the end of it. Ian takes a step back, ready to walk away, but before he can there’s that voice. “See you at home, Gallagher,” it calls.
And it makes him smile. “See you there, Mick.”
Walking. Stumbling away. It dazes him so much he almost runs straight into Lip.
“Woah,” he says, to steady himself. “Watch out.”
Lip raises his brows. “Not your boyfriend, huh?”
“Shut up.”
“Because I almost managed to forget whatever weird thing you guys have got going on. Thanks for reminding me.”
“Get the list out,” Ian huffs. “Or I’m telling Tami you cheaped out on the clothes.”
“Do it,” he dares. “Maybe then she’ll return them and I can put the money toward something useful.”
“Like what?”
It gets an eyeroll. “Weed.”
Either way they’re both making their way into a maternity store, Lip for the clothes, Ian for the distraction. God, he cannot wait to get home tonight.
Ian’s sitting on the couch and trying to get some work done when Mickey gets back. It’s just routine stuff—the monthly health questionnaires that he has to fill out to say the last time he left the country, if anyone he’s close with has flu symptoms, if he’s thrown up in the past 48 hours.
He’s filled out enough of them to have the practice down to a tee, but today his fingers hesitate. In between every question there’s a pause and a question mark, and he’s more than happy to put it down when Mickey turns up.
Leaning back, letting him toe off his shoes.
“You got a job,” he starts, as casual as he can.
Mickey’s not wearing his uniform anymore. The pink shirt traded for a faded band one, and the cap replaced by the same old beanie, and that makes the curiosity perk. Because if he’s changing in and out of that get up every day, then there’s no telling how long it’s been going on. It’s almost scary to think about.
“Yeah, I did,” Mickey says, sitting too. He’s ready for the onslaught, by the corner piece—the part of the sofa that he’s claimed.
“When’d that happen?”
“The day before I got back,” he explains. “Barely had to do an interview, they pretty much hired me on the spot.”
And okay, that’s easier to digest.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Hardly a pause, “S’embarrassing, isn’t it? I work at the mall.”
Everyone starts somewhere. Ian just hums. “Security, huh?” He muses, lips quirking up. “You think the knuckle tats helped with that?”
“That and my cheerful demeanour.”
So Mickey’s got a job. The information isn’t really hitting like a truck, it’s more quiet and lulling and enough to make him hum, because some things begin to click.
His tone stays knowing. “Is that where the money for Franny’s present came from?”
There’s a nod. “That, and some other places,”
“Yeah?” Ian asks. “Where?”
The pause is uncomfortable. A silence that stretches for too long. A second where Mickey tilts his head and makes his eyes entirely disbelieving. His lips press together, not even trying to conceal what he thinks.
“You know by now, don’t you?”
At first Ian doesn’t understand it. His brows furrow and he starts to open his mouth, but something stops him. Because he does know, surely, or he has some sort of hunch. Still, he has to be certain.
“Know what?”
It’s a deep breath.
“I run drugs,” Mickey says, confesses, simply breathes. His face gets a little tighter but he doesn’t stop there, correcting himself with a frown. “Or, Iggy and the others run drugs.” A shrug. “They let me tag along on the ones Terry’s not around for, I get half a cut for just watching the car while they go in.”
And yeah, Ian knew. Never a dramatic realisation and not a day that it fully clicked. But Carl used to be in that life and Ian used to use enough to know the signs of someone slinging, so of course he did. He had to.
He forces his expression flat. “That’s dangerous.”
Mickey tries to shake it off. “Been doing it since I was a kid.” Like he can map out where this can go, he changes his tune. A little lighter, “I’m out now, though. That was my last run, had to make it worth my while.”
The one where he left a note.
Came back with money for a date and enough courage to kiss, and Ian thought he was losing his mind.
He swallows heavily. “You’re not going back?”
“Nah, man.” Mickey shakes his head. “I’ve got that security gig now,” he says. “Pay’s pretty shitty but at least it’s consistent.”
(The hidden part of Ian’s brain does something inescapable. It plants the seed, lets it grow, and makes his mouth open.)
“So you can start saving up?” He hesitates, trying not to think it, trying even harder not to say it.. “...to move out?”
He can’t help himself. He’s seeing Mickey with a new job, and it regurgitates everything that he doesn’t want it to. Because that’s what this is, right? The plan from day one: bring him in, get him a job, and then let him go.
For a moment, Mickey almost looks offended, his whole face scrunching before his body locks. “Yeah,” he says, tone doing something weird. “Got my hidden stash.”
Don’t read into it. He just wasn’t expecting to be clocked so soon.
“We should get you a bank account,” Ian tries. “That way you can actually cash your cheques.”
Eyes roll. “So responsible, Gallagher.”
And there’s a little more but he’s finding the guts to ask it. Leaning back, watching Mickey get comfortable, and just wondering how to frame it all. Tact is sometimes difficult though. It takes more than Ian can muster, ultimately causing his voice to come out soft.
“So, just drugs, huh?”
He can see Mickey blink. The quiet. “Sometimes guns too,” he mutters. “Not anymore, though. Haven’t done that shit in a while, no place to file off the serial numbers here.”
“Did you ever keep stuff here?” He has to press. “Drugs?”
Mickey’s eyes lock with his instantly. “Jesus, Gallagher, no,” he huffs, breaking the contact to find the floor. “I mean, maybe my own weed, but nothing else.”
“Okay.” Immediate. Ian believes him. “Good.”
There’s nothing else screaming at him, not right now at least. So Ian lets it go, going to grab his laptop once more while Mickey fumbles with the TV remote.
He only gets three checkboxes in, when he’s distracted.
“Are you gonna order that pizza?”
“Oh, yeah,” he remembers.
Shit, he probably could have made dinner after all. Now he’s got to shell out thirty dollars for pizza that’s both overpriced, greasy and probably going to make him feel worse. Whatever, maybe Mickey will lend him a ten. He’s got that luxury now.
He pulls delivery up on his phone, going to make the order, and before he knows it there’s a presence even closer to his side. The heat of Mickey’s body, his t-shirt and his jeans pressing against him. Ian has to hold his breath. Oh, he’ll never get used to that. Their shoulders knock.
“I want pepperoni,” Mickey says, peering at the screen. That’s why he’s so close of course, not because making out has recently been added to their repertoire and he wants to start making some progress. But Ian’s mind doesn’t really comprehend that. He feels Mickey and he feels his skin, and he should wrap an arm around his waist. He does, bringing him closer.
“Okay,” mumbling.
Somehow they’re hugging. Well, in an embrace, to be more accurate. Their thighs press together and he thinks that Mickey is stiff, if only for a second, before he tries to force himself calm. Will his shoulders to settle and his back not to stay so straight. And he doesn’t expect him to melt, not entirely, not right now, but with half a glance to the side, Mickey lets himself relax.
To say Ian’s a bit shellshocked is an understatement.
(Casual intimacy. Okay, they’re doing that too now.)
His mind stutters a bit. “I was reading about how some hybrids like having their ears touched,” he hears himself say. A little flicker of light, like a thought switching on. “Saw an article the other day at work.”
He doesn’t need to look at Mickey to know that his brows are raised. “Oh, yeah?”
“It’s relaxing,” he remembers. Apparently a baseline instinct that generations couldn’t pump out of the DNA, like swirling patterns into skin—just to lull. “Is that– are you the same?”
Their positioning is awkward, sprawled.
“I don’t know,” Mickey says. “Don’t think so.”
How can’t he know? “What do you mean?”
Hesitance. Air puffed through Mickey’s nose. “No one’s really done that before,” he huffs, guarded. “I’m not a pet.”
Brows furrow. “Franny did.”
“And I thought she was going to rip the damn things off,” he snaps, but the second he does it’s like he tenses, then relaxes, then twitches. Churning. One. Two. “You can try though.” A little quieter, like he’s rolling his eyes, but Ian thinks he sees right through it, thinks it’s some painfully clear attempt not to let himself enjoy the comfort. “I know you want to.”
He does, want to.
So his hands go up. Clunky, as elbows almost knock Mickey in the face. He’s still got the hat on, Ian will have to pull it off to even touch his hair. He thumbs the fabric.
“You sure?”
“Just do it.”
So he does.
Pulls the hat off, letting it fall onto the couch behind, and it’s just hair. At first just the strands that have been flattened and clumped together from the cover, so Ian’s got to pull it apart. He runs his fingers through, stopping a little when he sees those ears.
Little. Dark.
He sucks in a breath to calm his nerves.
They’re soft. His fingers notice it first. The fact they’re a little prickly from the small hairs, and yet smooth when he presses down lightly on them. It’s not like petting a cat, not really like any animal at all, because it’s Mickey. But with the way his ears are small against Ian’s palm, and it’s like the top of a raccoon has been copy-pasted onto him, it’s hard to distance it really.
He gives a bit of a scratch to the side of one, watching Mickey shudder entirely.
“Like that,” he hums, eyes closing.
Fuck. It’s so damn adorable.
He keeps up the motion.
“Mhm,” Mickey sighs, such a foreign sound, the tone drowsy. “You’re going to put me to sleep.”
“Yeah?” He asks. “That good?”
He lets his forefinger smooth over the backs of his ears, just petting lightly, little itches that make Mickey’s head keen.
Breathy, “Yeah.”
And it’s not sexual. Eyes hazing, head falling down. Ian scratches softly, and lets Mickey rest his forehead on his shoulder, simply taking in the warmth, letting himself be hugged. But that’s all it really is. Fully clothed on his couch, he’s got to remind himself to breathe.
And then the sound happens.
Like a purr.
Ian glances down, just to check if he’s hearing it right.
But low and behold Mickey’s there, practically vibrating where he sits, with the lowest sound rumbling from his throat. Holy shit. He’s fucking purring.
Ian doesn’t know how long they stay there for.
“Food’s gonna be here soon,” he mumbles when his phone chimes.
He doesn’t want to break it up but they’re going to have to. Maybe it’s easier to peel away when he’s not being rushed by the doorbell.
And he can’t see Mickey’s eyes, but he thinks they’re blinking themselves open. That, when the purring sound stops, it’s not because Mickey isn’t relaxed anymore, but because he’s willing his senses to come back on. (A flame in the centre of his chest, because getting Mickey so comfortable in his space feels like another win. It makes his smile automatic.)
“Yeah?” Hollow, and quiet, and Mickey sounds like he’s barely awake. His hands go to tighten in Ian’s shirt when he tries to stand, realising themselves and letting go seconds after.
Ian’s got hearts in his eyes—he knows it.
The driver’s probably rounding onto their street,
“Put something good on,” he says, finding the remote and letting it take his place in Mickey’s grip. Oh those eyes. The slow blinking as Mickey remembers where he is. “You’re going to show me that weed you’ve apparently been hiding,”
It’s a snort. “Oh, really?”
“You’ve been holding out on me,” he hums. “You don’t want to share?”
Mickey breathes a chuckle. “Fine,” he says, standing too. “But my shit’s strong. Don’t blame me if it knocks you on your ass.”
Ian smiles. He kind of can’t believe his life.
This is kind of like a fever dream. That, or Ian is still very, very high. Because he thinks, when he walks back through his front door, that he sees Lip and Mickey sitting at his kitchen table with a textbook between them, and his furniture is still all intact. He almost thinks he sees a smile.
He’s still sleeping—that’s the only explanation.
“That’s– actually correct,” Lip mutters, sliding the pencil back across the table. He’s got his eyebrows perched high up on his forehead, his shoulders dropping into a shrug.
“I told you, man,” Mickey grumbles back. “The math ain’t the problem.”
“Yeah, it’s the spelling,” Lip agrees. “And some other stuff but that’s fixable, we can just get you some resources.”
Ian thinks he’s shocked still. Frozen, unable to move from the hallway. No one comments on his appearance, he barely gets a glance in his direction, because no, Mickey and Lip are talking, and somehow, it’s not an argument.
He shouldn’t move too quickly. Like spooking a wild animal, he’s got to slowly back away.
“I can’t do textbooks,” Mickey frowns. It’s defensive, sure, but not reeling up a punch.
And Lip’s got the exact same tone. “I’m not asking you to,” he explains, still haughty, but not entirely above. “Videos, podcasts, you can just listen to the information for an hour and then do it again the next day, just use it as background noise.”
“And I’ll learn that way?”
“Before you even know you’re doing it.”
“Huh.” He can hear Mickey’s hands drop onto the table. “Let’s get to it then.”
The good thing about seeing a guy with a mall job is that now Ian doesn’t have to take his breaks alone.
Not like he ever did that anyway. Rita tends to have a pretty similar schedule, and if not her, then he could always find someone else to take his technical hour with. Maybe Andy, something about just sitting in the ambulance and only taking the thirty minutes that they all silently agree on. Maybe whatever firefighter is sitting in the break room at the station.
Either way, Ian never really did his breaks by himself. But now, it’s like he’ll never have to again.
The mall’s a hotspot for injury. That’s how he manages to get himself out here. And sure, sometimes he barely sits down before he’s being paged and told he’s got to respond to an emergency call, but sometimes he actually gets to stay for 45, so that’s pretty cool.
What’s even cooler is seeing Mickey.
“Y’know, the great part about working in a mall is I don’t have to eat vegetables with every meal,” he grumbles, sitting across from Ian in the food court.
He’s been having the same oil spattered meal every day, very much ignoring the tupperware boxes that Ian’s packed for the both of them. And sure, it looks good, but not 6-days-a-week kind of good. Not when there’s grease staining the paper it’s on and legally they’ve got to flag up the calories.
“You need vegetables,” Ian drones. “You’re going to turn into a taco soon.”
Mickey shrugs around a mouthful of food. “Not my fault that’s all they serve.”
“I literally brought you lunch.”
“You brought me a tuna salad,” he complains. “The fuck do I look like eating that?”
“It’s nice,” Ian frowns, stabbing at his own box. “And nutritious,” He nods to Mickey’s plate. “Your heart's going to stop before your shift ends if you keep on like this.”
“At least I’ll die happy.”
He refuses to let the smile show, no, he is not letting Mickey win this one. So, he just shifts the conversation. “Tackle anyone today?”
“Nah,” Mickey says. “Think word’s gotten out that this ain’t the store to rob.” A little chuckle. “They’re probably casing the place on the first floor now, where that skinny fuck is.”
(Ian knows all about ‘that skinny fuck.’ More specifically, about the one-sided rivalry that Mickey’s had with him from day one. Apparently, making small talk when on a smoke break is a big no-no.)
“What about you?” Mickey asks. “Any life-saving?”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s been a pretty slow shift.”
The small talk gets them through it. The little remnants of seeing each other someplace other than the house. And a few months ago Ian really didn’t think this was possible. That he and Mickey could ever settle into something like this. But they have and it’s fun, so he’s smiling until he’s got ten minutes left. Just enough time to leave and find his way back to the station.
“You gonna kiss me goodbye?” He asks, grinning a bit at the edge of the food court.
That’s what normal couples do, right? Soft things, little things. Mickey blinks a bit.
“Not here,” he says. (Disappointment, flickering, Ian knows it ruins his features.) “But I’ll see you later, make it up to you then.”
And it hurts a bit, of course it does—the sting of rejection that shouldn’t slice as deep as it does. But Ian keeps his mouth shut. He likes what they are. It’s dating and it’s nice, and they don’t need to kiss in public just yet. They don’t even need to call it dating for sure. That’s just what is. It’s fine to settle just once.
Ease into it. Things will be different in a couple of weeks.
“Okay,” he nods. Hope is everything. “See you later.”
“What the fuck?”
It’s not often that Ian is genuinely shellshocked. Surprised sure, confused, often, but shellshocked—that’s not him. He doesn’t tend to get like that.
“What are you doing here?”
Today though, he can definitely say he’s shellshocked.
“Hey,” Fiona says, sitting on his couch like that’s exactly where she’s meant to be. Here, in Chicago, perched opposite Ian’s not-boyfriend and smiling at him. “We were starting to think you weren’t coming back.”
“Holy shit,” Ian breathes, because that’s all he can think. His eyes widen again. “Liam?”
Because that’s not Liam. That’s a teenager. An actually grown up guy, living in Liam’s skin and acting as an imposter. This kid waves at him from sitting on his couch, looking at Ian like he’s the one out of place. Years down the line and not quite sure who he’s looking at. It’s so strange to see.
“Oh look at you, in your uniform,” Fiona smiles, standing, dragging him into a hug. “Paramedic, huh?”
Hair pulled back loose, her shirt more like a blouse than anything.
“Yeah,” he says, against her. A broken record. “Yeah.” He blinks. “I thought you were in Florida.”
“I was,” she says, and she smells different. Like a new perfume, or a different type of conditioner. Because the Fiona he sees isn’t the same one he watched leave with her suitcases all those years ago. This one is older with a fresh haircut and clothes he doesn’t remember. He has to readjust. “But I had a few paid days off, thought I should come give everyone a visit.”
Days? He has to blink. “You’ve seen them already?”
“Lip was my first stop,” she says. “He let me know where to find you.”
There were no texts on his phone, no indication this was what he’d come home to. Fiona nods to the side.
“And we met your guest.”
Oh yeah. He almost forgot him sitting there.
So, context: Fiona’s not a huge hybrid fan. She doesn’t dislike them, just doesn’t like them. And she’s never done anything about it, she’s not that type of person, but it’s a general dislike. The same way she told them not to get involved with certain groups back in high school, don’t take in a hybrid off the streets. They’re just different, and that’s scary.
“Mickey was just telling me about his brothers.”
Brothers? Ian’s brow screws up. “You’ve got more than one brother?”
“Three,” Mickey says plainly. “If you count Joey, but we found out he’s got a different dad,” he hums. “And we all pretty much have different moms other than me and Mandy, so it’s all over the place.”
“I didn’t know that,” he frowns.
“Oh…” A shrug. “It’s not that important.”
How much of his life can be unimportant? He tries not to dwell on it when Fiona catches his attention again.
“We didn’t know you had a boyfriend,”
Half a glance to Mickey, calculating. “It’s a recent development,”
“And he’s got his GED test coming up in a few months,” she continues with a brow raise. “Pretty big deal.”
What?
Eyes wide, “You scheduled it?”
Mickey, at the very least, looks sheepish. “Yeah man,” he says. “I’m going to be out of your hair pretty soon.”
A slow, heaving chest. He won’t make a scene just yet. Not when he’s seeing his sister for the first time in what feels like a year, but there’s no way to hide his expression. It’s plain as day when he speaks, “You only just got the tutoring?”
“And I passed the practice test Lip made me take.” Mickey’s pleading with him to stay calm. “Figured I could retake it if it all went wrong.”
He’s leaving again. He’s leaving when they’re in a weird place that he can’t understand. When things are settling into normalcy, he’s just going to go. He schools himself, blinks the realisation from his eyes.
“Okay,” he mutters, then back to Fiona. “Are you guys staying for dinner?”
She knows him well enough to see his thoughts, but she doesn’t comment on them either, just looks at Liam, and very barely holds off from looking at Mickey too. “If you’ll have us.”
“Of course I will.”
Dinner’s strange.
Awkward’s not the word for it, because things aren’t always awkward when they don’t make sense. It’s more trying to re-familiarize himself with the sister that acted more like a mother his entire life, and not really knowing what to ask. Because he wants to know, sure, but a part of him gets a little stuck on the fact she left. She’s not in Chicago anymore, she’s carved out a whole new spot in the sunshine state.
Mickey doesn’t know what to say either. Fiona isn’t rude to him by any means, and she doesn’t sneak glances in the way Ian initially thought, she’s just a bit guarded, and in return, so is he. It’s still nothing compared to how distant Liam is.
He jams his fork into the potatoes.
“I was telling Mickey about Florida earlier,” Fiona says.
Ian thinks his ears make it louder. His eyes lock onto the way that Mickey jerks up at the sound of his name.
Oh. “You were?”
She nods, “Yeah, just telling him about the beach,”
“You guys don’t live by the beach.”
“No, but we get to drive down there every so often,” Fiona says, rolling her eyes. “It’s nice.”
He looks at Mickey, for confirmation. “The beach?”
“Mandy went,” he shrugs, before looking away.
It’s too real. Someday, maybe sometime soon, Mickey’s moving there and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. The beach. It’s probably warm out there.
“You should come visit,” Fiona bulldozes. “It would be nice having you around again. We’ve missed it, haven’t we Liam?”
Liam’s quiet. “Yeah.”
There’s a point where he can look at his own brother and not know how he feels. Getting to a place that’s more like a space in between.
He clicks his tongue, thinking aloud, “I don’t know if that’s the place for me.”
(Maybe Mickey frowns. Maybe he imagines it.)
Fiona still tries to push, “Just think about it.”
“Okay.”
Dinner’s uneventful. They eat and Ian takes the dishes to the sink, and he can’t ignore the way that Mickey follows him, turning the faucet to let them soak, and silently waiting to see if Ian’s going to ask. But he turns anyway, sitting back down to let Fiona tell him all about the job she has, and for Liam to finally say something too. He recommends another book, and Ian saves the name in his phone for later, and they finally get somewhere stable. It’s nice. They’re his family.
But Fiona has to leave eventually.
Apparently, they’re staying in a hotel in the city, with money that she managed to save, and a complimentary breakfast in the morning. And Ian wants to say that they could crash here. Mickey sleeps in his bed, and the couch is free if Liam wants it, but he keeps his mouth shut. They don’t want to stay; he won’t make them.
Fiona grabs him on the way out. “Be careful,” she mumbles, in a hug. And when she steps back she looks at his face, right at his eyes in a way that locks him close. “You look good, Ian. Remember to put yourself first.”
He hates the way it stuns him.
“Bye Fiona,” he barely says. “Bye Liam.”
They’re out the door far too quickly. Honestly, it still feels like a dream.
“Why didn’t you tell me you scheduled your GED,” Ian says the second they’re alone. He’s wrist deep in hot water, passing the clean plates over to Mickey to towel dry.
It’s accusatory, but how couldn’t it be? It’s always going to be the communication—that’s where they fail time and time again.
“Because I didn’t know I was going to do it,” Mickey sighs. The plate goes in the cupboard, and he stands still like he’s figuring out the words. “Said I was learning, and your sister breathed over my shoulder makin’ me pick a date.” He nudges him with his foot, “Was ten minutes before you walked through the door.”
His shoulders untense, slowly. Could have told him that earlier, sure, but okay, not some big elaborate secret, just Fiona. The next plate.
“Three brother’s huh?”
“I really didn’t mention it?”
“Nope.”
“Fuck,” Mickey curses, and that doesn’t sound malicious either. “I could have sworn I did.”
“Just Iggy,”
“Colin, Joey, and Iggy,” he mutters offhandedly. “Then Jamie’s like a half brother, half-cousin, I don’t even know, same with Sandy.”
“Sandy?”
The sigh is loud. “Sit down, this may take a while.”
“You didn’t want to warn me Fiona was here?” Ian scowls into the phone.
“I barely had time to think about it,” Lip says. “She scared the shit out of me when she turned up at my door.”
“Yeah, well I had to walk in on her sitting on my couch with Mickey,” he grumbles. His voice is low, on the couch while Mick showers down for the night, and he can’t help but feel a bit blindsided. “I thought I was hallucinating… and apparently she knows more about him than me.”
There’s a hum. A huh?
“Nothing,” he mutters. Whatever, it was weird seeing her after so long, weird seeing her in his house, where he’s less of a Gallagher, and more just a guy. “She looked happy.”
“I guess the sun does that to you.”
Can it really? Can the sun make that much difference?
There’s a thought echoing in the back of his mind. It rattles around the edges. He should think on it more, not blink so rapidly, but it bursts out before he can.
“You think I’d like it there?” He’s asking. “If I moved?”
The silence rings.
“What?” Lip frowns. “Where’s this coming from?”
“I don’t know, I’m just thinking about it,” he admits. Probably not enough, not to make an informed decision, but the thoughts there. “I think I could.”
He can hear the second that Lip starts to focus. “Wait, Ian, are you serious? Are you thinking about moving there?”
It sounds stupid coming from someone else.
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve bought a house,” Lip reminds him, like it means anything, like he hasn’t been impulsive before, joined the army on a whim, stole a helicopter because the thoughts were coming after him.
“I’ve got a mortgage,” he corrects. “I could move it.”
“What about your job?”
“Ask for a transfer.”
“Jesus, you’re not actually considering this?”
“I don’t know,” he repeats, because he doesn’t. It’s not that simple. “Fiona likes it.”
“Fiona would like anything that’s not Chicago, that’s not a good system,” Lip huffs. For all the nagging he does maybe sometimes he can be right. Ian doesn’t like to admit it but he wouldn’t have called if he didn’t want some other perspective. “Don’t do anything stupid okay, think about this. You really ready to uproot your whole life?”
“Mickey would be there.”
Lip takes a breath.
“You guys have barely been dating for a month, slow down,” Lip tries to say, and that’s annoying. That’s the bit that Ian doesn’t like, because so what? If he can have a kid with a girl he barely likes then Ian can move to Florida. What’s the difference? “You always do this.”
He has to pull away from the phone. “What?”
There’s hesitance.
“What, Lip?”
Something about the pause makes the words cut more.
“It’s just– you’ve got a habit of getting serious a bit too fast.”
“No, I don’t,” he says immediately. Then, at the silence. “I don’t.”
“Maybe it’s a gay thing.”
“Fuck you.”
“Ian, c’mon,” Lip tries. “It’s been a month, you’re not going to move states for this guy.”
Fine. He goes quiet. Maybe it’s true, it’s a bad idea to knock over everything he’s worked for just for this. But… “I really like him.”
More than he can really understand.
The phone feels like a brick in his hands, too heavy when he has to hold it up.
“Good,” Lip tells him. “Stay like that for a while.”
Figure out how to handle being hurt, is what he’s saying. Figure out how to deal with the fact that he’s going and the space he leaves will be tangible.
“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes closing on their own. It’s a bubble—the second thought, popping. “What if he doesn’t want to wait?”
(No answer could reassure him.)
“I don’t know, man,” Lip sighs. “You’ll figure it out.”
Mandy’s at his door.
“Is Mickey in?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer, not when Ian’s stuck with the door hanging open, and looking at her gaunt expression. After a moment, she’s barging past.
“Mandy?” He jolts awake. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to him,” she huffs, loud in the hall of his house. “Mick! Mickey!”
When there’s no answer, she’s pushing up the stairs. In dirty boots and ratty jeans, and the coat that she’s keeping tight around her body, and Ian can hardly keep up. He’s being outmatched by a 5’7 girl in his own house, why is he scrambling?
“Mickey!”
The bedroom door swings open. “Woah,” Mickey blinks, in his shorts and his tanktop, clearly trying to place the scene. “What’s going on?”
Mandy grabs him by the wrist.
“The fuck are you doing here?” He snaps, ripping himself away. He’s glaring at her and she’s glaring back, grabbing at him again while Ian moves so he’s not knocked over on the stairs.
“We have to go.”
“What?”
“Now, Mickey.”
He doesn’t let her drag him but he follows, half a glance to Ian to say he’s confused too. “Where to– why? Is it the cops?”
“No,” she huffs, shaking her head, and she must realise that the only way she’ll get him to listen is if she stops. Rounded in the hall, grabbing the coat off the rack that she knows is his. “The hospital, now. I know you don’t like him but I don’t want you to have any regrets.”
There’s a look.
Mickey stills. “Fuck, is this actually happening?”
“Think so,” she nods, and when the coat is thrust into his arms, he actually takes it. “Get your shit.”
Ian’s on the edge.
“Fuck,” he hears Mickey mutter. “Fuck. Fuck.”
He pulls on his boots, not bothering to go upstairs and even put on sweats. And Ian wants to grab him too, just to check if he’s okay, but before he gets the chance Mickey’s pulling on the back of his neck.
The kiss is frantic.
“I’ll be back, okay?” Mickey says, dead into his eyes, and like that Ian can only believe him. “Don’t worry about me.”
He doesn’t move off straight away, keeps on staring like he’s waiting for something. And oh, yeah…
“Okay,” Ian nods. “Be safe.”
He watches the door slam shut behind them, and doesn’t know if he should have offered to go too.
Unfortunately he does worry.
He worries all day.
He’s making dinner when Mickey comes home.
“Fuck, you scared me,” he jumps, turning the heat off on the pan. “What time do you call this?”
There’s no response.
“Mickey?” He frowns. The pan gets shoved away when he moves, following the sound of footsteps in the hall. Because there’s someone there definitely, he just has to move to see them.
Mickey, looking like he’s just seen a ghost, shrugging off his coat and not saying a word. Ian’s just in the doorway watching him, waiting for him to acknowledge his presence. And once he’s hung up his coat, he takes off his boots. Then they’re staring at each other. Mickey’s nostrils flare.
“My dad’s dead.”
What?
Ian blinks. “What?”
“Got shot,” Mickey says and he’s walking, wandering over to the couch just to sit down. Rambling and breathing and barely giving Ian the time to follow. “Was dumb enough to start yelling at a guy holding a 26.”
Shot? Fuck. Ian’s still standing, doesn’t think he’s able to sit down. Because he’s gangly and he’s awkward and Mickey looks pale. Really, really pale.
“Couldn’t even fucking talk when I got there,” he continues, and it breaks. “Just conked out on drugs until they decided they couldn’t fix him.” A deep breath, then a crack. “Pulled the plug right in front of me.”
Oh.
Mickey’s crying.
“Shit,” Ian breathes, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Just that he’s clambering to his knees and he’s dragging Mickey’s torso forward, pulling him into a hug. “Oh, Mick.”
He remembers exactly what it was like when Monica died. How he spiralled and spiralled and broke, and right now even if he can’t see his face he knows that breathing is hitching. He can feel every single shake that Mickey’s body gives and it’s like he’s stilling too. What does he even say? How does he start?
For now, he just keeps on holding.
“He was such an asshole.” Mickey’s sniffling and Ian’s got to hold his hair to keep him upright. “I shouldn’t care if he’s dead. I’m better off now.”
Is he? Is that actually how he feels? Ian doesn’t know what to say, just that he’s moving awkwardly around to try and sit, not letting go of the tight grip he’s got him in and keeping him pressed against his chest.
Fingers are digging into his arms.
“But he’s actually gone…” The realisation coming so quiet. “...fuck. He’s dead.”
He can’t stand to hear it. Thinks that there have been so many times where he’s had Mickey here, quiet and upset, and yet today his voice breaks that much more. He hates himself for staying quiet. Hates the fact he’s not as strong or as loud or as confident as he used to be. He doesn’t know what to say.
So all he does is keep one hand in Mickey’s hair, and try to soothe him. Petting, slightly.
“Don’t touch my ears,” Mickey says, once he’s started a rhythm. Ian has to choice but to let him go. Slowly, let Mickey readjust their positions until he’s backed up on the corner end of the couch and the only touch he’s letting happen is the lightest tap on his leg. “Not now.”
So, he’ll wait him out.
Silently. Sitting there and trying not to watch too much, just in case he gets spooked. He’ll let Mickey bring the heels of his palms up to his eyes and rub the tears away until they’re just tracks on his face. Until his sniffling stops and he’s quiet. Still shaking, still biting down to not let the sounds escape, quiet.
When he looks up, his eyes are red.
“He hated hybrids,” Mickey breathes, like it’s new, or he’s feeling it out himself—not quite sure what he’s going to say but knowing that Ian’s there listening. “Or, he hated them after my mom fucked off ‘nd left him to deal with us.”
Because there are little things that he’s said that have added up. The full story but without any details, the ones he’s filling in now.
“Fucker terrorized me every single day.”
Because he’s him. All the things that remind him of someone he hates. Because he’s cruel and some people are just like that, Ian doesn’t need to have met him to know.
“I used to think she’d come back,” he whispers. “Thought that some part of her cared about her own fuckin’ kids… but nope. S’easier to hope she’s fuckin’ dead.”
The last word breaks and Mickey’s back to covering his eyes with one hand, to twisting away when he tries not to cry. And there’s nothing that would make it better. His dad is dead and Mickey’s here in tears that Ian’s never seen—not the tough guy, not even snarky enough to make a comment. He’s just here and he’s defeated and he looks like he’s going to shatter.
He takes a breath. In through his nose, and out through his lips. “...And I still wanted to impress him,” embarrassed almost, to say it, think it, “Catch the fuckin’ knives he’d throw at me, take drugs to school so I could try and expand the business. I used to just want him to respect me.”
The scoff comes from the back of his throat.
“Fuck. I almost thought he did.” When he sniffs again and his eyes are blinking shut, squeezing closed. “Guess the gay thing ruined that, though,” he breathes. It’s the second where he seems composed, that the damn breaks, “Why didn’t he want me?”
This time, the sobs are loud.
Rushing forward, trying to smother him, trying to make him know that he’s here and he’s going to hug him, and this isn’t him here alone. This is him in Ian’s house and he’s safe here. No one’s going to hurt him, no one’s going to take his tail, or make him sad. And Ian hates the fact he ever did. That he’s ever made Mickey pretend to be someone he’s not.
He can wear the hat if he wants. If it makes him feel safe.
He just lets Mickey cry against his chest, and keeps his chin right on top of his hair. Not touching, too much, just keeping him stable.
Then he can find his voice.
“My parents sucked too,” a little quiet, and a little raw, “Alcoholics. Frank used to make me wish I was never born.” And he doesn’t want to steal the spotlight, not when Mickey’s grieving, but he still wants to speak, if only to drag him out of his head. “I never thought I’d miss them until they were gone. It’s okay to still care.”
“No, that’s not what I think,” Mickey huffs and he’s trying to look up, trying to make eye contact now that his eyes are rimmed red and puffy. His face is twisted. “He’s a piece of shit. I hope he rots in hell.”
But it doesn’t work how he wants it too. The second he says it, he’s crumbling again.
“Fuck,” he sighs. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”
They’re just going to lean into the back cushions until they’re swallowed. Mickey’s still wearing shorts, even if his skin is cold as ice. He really has been out all day, just for a dad that left him to die.
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not, though,” Mickey whispers. “I wanted him dead every day of my life and now it’s happened I don’t know what to do.” He’s letting Ian pull a blanket over him. “I could have killed that fucker so many times.”
“And gone to prison.”
“It would have been worth it.”
There’s such conviction that Ian hardly thinks he should disagree. It’s not his place, surely. As someone only learning the older parts of Mickey’s life, he shouldn’t cut in. Yet he does.
“But you’re here now,” he says, because prison isn’t the place for him. Not when he fits into Ian’s arms, and he likes to smoke on the windowsill. When he takes hot showers, and he likes eating soup, and there were so many times that he could have blown up and yet he didn’t. “And you’ve got a job, and you’re going to get your GED, and he’s not going to ruin that for you. Mick, you’re so much better than that.”
Mickey’s looking at him and his eyes are watery. Before Ian knows it, he’s being kissed.
Mickey surging up, hitting their noses together as he tries to drag him down by the shoulders. And his knees are in the way, they’re moving and Mickey’s trying to get on top and Ian can only blink before he realises what’s going on. Slow, as he places a hand on the back of Mickey’s neck, the other on his thigh and peels him away.
His eyes are still watery, the frown starting to show when Ian’s hand stops him from leaning back in.
Now’s not the time. It would be taking advantage.
“How about you take a shower?” He tries, hoping, pleading for Mickey to see that this isn’t rejection. It’s gentler.
The nod is slow. “That’s a good idea.” Slow, as Mickey rubs his nose. “Yeah,” he agrees, and he waits, stills before getting to his feet. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t say sorry,” Ian says. “Just– come back down, okay?”
Mickey nods. Still, he rushes upstairs a little too fast.
He thinks Mickey’s a little more tense when they’re in bed that night. Curled up, with his head on the pillow.
He didn’t want to talk much when he came back down, just ate his dinner and then said he was tired, leaving Ian to figure out whether to follow him or try and give him space. So he gave the space, for all of ten minutes, then he showered down too, and slotted behind him in the bed.
It’s so strange just to see his back. Shoulders, rounded. Breathing, light.
And he’s not asleep. That’s not what’s happening. He’s just lying there, quietly.
Ian shouldn’t touch him, he didn’t even acknowledge his presence when he got in bed. But it feels wrong to see him there looking so sad, and not remind him that he’s not alone. He places a hand on his bicep, squeezes lightly, then lets go.
It’s okay. Mickey will be okay.
So he lies down too and watches his back. A part of him wonders if he should have said something more.
It’s the middle of the night.
Warm, under the covers. Ian doesn’t know what makes him stir, just that it’s dark, and he’s tired, and his legs are slotted between Mickey’s. They’re pressed together and Mickey’s moving back, and Ian’s got to blink to realise he’s moving too.
Like a slow grind. Where he’s half-hard and the stimulation is enough to make him breathe a little heavier. He can feel the body heat, hear how Mickey’s breathing too, and each unconscious roll of his hips feels like they’re gluing together. Fuck.
He can’t do this.
Peels himself away. Every muscle in his body begging him not to. But he has to stand and pad his way out of the room, letting the door click shut behind him. It’s wrong. He shouldn’t feel like this.
Because he doesn’t ask for sex. He can’t, when he knows that he doesn’t do it normally. And Mickey can say he wants it but not their first time. They have to work for that.
His hands grip the bathroom sink, fingers digging into the bowl. They’re going to wait. It’s all the resolve he needs—wait, for things to be special, wait, so that it can be different to all the sex he’s had in his life. Because he’s never been special. He’s never been the one that people wait to be with.
So Mickey can be something new. He just wants him to feel the same.
He’s tense. Tense, and he thinks that Mickey notices.
Because they’re sitting in the garden, in winter coats with red noses, and Mickey’s just staring at him. Like he’s the one with the dead dad.
“You good?” He asks, fingers in the soil. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m fine,” Ian mutters, because he should be the one asking that. He should be the one that’s concerned. “Just thinking.”
Lips curve. “Thought you quit doing that?”
“Thought I told you it wasn’t that easy.”
Mickey raises his brows, a look to say touché, and he goes back to patting the dirt. It’s still hard, almost frozen with the cold, and there’s nothing they can do about it. Now, they’re just sitting for the fresh air. Eyes closed.
“Have you…” it stumbles a bit, Mickey’s voice unsure, “Have you taken your meds?”
Casual.
Ian flinches.
Looking at Mickey pretend it’s not a big deal, seeing him stare off into the distance, all while not sure of what to say. Because at first, he thinks it’s meant to hurt him. It’s an accusation, it’s Mickey saying that he’s out of his mind and there’s got to be someone monitoring him. But Mickey wouldn’t get anything out of that.
There’s no one out to get him. His shoulders untense.
“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Told you, I’m just thinking.”
He’ll just ask if Fletcher has any spare time slots this week, fall back into a routine so he can be sure this isn’t his meds going out of whack. It’s just him being weird, wondering how long Mickey will wait for him to be normal. If he sits in bed at night thinking that Ian can be fixed too. If his problems are as simple as that.
It’s overthinking, and he knows it doesn’t make sense, but sometimes he does it anyway.
Why would Mickey stick around?
“They’re having a funeral,” Mickey blurts. Maybe he was having his own conversation in his head, not knowing how to bring it up. “Or, Joey’s planning on taking the body from the morgue and having a bonfire.”
Here he is, wallowing in self-pity, all while Mickey’s figuring out something real.
“They haven’t collected him yet?”
It’s a snort. “Pretty sure they all think it’s Mandy’s job.”
Huh. Okay. Mickey’s not looking at him when he glances up. “Are you gonna go?”
“And have them all asking where I’m staying? Fuck no,” he just scoffs. “It was hard enough getting Iggy off my back.”
But he needs to grieve. Two days later and he’s still not really admitting that, just pretending that he’s not allowed to feel bad. Being normal, as though they’ve ever been like that in their lives.
“Nah man,” he continues, shaking off the thought. “I want to get drunk, and then suck your dick. That’s my ‘fuck you’ to my old man.”
Jesus. Ian tries not to smile. “We can talk about that.”
“Yeah?”
Well, “Maybe.”
Thankfully, Mickey doesn’t push it, “Tell me when you’re ready, Gallagher.”
And then they go back to silence.
“Wait, you're being serious?”
“Yes!”
He’s been pacing up and down Lip’s front room for a while now, not quite ready to go home even though he finished work an hour ago. It’s stupid. It’s dumb and irrational and entirely in character, so he can’t really stop himself. Just, he’s here now, and Lip’s looking at him like he can’t understand a word he’s saying, so he’s got to stay. He just needs answers. Help.
“But, you’re you,” Lip’s frowning, sitting and staring and keeping the confusion on his face. “You’re trying to tell me you’re dating this guy and you still haven’t had sex?”
“We don’t have a label,” he corrects, too quick because it’s all he can think. “And relationships aren’t just about sex. It’s more than that.”
“You’re a Gallagher.” Lip isn’t listening to his perfectly valid reasons, just shoving his own input in because that’s apparently what Ian needs. Fuck that. “Relationships are about sex.”
“Well not mine and Mickey’s,” he snaps. “We’re taking it slow.”
“And this was your idea?”
Uh… “Yes.”
He can hear Lip's eye roll. “Your funeral.”
And fuck, that’s not what he wanted to hear. So many better things to think than the idea that he’s sabotaging everything he touches just because he can’t let himself have them. Lip knows it. Lip has to know that Ian’s a mess. But how does he get better if he doesn’t want to listen? How does he figure out the right thing to do, if every time he starts he ends up talking himself out of it.
He wants to be normal. Wants to touch Mickey and not feel like he’s being someone he’s not.
He stops.
“Do you think I should do it?”
“What?” Lip frowns. “Have sex with him?”
“No?” He scoffs, but, “Yes, maybe? I don’t know.” Because it’s not just the sex, it’s the relationship. It’s letting in a guy that he trusts but he doesn’t, that he can’t understand even though he should. “What do you think?”
Anything, please.
“I mean I still think you should kick him out,” Lip drones, but he lets it go for just a second, sees that Ian’s standing there and his face is screwing up and he clearly wants something more than this. His head tilts, brows raise, “Fuck it, why not? You think he’s got AIDs?”
Jesus– “No.” Everyone’s on PrEP now anyway. Just, “What if it changes things?”
What if it’s not good? Or it’s too good, and he has to live with the realisation that this is going to be his box for life? The be all, end all: Mickey.
Lip’s quiet for a moment. Enough for Ian to notice that his breathing has gotten quicker, to slow it, reflexively.
“It will,” Lip says, and it’s assured. It’s older and it’s more knowledgeable, and maybe sometimes Ian hates it but for now it’s just his brother, talking. “But you’ve got to get over it.” He shrugs. “Or what? You’re planning on doing it on your wedding night?”
Absolutely not. Marriage itself is a whole other discussion. “No.”
“So get over it,” Lip says. “I don’t see the issue.”
Unfortunately, Ian doesn’t either.
He stands there, not too sure what to say. It’s just sex. It’s fine. They’ve gotten this far, haven’t they? So, he should just go home. He should stop rattling about in his own head and do what he’s always done—fuck it out and then pretend it’s all okay. But he just wants to do things right. Is it the waiting that’s making it worse? Bigger, in his head?
Getting over it, easier said than done.
So he does a bit of research.
In bed, on his laptop one evening.
By his side, Mickey’s snoring quietly. Because apparently he snores in his sleep, it’s one of the many new things Ian has learned about him. And he’s doing some research. It feels a little strange.
It’s not BDSM.
Or at least, he wouldn’t specify it as that. Because the forum that he looks at feels more official, with talk of safe words, and contracts, and the types of rules that Ian could never be good at. Ones that are rigid, less flexible, that say doms hold only part of the power, and subs hold the rest.
And perhaps it’s true. In some strange sense it does feel like Mickey has this hold on things, an inexplicable grip on the conversation that he can only hope to understand. But it doesn’t feel that cut and dry.
It feels like Mickey’s just as wanting. As desperate despite not knowing what he’s stumbled into. And from there they can only hope to work.
Because they don’t have safewords, or conversations, or the type of brains that know how to do this properly. And they don’t do ‘scenes,’ or know when it’s going to happen, or which moment will be right to start. But it’s sex.
It’s sex, and Mickey likes to be manhandled, and Ian likes to see him shake.
So if they’re good at it then why would they talk? That sort of sexual compatibility is rare.
So Ian closes his laptop, and tries to go to sleep.
The next time it happens, he’ll just have to be ready.
Running club. Late at night, again.
That’s the only time he can wrangle Mickey into going—just because it doesn’t involve getting up in the early AMs, or having to load energy in a smoothie. So it’s late at night, and they’re running. And Mickey isn’t complaining.
Well, he’s complaining. In the same, typical Mickey-like sense. But there’s nothing explicit about it, nothing that makes him stop and think that huh, maybe Mickey doesn’t really want to be there, with him, at that particular time. So they’re running—in sweats because it really is cold. His old worn shoes and the beanie that Mickey insisted on tugging on because outside is still a whole different territory. It’s nothing new.
Running.
They’re at the midway point when it happens.
“Hey Ian.”
He blinks as Jackson comes into view. Looks to Mickey, who’s pretending not to watch, and raises a hand.
“Hey.”
Same page. They’re on the same exact page. (He hopes.)
“You want to run with me?” Jackson asks. They’re stopped by the side of a parking lot, not the scene for a big confession. “I was thinking of taking it a bit slower today, make sure I don’t pull a muscle or anything,”
Uh… “No, I’m good.” he says, shaking his head. “I’ll run with Mickey.”
(Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Mickey smile. Maybe. Just barely.)
“Oh, I could join you guys?” Jackson suggests, still just looking at Ian. “I feel like we haven’t spoken in a while, it could be nice to catch up.”
Take a hint. God, Ian’s gearing up to say something a little more polite when he’s stopped.
“He’s good with me,” Mickey cuts in, brows raised for a quick look. “You can go now.”
Jackson’s eyes flick to Ian, then back, hesitating for a second. But Ian’s a little too preoccupied with watching how Mickey’s pressed to his side to really care. He’s good with Mickey, yeah.
He barely even notices when Jackson leaves.
“He likes you,” Mickey says, level.
It’s not egging or accusatory, just fact, and so he doesn’t really tense.
“Well, I’m taken,” he tries. Hopes it’s true, doesn’t press.
All he gets in response is Mickey turning his head.
They’re gearing up to head back when Kathy finds them.
“Oh you two,” she smiles, like she’s only just noticing them tucked away from everyone else and quiet. “How did the soil take? Did that fresh bag help?”
“It did,” Mickey nods, shocking them both it seems when he blinks. Friendly, almost.. “Still a bit cracked but we managed to move some things indoors.”
Huh. For some reason, Ian’s smiling.
“Good, good,” Kathy hums. “Making the house a real home, I assume.”
Well, “Yeah,” he says this time, but it was kind of already a home. His home. New soil doesn’t change that.
Kathy’s still turned to Mickey. “Is it permanent yet?” She asks, brows waggling until he looks away, scoffing under his breath. And somehow Ian feels like he’s on the outs of this, just having to watch as she tries not to look too smug.
“Sorry, what?” he has to ask, because really, what?
“The move,” she just smiles. “Is it going to be for good?”
Oh, “No,” he says, without skipping a beat. It stings to think about, stings that she’d even bring it up like this, but they’ve got to face the music. Got to acknowledge that this is sudden and fleeting and no matter how badly he wishes things were different, they’re not. “Mickey’s moving soon, gonna start living with his sister.”
With his savings, from his job. Ian’s just a pitstop.
And Mickey just looks at him for a second, kind of staring, out from the corner of his eye like it’s not even something he means to do. Then he clears his throat.
“Yeah,” he nods. “Yeah. I might move to Miami with her.”
The might is thrown in to make their status feel less shiftable, useless, really.
“Oh,” Kathy frowns, furrowed. “I’m sure you’ll stay in touch though? It’ll be nice to see you around.”
“They’re moving to Florida,” Ian echoes, because she doesn’t get it. “I’m not sure how that’s gonna pan out.”
Skittishly, Mickey’s elbow knocks his, making him zero in on his frown. Undeserved of course because it’s just the truth, they can’t skate around it. Not now. Except, the way that Mickey’s looking at him doesn’t really seem like avoiding anything, just questioning, questioning likely how Ian can be so blunt about it. They’re barely together, really. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.
So he looks away. Looks at how Kathy seems uncomfortable with the attention back on her, and tries to smile.
“Anyway,” he says. “How are you?”
When she answers, he doesn’t really listen.
It’s not that they’re not talking about it, but it’s the elephant in the room.
Mickey’s moving out. The inevitable, the big bad, the change.
He’s moving out, so Ian never really had him. Had a date. Had a chance. But nothing in its entirety. Because Mickey’s going to leave.
So Ian stares.
Debbie’s calling him; against all odds, Ian picks up the phone.
“You’ve created a monster,” she scowls, the immediate jump to annoyance in her tone. “A Nerf gun? Seriously?”
Oh. “Wasn’t my idea,” he breathes, smiling into his palm. “You can blame Mickey for that one.”
“I’ll blame both of you,” Debbie just huffs. Pausing, then, “She tried to shoot a cat today.”
“Oh fuck.” It it bubbles out as a laugh. “Don’t let her outside with it.”
“I didn’t, she shot it from the window.”
Jesus– a natural. “Was it okay?”
“It’s a foam bullet, the cat was okay,” Debbie says, clearly rolling her eyes. “Tell your raccoon if he ever brings another gun into my house, I’ll kill him.”
“You guys are moving,” Ian reminds her. “I doubt he’s going to come visit just to bring you guns.”
“It’s a warning, pass it on.”
Scoffing, “Whatever.”
And he should hang up. That’s the only reason she called after all—to yell—so there’s no real reason for him to still be here clinging on. Except… oh he cannot believe he’s about to do this.
“Uh.” It’s stooping to a new low. “Debbie?” Fuck it. “You think moving will really change things?”
There’s a pause.
“What?”
“Moving out of Chicago,” he says, doubling down. “You really think it’ll do good?”
“I think it’ll give my kid a chance,” she says eventually. “That’s got to be worth it.”
“Right.” Yeah, it’s for Franny, because she’s not engrained enough to never change. Not to get away from the family, not because living in the Southside forever isn’t what anyone planned to do. They were going to get out—Lip was going to be the first. He shakes his head. “Yeah, right.”
Debbie’s voice is concerned. “You okay?” In the, take your meds way, the one that will always make him feel like he’s 17.
Fuck. Why is he getting so worked up over this? It’s just a different state, he’s done harder things.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he’s got to say, because if he lets it spill then it’ll pour. “I’ll call you later, Debs, I’m gonna go.”
“What?” She frowns. “Ian–”
It was dumb to ask. He clunks the phone down on the table. Seems like everyone is destined for more but him.
He wants to bring it up. Really, really does. But in the end it never comes out. Because it’ll be an attack, it’ll be asking why he’s not good enough to make him stay, and truthfully, he doesn’t think he can hear it.
What the fuck?
“You don’t have any clean shirts or something?” Ian asks, raising a brow as Mickey pads down the stairs.
It’s boxer shorts—the long ones, that he always seems to wear and maybe that hides the fact that there’s a dent in the back where a tail should be, the stump barely making it raise. But other than that there’s nothing. Fluffy ankle socks and then absolutely fuck all else.
He’s got a really nice chest. That’s, yeah…
“Didn’t want to wear one,” Mickey hums. He walks into the kitchen like it’s meaningless, like he isn’t half naked at 3 o’clock in the afternoon.
Maybe it’s been a while, or maybe, Mickey’s just that hot, but Ian’s watching like a starved man. Fuck… real nice chest– and legs– the legs are good too.
“You wanna pick your jaw up off the ground?”
His eyes snap up. There to see Mickey raising a brow at him teasingly. Subtlety is not his strong point it seems, fuck. But this is such a test—seeing him standing there and not knowing what to do. He’s not ready, thought he could be but he’s not. It takes a second too long for him to realise he hasn’t said anything back.
“Sorry,” he mutters, because it’s ridiculous. Blushing over seeing a guy (who’s sucked his dick) shirtless, that’s not him. Except, these days it is. “You need something?”
“Was gonna ask if you knew what’s for dinner?” Mickey hums, hip cocked against the counter. The waistband’s just so low. “‘Cause I want pizza.”
“Pizza?” Ian hums, stepping forward. And he likes that nowadays Mickey doesn’t really question the intimacy of slipping a finger up Ian’s shirt—nothing sexual, or pushy, just gently tugging him closer, right until their legs can touch.
“Mhm,” Mickey nods. “Been a while since I’ve had some meat in my mouth.”
Fucking– he doesn’t have the time to scoff before Mickey’s kissing him. Slow, and languid and until he’s pressed against the counter, Ian’s weight being the force that drives him forward. Mm, that’s good, kissing Mickey still manages to make him delirious, especially when he can tilt that head back and push his tongue into his mouth, Mickey just letting him do whatever he wants.
His hands find the small of his back, holding, just gently. He’s going, eventually, but they have this. When Mickey pulls back, Ian thinks his eyes are droopy.
“Pizza, then?” He asks, palm against Ian’s collarbone. “I’m buyin’.”
He really can’t resist that face.
“Pizza,” he agrees.
They won’t go any further than kissing today, but Ian still can’t stop thinking about more.
The world is out to get him.
Next morning, Ian’s getting up for the day—out of bed with sleep in his eyes. He does everything normally, tugs on a shirt, russles his hair, and still, when he leaves the bedroom he stops in his tracks.
Because that’s gasping.
Jesus Christ, that’s gasping. A little punched out and a little hitched, and barely trying to be quieter. It almost makes him flinch, because no way he’s been living in the same house as this guy for so long and they haven’t accidentally heard each other jerking off before.
Well, it’s happening now and he’s stood frozen in shock, stuck between knowing he shouldn’t stay, and the fact he can’t seem to move.
(What would happen if he knocked? Would Mickey let him in?)
No, no he needs to move, needs to squeeze his eyes shut to bat away the thoughts of water, and skin, and the fact that Mickey’s not had any action in a while either. So he’s sensitive, and reactive and Ian could probably show him things he didn’t know were possible. Bend him into positions that’ll make his mouth hang open and his eyes roll back.
“Fuck,” Mickey’s voice is bitten. “Oh fuck, yeah.”
Far too late, he finally finds it in himself to walk away.
Red in the face, downstairs with nothing to do, because he can’t trust himself to cook right now, can barely even think. (So long spent not allowing himself to think any of it that now he finally can, he's not sure how to ask. Does he even have half the skills he used to?)
He fiddles about by the locked kitchen window. They’re dating, right? People who are dating have sex as much as they want to. They don’t get flustered over jerking off under the same roof, and makeouts that last over five minutes.
Jesus, what happened to him? 18 year old Ian would be embarrassed that this is what his sex life has come to. Though, 18 year old Ian also made some piss poor decisions, so let’s not trust his judgement.
Twenty minutes later, the stairs creak.
“You’re awake,” Mickey hums, smiling as he walks into the room. His head tilts, “What’s with you?”
“You were loud,” Ian says, and it must be a bit snapped because Mickey blinks, the instant furrowing of his brows before realisation crosses his face, embarrassment too. And shit, he didn’t mean to do that, really didn’t mean to be a dick when it’s his own stupid head that’s doing the destruction. So his tone is quieter after a moment, more apologetic, “I could– I could hear you in there.”
“Oh,” Mickey frowns, and it’s genuine realisation. “Sorry man, I thought you were still in bed.”
The bed they share sometimes, more times than others. Fuck, Ian’s got his head in his hands. “Ignore me,” he’s saying, because the more he talks he’s splitting apart at the scenes. “Just ignore me.”
“You okay?”
“Yes,” he says immediately. “I’m fine, just tired.”
And for lack of a better word, horny. Repressed and baring the brunt of it.
“Whatever you say,” Mickey shrugs. “You got food?”
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he’s complaining to Rita over lunch. “I feel like I’m trying to find problems every day instead of just enjoying the last few months together.”
Rita is sick of his shit.
“I don’t care,” she groans. “I stopped caring about you weirdos a while ago.”
“Rita,” he begs. “Rita, please. What do I do?”
She raises a brow. “Isn’t this the reason you go to therapy?”
Okay. Uncalled for.
“No.” He says, instead of admitting that sometimes telling his doctor things is easier said than done. That, maybe Fletcher isn’t the right fit and he’s known it for a while, just doesn’t want to go through the process of spilling his guts to another stranger. “That won’t help.”
“Then I don’t think anything I say will help either,” she mediates. “Have you tried talking to him?”
“Stop saying that,” he pleads. “Talking’s not going to help.”
He gets a swat to the arm, jumping out of his seat when he feels it. “You’re a grown man, Ian.” Rita’s eyes are narrow. “Speak up.”
Unsurprisingly, it’s not very helpful. He digs his fork into his food, and keeps on sulking.
The garden has fully gone to shit, it’s something he saw coming a long time ago.
It hurts, of course, when he’s gloved and grabbing the wilted plants out from the ground, so he doesn’t have to keep staring at them every time he gets up. It’s all of his hard work collapsing in front of him, of course it hurts. But in the oddest turn of events he’s far less sad than he could be.
Because he knew it was going to happen. Knows that he can rebuild it. Maybe move somewhere sunny and move his mortgage, and not have to cling onto flowers that were already dead. It’s fine.
So that’s what he tells Mickey.
“I don’t know,” he suggests, coffee in hand, sitting on the bench while they’re both on break. “I think it would be easier to have a garden over there, I’d worry about it less when it’s winter.”
The whole time Mickey’s had his brows raised up to his hairline, head on a tilt as he listens to Ian’s California ramblings. “Don’t they get droughts over there?”
“I think so,” he hums. “But it would be fine, I could grow a cactus or something?”
Mickey clicks his tongue.
“I’m just brainstorming.”
“I’m pretty sure you’d burn in California,” he scoffs, shaking his head like it’s some dumb suggestion. Not the perfect solution to all of his misery. “Your pale ass?”
“No, I’d be smart about it,” Ian corrects. “I wear sunscreen.”
Factor 50. Always.
Mickey laughs. “Sure thing.”
California would be fun, he thinks. He’d go to the beach, swim, maybe learn to surf. And even when it’s winter, he’d still be able to sit outside. The down swings might not be so bad.
“Summer’s going to be awful,” Mickey says at one point. “You should see the uniform they tried to show me, I think they actually had khaki shorts.”
Oh, that’s funny. “Do you still get to wear your pink shirt?”
“It’s lilac.”
Eyes roll. What’s the difference?
“Well, it’s not like you’ll be here for it anyway.”
On the bench, Mickey frowns. “What?”
“You’ll be in Miami,” Ian reminds him. God, it’s like he’s programmed to say it every time he thinks, forced to relay the inevitable. “Probably burning yourself.”
A breath from Mickey’s lips. “Oh yeah,” he mumbles, looking away. “Guess I will.”
There’s a push and a pull.
It happens in the evenings, when frustration edges up. And it’s a pull only because Ian can’t quite throw himself into it. He thinks that this is a guy he kisses sweet on the couch. One he wants, in all the purest ways, so he shouldn’t want to hurt him, that’s not how things should work.
But he does.
So there’s a push and pull.
The same song and dance now that he’s kind of come to the realisation that he can’t stave off his wants for good. It’s sex and he wants it, and Mickey’s obviously willing, just waiting, so the cards are all in his hand.
Nights like this make him know it.
“Where’s the rice?” He huffs, like a regression, swinging open that fridge and letting every emotion he’s felt in the past few weeks fuse into something ugly. “I swear I made like four portions the other day.”
Mickey’s sat on the windowsill. His legs are swinging and he’s been far too vocal about the fact he wants a cigarette, but he’s out and can’t be bothered to run to the store. And the second that Ian opened the fridge it was like his shoulders raised, knowing what’s about to come.
So Ian’s accusatory. His lips are pursed.
Mickey tries to be casual.
“I threw it away,” he hums.
“What?” Ian’s frowning, letting the fridge door slam. “Why?”
“It had been sitting out for a while,” Mickey says. “Was going bad.”
“It was not–” No, calm down. He made that rice four days ago. It was probably time to let it go.
Just, why wouldn’t Mickey ask? Why couldn’t he wait for a single fucking second to check if that was okay? Nails are digging into his palm, crescents on his skin. The thought behind his eyes shouldn’t be Mickey in the shower, or Mickey head height on the countertop.
But it is and Ian’s breathing and he doesn’t know when his eyes started to squeeze shut but they have. That he’s standing there and the fridge is being slammed close and he doesn’t know how to process it. Long work days. His garden’s dead. He can’t figure out how to ask for something he very clearly wants.
He’s going to scream.
There’s a hand wrapping around his wrist.
“Gallagher..?”
As it somehow tugs him back, guides him away from the edge.
“Hey,” Mickey’s frowning. “Where’d you go?”
The centre of his face has tugged together, brows in a tiny scrunch and he looks so concerned. So stupidly curious that Ian can’t bare to look him in the eye. Because how have they come to this? Saddled with the fact that Mickey likes him but not enough to stay, and one bad week can make him self destruct in a million ways at once.
Another hand on his wrist. Ian’s got to pull away.
“Stop it,” he demands. It hurts a bit to say but right now he doesn’t trust himself. One more look and he’s going to be throwing himself at Mickey in a way he doesn’t think he can handle. “I should go to bed.”
“And do what?” Mickey asks. He’s just not letting him go, thumbing his sleeve now that Ian refuses to touch him. “You’re not tired.”
“I am.”
“No,” Mickey corrects. It’s knowing. Far too knowing. Getting stern as he finally catches Ian’s eye. “You’re just pent up.”
Mickey’s managed to grapple him into the space between his thighs, where it's warm and Ian shouldn’t lay a hand. They’re not the touchy feely type, but sometimes he wants to be.
“So I should sleep it off,” he mediates. Even if he knows it’s not quite right but he’s allowed it, this won’t be their first time.
No, he’ll get Mickey on a bed and do it nice and slow, not when he knows he won’t be nice. Today he can’t be nice. Today, all he’s thinking of is the fact that his family is calling him to ask about Mickey, that his neighbours know they’re living together, and it’s only going to be temporary. He just wants to break something.
So there’s a hand on the side of his face. It’s light and it’s sweet and Ian blinks so many times trying to zone back in. Calloused fingers on his cheek, a thumb sliding over his cheekbone.
“You need it,” Mickey tells him. “I know you do.”
Fuck…
It does something to his head.
“I don’t need anything,” he lies, even though that voice is making his eyes droopy. The fact that Mickey’s looking him dead in the eye and telling him he knows what he needs.
“Ian, it’s okay,” Mickey nods. “You want to hurt me.”
No… he’s trying to shake his head but it’s not working, because Mickey’s face is so close to his and he’s really thinking of those lips when they’re stretched apart. What are they talking about? The other hand warm and resting on his forearm.
“What?”
Mickey takes a breath.
“You get angry, and then you handle things, and then we’re back to normal, that’s how it works.”
The way he says it can’t be healthy.
“I don’t understand.”
“Yeah, you do,” Mickey says, dragging Ian’s hand forearm first, up to the collar of his shirt. “Go on, grab me by the neck again.” Dead in the eyes when he says it. “We talked about this, remember? It doesn’t have to be sex. Just– you’re killing me, here.” Eyes tilt, like he’s trying to find an answer in Ian’s lips, which, he might be mouthing words, or just taking longer breaths, but there’s something there. “Yeah?”
It feels a bit like being dragged, like some wholly invisible string pulling him closer. All he knows is he’s in and he’s in and his eyes are slipping shut. Soft lips that press against his own.
So they’re kissing.
On the kitchen counter.
Slow and sweet, and his head is shutting off, putty, going still. Right up until Mickey tugs his hair. Jesus.
“Mph!” Mickey’s eyes are snapping open, his breath smothered as Ian finally kicks into gear. Because that felt good, that felt like a direct line down his chest to his dick and there’s no way he’s not going to give something like that to Mickey too, no way he’s not going to reel him in and make sure this is just as good for him.
Because he wants to please him. When they’re finally kissing with teeth, when it’s messy and Mickey’s leaning back, crowded into the space and realising there’s nowhere to put his hands than on Ian’s shoulders. Then those hands massage into his neck, pulling him forward and into him, and just rubbing circles like it’s okay. Soothing him. Calming him. Letting him know that Mickey can be gentle, when he knows Ian won't be.
So in return Ian kisses harder. Clashing against him, trying to see how hand Mickey can take it and that gets a growl, that gets a sound that’s pleased and turned on and makes thighs squeeze at his waist.
“Fuck yeah,” Mickey groans, catching his breath then getting bored of it immediately. “Get back here.”
Nights where the frustration edges up, coming to this.
Kissing isn’t new. Kissing isn’t crazy. But the confidence is something surging.
For the first time, Ian’s got a hand between their bodies.
“Oh,” Mickey gasps, his eyes surely going wide now that his mouth has too. “Yeah,” so Ian’s got to watch his expression, “Yeah, fuck, there.” See exactly how he looks when he’s getting palmed over his shorts.
And it’s hot. Jesus, it’s really hot. Mickey’s his really hot sort of boyfriend and Ian can’t believe he hasn’t touched him until this point—not properly. He’s filling up in his palm, getting hard and he showered this morning, right. Fuck, he’s dragging him off the counter by the waist of his pants.
“Gallagher?” Mickey blinks, hazy. “Fuck, Gallagher what are you doing?”
But Ian’s too out of it to answer. He’s got Mickey pulled down to the floor and he’s turning him so his front is flush against his back, and that’s good. Like he didn’t realise it but he’s hard too and he knows Mickey can feel is on his lower back, the weight of him, thick and heavy and big enough to split him open.
He’s going to split him open, gonna fuck him so well it’s insane– just, not today.
Fingers in Mickey’s waistband.
“You showered today?” He asks, even though he knows, can smell the soap in his hair, saw him go into the spare room to change.
It’s like he can hear Mickey’s breathing quicken.
Deliberate and that’s a power trip, that’s feeling on top of the fucking world at how quickly he loses his composure. (How experienced is he, really? Does he know all the things they could do?)
Just dipping into the waistband and never going lower.
“Mickey..?” He asks again. The more coherent he gets the less Mickey does, like they’re slowly swapping over, finding his footing again. “You showered?”
If he hasn’t then they’ll just do something else. Right now though, when he knows he’s got Mickey’s hipbones digging into the counter, this is all he can think about. How pretty he’s going to look bent over it.
It takes a second.
Another.
Ian pushes him forward again, so the hurt digs back into his hips.
It’s instant. “Yeah,” Mickey breathes, nodding even if he’s facing away. “Cleaned everything.”
Fuck…
“You knew this was gonna happen?”
He squeezes a bit at that, just to make sure he’s listening.
“No,” Mickey says. It sounds honest, just airy.
Okay. Okay, fuck. He’s doing this. Pressing a hand between Mickey’s shoulder blades and slowly pressing down, down, until he’s flat against the table.
It’s so much control.
He takes a breath. Then he drags Mickey’s boxers down to his ankles and drops down to one knee behind him.
Fuck.
There’s no protest.
One hand on Mickey’s skin, squeezing the fat of his ass just as tightly as he thinks he’s allowed, and he’s tentative at first. When he sees the stump above and Mickey knows he can see it too. But then hips push back and Ian’s got to force him forward, and that tentativeness goes away. No, Mickey’s into this. The way he’s inhaling sharply says it.
So Ian spreads him open. Wide, until he can tell Mickey’s face must have that humiliated flush written all over it. When he’s being looked at and seen, and his hole is still pretty. Pink and puckered and clearly not fucked well enough in the last few weeks. God, Ian’s been holding out on him.
His thumb gives it a slow sweep.
Fuck…
He can’t help himself. He leans in.
“Gallagher, stop just lookin’ at it,” Mickey grumbles, though it’s high, it’s a little less sharp than he wants. He must feel the hotness of the breath, how Ian’s getting close enough that he’s got to pull him even further apart. “What are you…? What are you– oh fuck.”
He’s pressing his mouth against Mickey’s hole immediately.
Eating him, moving his tongue steady, not ready to find a good rhythm and knowing he hasn’t done this in a while, so just getting familiar with the motions. It’s fucking good. It’s being buried in Mickey’s ass and keeping his hands on his hips so he can’t escape the feeling. And it’s been so long he’d almost forgotten how much he loves eating ass, but this is bringing it all back.
The way Mickey’s pushed up on his tip-toes so the angle can be right. How it’s messy and he’s breathing heavier and he’s a little obsessed with how when he reaches forward he can feel just how hard Mickey is.
But he doesn’t touch. Works his jaw and his tongue and fucks Mickey ever so slightly with it. Where he’s tight and trying to relax but clearly needs something more.
“Oh,” it’s soft. Soft when Ian starts to fuck him on his tongue a little deeper. “Ah-ah-ah.”
Tomorrow he’s going to have beardburn on there, the scruff that Ian shaved off but couldn’t get flat completely going to rub him red. But his jaw is still moving, hands still grabbing at Mickey’s ass to keep him open, and he’s not being stopped.
It’s more of a whine when he finally pulls back.
“Ian?” Mickey asks, blindly reaching backwards until his wrist is pushed back up.
“Relax,” he says. This is fine. More won’t hurt. He’s got two fingers in his mouth and he’s getting them wet while Mickey just stays there. Still, until his hips push back. “You’re greedy huh?” he has to comment, because it’s all he can think. All he wants to think when those fingers slip out of his mouth and press against Mickey’s hole. “S’okay you can be greedy with me.”
He’s messy and his skin’s pink and it’s still somehow not enough. Ian wants to fuck him so badly.
He sinks the first finger in.
“Oh, fuck.”
One finger, working him open, just seeing how well he takes it. His hole pink and stuffed and barely adjusted when Ian sinks the second one in. He can’t wait. Needs Mickey to tell him when it’s too much.
“You can take a third?” He asks, wanting the answer to be yes but knowing he’ll wait if it’s not.
But Mickey’s greedy and he may not be a people pleaser but right now he feels like one, so he’s got his hands behind him trying to drive Ian closer. Honestly, they’re just getting in the way. Annoying hands, really, really annoying hands.
“I can,” Mickey’s saying, nodding, still just fucking himself back, so Ian presses his face back in. Tongue fucks him in rhythm to his fingers because that’s what that hole deserves. “I can... gimme another.”
Still rude. Still impatient, but Ian pushes the next finger in anyway. Makes sure he’s got spit all over it and he’s still messy down there, so the sting isn’t all too bad. Because Mickey’s been so good for him. He’s been nice and sweet and Ian’s been flaky all week. He deserves to feel good. He needs to.
“There?” He’s asking, when Mickey whines low, then high and gaspy. “Is that the spot?”
It must be. Has to be because that’s why Mickey’s legs have just gone slack, where the effort from keeping on his tip-toes has started to make him shake.
The sounds are constant.
“Ah-ah, ngh,” like every time he fucks his fingers in it’s getting punctuated with a moan. He’s so hard hearing it, so impossibly hard straining against the fabric of his own pants, that his patience is whittled down.
He’s leaning back to watch Mickey’s ass shake when he hits it.
“Tell me.”
“Oh fuck,” is the gasp. “Do that again.”
Manners, Ian will remind him later, but for now he does want to see it. Another quick swat on his cheek, not stopping the rhythm that he’s building.
“Yeah, fuck, fuck, that’s good.”
The constant pleasure. The never ending cycle he’s got Mickey in of flinching away every time he’s hit and then pushing back onto Ian’s fingers when he remembers how good it feels. His mouth is constantly open, and he’s still bent over his countertop, and Ian needs to see his face. He really, really needs to.
He’s tugging Mickey around by the waist, scooping him up so he can drop him on the counter. His legs are wide, and his cock is hard and flushed up, and his hair is messy like he’s been pulling it, ears barely sticking up against the strands. Ian’s catching him in another kiss.
Mickey’s pulling him closer immediately, clearly trying to go for Ian’s waistband but not yet– not yet. Just, they need to kiss for a second. Grounding, because he thinks he’s been on his knees for so long that it’s rushed to his head. That he’s slipping to a place where he’s got all these thoughts of all these different positions, and he’s got to look Mickey in the eye to remind him how much he likes him. He’s not just a warm body. They’re together.
Their foreheads clunk.
“What do you need?”
Mickey’s eyes narrow a bit, with a teasing glance down to where he’s definitely starting to ache.
Tch.
“You want to ask nicely?”
Lips press together. Eyes roll as Mickey scoffs, “Shut the fuck up.”
“Mickey…”
“Gallagher,” he mocks. Even if his eyes are hazy, that doesn’t stop his tongue. It’s almost impressive how strong willed he can be.
Fuck that. “Just ask nicely.”
It’s a challenge. One that’s met with raised brows.
“Jesus Christ,” Mickey groans. “Is this another one of your thinking things? Are you gonna make me go jerk off upstairs again because I swear–”
Crack.
The sound is so loud.
Mickey’s face staying to one side and then stilling, then stopping there.
Fuck.
That was… that was too much.
That was an overreaction. That was his body moves before his mind when he slaps Mickey right across the face for the attitude. His palm is stinging, nothing compared to how Mickey’s face has gone white in the spot, then slowly tingling pink.
Lips part, apologies form, then Mickey slowly turns back.
Jesus Christ that’s attractive. More than just a good sight, more than anything ever imaginable. Because that jaw has gone slack and those eyes have gone dumb and Mickey’s mouth is hanging wide. His breathing starting to hitch.
“Fuck,” Mickey breathes. His fingers go up to touch his face. “Fuck.”
Ian should say sorry.
Before he can, Mickey drags him back into a kiss.
Another messy one, another rapid, teeth clashing, entirely messy kiss. And his cock is hard between them, it’s leaking pre and he hasn’t got a hand around it but Ian should, and he’s obviously so turned on that it’s insane. Going wild after being slapped.
“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he’s mumbling, biting Ian’s lip like he doesn’t care to try not to. “So fucking hot.” Those hands are on his waistband, slipping down and Ian lets him, allows him to stick his hand right in and squeeze the base of his cock. Fuck…. “Want this,” he’s saying, like teeth on his earlobe, lips whispering. “You gonna give me it?” yeah… “Fuck me right?”
Ian’s got to bat him away so he doesn’t end up blowing his load right then and there. The death-grip he’s got on Mickey’s wrists is unrelenting, harder as he sees those lips keep their curve.
“Yeah?” It’s like there’s a twinkle in his eyes.
And Ian doesn’t have it in him to resist.
He’s shoving his boxers down, shaking them off of one leg and then pulling off his shirt too. Stark naked in his own kitchen. (Maybe it’s not cleanly but he’ll wipe down he surfaces later. So what? They’re the only people who eat there.)
Mickey’s eyes are trained on him.
His newly released hands wet with spit and nothing more, coming to wrap around Ian’s dick.
Fuck…
That’s good. Mickey knows what he’s doing here—slow, tight pumps.
“Needed this in me like… yesterday,” he mutters. The eye contact. “Bet everyone tells you how big you are, Gallagher. Could split me open with this thing.”
It’s so much better when Mickey says it. Like his stomach muscles have to contract to keep him upright, like he needs to take long drawn out breaths to keep cool. Just, the dirty talk makes him reel.
“How big is it?” Mickey’s eyes are wild, one hand wrapped around Ian’s dick and the other keeping him steady on his shoulder. “How big are you, Gallagher? I know you’ve measured.”
Don’t make him try to speak right now…
The little gremlin in his head bats the words straight to his ego. Yeah, Mickey likes his dick, of courses he does.
“You didn’t figure it out last time?”
Very barely steady, very gritted.
“Didn’t get the chance to properly appreciate it,” Mickey shrugs, but he’s appreciating now, really appreciating. With that hazy little look in his eyes and the smirk. “Too busy wantin’ to suck it,” fuck… “How big?”
He’s pumping his hips into Mickey’s fist, slow and measured. “9.”
“9 inches?” Mickey squeezes him tighter. “Fuck, and you’re thick too. 9 inches, Jesus Christ.”
He’s got to pull that hand off of him.
“Enough of that,” he’s saying, because any more sweet talk and this will all be over embarrassingly fast.
Mickey clocks it. “Don’t think you can last?”
“I know I can,” he lies. “That’s not what we’re doing though.”
“Yes it is,” lips snark. “Stop it with this pussy shit. I know you want to fuck me so just–”
Ian slaps him again.
This time, he thinks Mickey nearly loses it.
Like he spasms and he shakes and he’s digging his nails into Ian’s shoulders to stay upright. “Fuck, Ian.”
And no more of that either. His hands are always getting in the way. So Ian pries them off, watches Mickey’s brows scrunch in confusion, and lifts them right above his head. Crossed at the wrist, elbows bent.
“Keep them up,” he says.
Mickey frowns. “What?”
“Keep your hands in the air,” he just tells him. Let him follow an order for once, be good.
“Why would I do that?” Mickey asks, but he’s doing it, he’s keeping his hands just over his forehead and in the air, something that’ll surely make his muscles ache when they’re up there for a minute.
“Because I’m telling you to.” It’s a test. “Keep your hands in the air.”
It’s clear the order does something for them both. “Fuck,” Mickey grins. “You getting off on making me follow orders?”
The burn must have started, because his elbows have dipped lower. Meaning even if his hands are up his arms aren’t.
Ian places a hand underneath, and gently raises them.
“In the air,” he repeats.
Mickey studies him for a second. His brow furrows slightly, then flattens out, like a bit of a question. “You gonna spank me again? What is this?”
He just needs to relax.
So Ian tries to show him it’s okay by taking his chin and pulling him forward, slotting their lips together slowly until he’s got no choice to calm down. And every time Mickey tries to pick things up, he just leans back, teaches him that he’s got to wait and be patient, and then Ian will kiss him breathless.
His hands are lowering slightly, but he lets it go for now. Just, get him relaxed enough to stop thinking about how hard he is. Make sure things are fine.
Eventually, it makes him boneless.
“Mickey,” he says. “You want me to touch you?”
“You’re not gonna..?”
Fuck him? Oh, he wants to, but not tonight.
So he shakes his head, trying to keep it light.
“You’d enjoy that too much,” he smiles. “I’d get you on your knees but you enjoy that too. Maybe I just won’t let you come?”
Fear, for a second. “You wouldn’t…”
“You really want to test that?”
And it’s the perfect opportunity. But instead of anything, there’s breathing.
Breathing, like fighting back the bratty comment, “...fuck.”
Ian almost goes breathless too.
Because it’s like Mickey is actively choosing to listen. Finally, after so long that’s what he’s doing. And for some reason that’s so much better than a guy that’s inclined to submit. This is him wanting Ian to put him in his place, and choosing to stay there. Its powerful.
“Hands up,” he reminds him.
It takes a moment, but Mickey does it without question.
He’s so pretty.
God, he really is.
To reward him, Ian’s wrapping a hand around his cock.
He makes sure his hand is wet and slick and pumping slowly. Twisting a little on the upstroke in the way he knows he likes. It’s a pretty dick, it’s Mickey’s and it’s nestled between his thighs and every time he strokes it there’s precome dribbling from the tip. But the best part really, is how it spatters on his stomach.
How, now that he’s being told to keep his hands up, Mickey’s stomach muscles tremble, and his legs barely stop their shakes.
“Jesus, Mick,” he mutters, because that’s so hot. Abs clenching, skin a little red and beaded with sweat, and the fact he can’t do anything about it—that he’s just letting Ian press him down and jerk him off. “You’ve got to tell me when you’re close, okay?”
He tries to go a little quicker, speed it up, until hands clasp down on his shoulders.
“Hey,” he says, letting go. “Hands up.”
“Ian,” Mickey groans. It’s clear it’s been taking a lot for him to keep quiet. That even if he’s gone foggy and not all there, and the look in his eye is pleading, he’s still got the bite running under.
But Ian doesn’t relent.
He can do it…
Not long left.
Such glassy blue eyes. Ian looks directly into them. “Every time they come down, I’m going to stop. You understand?”
His left ear gives a little twitch. The right one following suit. But he’s breathing deep, batting away his bratty annoyance, then those hands go back up. They cross over his head, and his wrists rest slightly on his hair. But that’s fine, as long as they’re out of the way. He acknowledges it, and he does it, and that feels like a step, a headrush.
He doesn't speak, or say anything to say he acknowledges it, but he does as asked, and crosses his hands over his head, resting them slightly on his hair, which is fine, as long as they’re out of the way.
Then he starts again. Moving his wrist and letting those hums fall from Mickey’s lips, and it’s so good. So pretty to watch, so in control to see Mickey’s abdomen shake and his body want to fall in on itself every time he doesn’t get what he wants. It’s addictive. It’s gorgeous. It’s edging him while looking him in the eye.
So every time those hands lower, Ian slows his pace.
“Faster,” Mickey glares but it’s entirely out of his control. They both know it so it’s easy to let go. He’s trying and that’s what counts, one day when there’s hours of time and nothing making him feel insane he’ll get him to submit properly.
Ian squeezes his thigh. “Put your hands higher, then.”
With a bitten off huff, he does.
And he’s shaking at one point, legs actually trembling as Ian jerks him quicker but it’s so worth it to see his eyes close. So worth it to see how desperate he looks. And despite it all his hands are still crossed over his head. Being good and behaving until all Ian wants is to kiss him. Wants to look at him. Wants to taste him again.
Fuck, he’s so hard too.
“I’m close,” Mickey gasps.
It’s the most broken he’s sounded this whole time, so Ian’s letting go. Seeing the scowl and the groan and hearing the complaints that are about to come out of that mouth. Then, he’s sliding him down.
“Come here,” he’s muttering, dragging Mickey so he isn’t sitting anymore. Standing with his back is against the counter, bodies naked and fully flush against each other.
Yeah… fuck, that’s it.
This angle when he can hold them both together. Try and hold their cocks in one fist so he can use the same rhythm on them both. Mickey must have forgotten about his arms because they’re slung around Ian’s shoulders, keeping him up now that his legs are definitely jelly. But that’s okay. He’s not gonna make him fall just for the sake of an order.
Skin sliding against skin. The heat.
“Oh fuck,” he hears Mickey shudder, when he looks between them.
God, he’s got to kiss him. Kissing Mickey makes him feel normal.
Lips, and then tongue, and then, “Oh, fuck, look at that,” where he’s bigger and his hand is covered in pre and his hips are twitching. “All over my hand, Mick.”
It’s so good.
It’s–
“Fuck,” he swears. “I’m gonna come.” He’s so close, hasn’t felt this delirious in a long time, and neither has Mickey if his gasps are anything to go by.
How he’s nodding frantically. “Fuck, shit, Gallagher…”
“Just a little bit longer,” he tries. It can’t be over just yet.
But it’s too late. Before he can say anything else Mickey’s hips are stuttering and his eyes are squeezing shut and he’s coming between them in an instant.
“Oh fuck,” spasming and his head drops low, legs shaking and he can do nothing to stop it. Like the pleasure is taking him in waves, forcing his mouth to open and that whine to escape it. “Fuck, fuck. Ian.”
It’s so hot.
So hot that Ian’s jerking himself faster, barely feeling how Mickey’s clearly trying to take over.
“Oh god.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Mickey’s breathing, rambly and quick and it’s not matching the pace that he’s jerking Ian’s dick. “I’m sorry, fuck, I couldn’t–”
No. No, no.
“It’s okay,” Ian cuts him off, “Don’t apologise.”
Those hands don’t stop. They’re wrapped around him and it’s sending that familiar shoot of pleasure down his spine. The feeling that won’t go away. It’s so perfect, it’s so amazing, that when Mickey pushes his face into the side of his neck it’s like his body heat turns up to 1000.
“A little tighter,” he asks.
The squeeze he gets feels like a truck slamming into him.
He comes too.
“Fuck, Mickey,” far too messy and strong, catching them both in the crossfire as he kants forward and lets Mickey stroke him through it, lets the aftershocks wrack through his body as his orgasm wrings him dry. It’s so much, and it’s so overwhelming, and his breath can’t slow down from the pleasure.
So he catches Mickey’s lips in a kiss.
Slow, and gentle, until his breathing calms down between them. Back and forth, simply passing the air like it was made to be shared. Mickey’s fingers come up to touch his scalp, just slipping into his hair and settling. It’s nice… it’s… his head feels lighter, brain entirely fuzzy.
So the second Mickey starts to pull away he panics. No, he needs this right now. Needs them to stay close, just so he can remind his stupid self-destructive brain that this means something. Their lips are ghosting together, just barely settled apart. And it’s enough comfort for Ian’s eyes to fall closed. Intrinsically close. Close. He likes him so much.
Mickey’s voice is soft. “You feel better?”
It’s still gruff, because it’s Mickey. Drawly and rough and with the edge that he can never seem to scratch, but it’s soft. It’s like he has to whisper in case the words get too loud.
Fuck…
Was he… What was…
“Ian,” Mickey pulls. “You okay?”
His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth. It takes a second for him to switch back on.
“Mhm,” he hums. It’s the scratching on his scalp, it’s Mickey’s breath just fanning over his nose. “Can we…” What does he want? What’s gonna make him feel better? Oh… “Can we shower?”
In his hair, Mickey’s hand slows. “Together?” He asks gently.
“Yeah.”
There’s a moment of hesitance, right before the hum. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Sure.”
So they do. Very quietly, as though Mickey doesn’t want the noises to spook him. They undress and the water starts to run, and Ian can’t find it in himself to care if he looks like a wet rat. He’s got Mickey standing in front of him, rolling his eyes and smiling as he tries his hardest not to rub shampoo into Ian’s eyes.
They smell the same, that’s nice. Real nice when they towel off. When Ian’s at the perfect height to press his nose into Mickey’s hair and inhale. He wishes he didn’t have work tomorrow, that he wasn’t already upset at the fact he’ll have to leave this. But for now, he can enjoy it.
When they crawl into bed, he’s smiling faintly.
Lying on his back, while patterns are traced into his arm. By his ear, Mickey’s cautious.
“I think you need a new hobby,” he starts, all whispered and quiet and calm.
Hm..? “Why’d you say that?”
“Because you need an outlet,” he continues. It’s thought out, that’s the thing, not stumbling, just rolling out. “And at the moment, that means you’re making sex out to be this big thing, where we’ve got to argue and get mean, and not that I don’t like it– I do– but I think you’d want to just have sex if you had a hobby for all that anger.”
Jeez. Ian blows out a breath.
He’s tired, just wants to go to sleep.
“It’s just so cold outside,” he mumbles. “Gardening was the one thing that worked.”
“I know,” he hears Mickey say. “You don’t have to stop, just, try picking something else up too.” He doesn’t stop the tracing, the swirling patters on Ian’s skin, and it works, it really does keep him lulled. Somehow, Mickey knows that. “You could run more, or do some painting? I don’t know.”
But, “It’s my emotions,” rattling out, “They get too big, and then they’re what’s in charge, and I can’t stop it.”
It’s silent, for a second. Then Mickey’s lips are on his forehead, his body shuffling down so they’re level. “Consider it,” he says. “Maybe it’ll be worth something.” Hands around Ian’s forearm. “Maybe this–” us, “–will get a little easier.”
Fuck…
There’s something about sitting in bed with someone and knowing that no matter how hard he tries to hide, they can still see everything he feels. Mickey gets it. Even if he doesn’t put it eloquently, he sees the shit that’s in his head, and lets him know it’s not a big deal. It’s not a dealbreaker. He just wants him to be okay.
And that’s almost too much to process.
So he doesn’t overthink it.
“I could talk to Fletcher,” he agrees, because he needs to just go with the flow. Take it in stride so he can stop keeping the shackles so tight. “He might have some ideas.”
Mickey’s humming. “Do what you gotta do, lover.”
He falls asleep in ten seconds flat.
“It’s overwhelming, that’s understandable.”
“But I feel like it shouldn’t be,” he huffs, because they’re twenty minutes in and he already feels like pulling hair. “I want to date him, and I want to have sex like a normal fucking person, but I just can’t.”
Fletcher raises a brow. “Did you think about getting that gym membership?”
“I looked it up,” Ian says, instead of ‘fuck you, how would weight lifting help?’ “It’s pricey though.”
“It’s never going to be easy.”
Therapy sucks sometimes.
Even if he knew this session would be somewhat worse than others, it still feels bad in the moment. Like guilt for being able to tell these things to Fletcher and not Mickey. Like, saying the rash things that pop up, then having to go back and explain why he thought them in the first place.
He just wants a list of answers. Unfortunately, that’s not what this is.
“Do you think long distance could work?”
It’s an even look. “You know I can’t answer that.”
Yeah, he knew. Still, long distance feels hard. He’s bad at even texting Lip back sometimes, no way he’d be able to call every day. Then again, this is a guy he really likes. One he’s not quite ready to let go.
So, a second opinion.
“Do you think I’d be good at long distance?”
“That depends on how much effort you’re willing to put in.”
“All of it.”
“Then it could be something to consider,” Fletcher says.
Or it would start off good and then ultimately go downhill. Because Mickey would surely get a job and then be busy, and their hours wouldn’t quite line up. Ian would be running in the mornings and working in the nights, and he barely has time to shower sometimes, let alone sit down and do a video call.
He wants to try though. Wants this to work.
But the thought of sitting around and waiting just rings in the back of his head. The reliable option, not the first.
“I keep thinking about moving,” he says, not too sure of what it means. “I think I’m sick of Chicago.”
“Sick of the scenery, or the people?”
“Neither?” He shrugs, because it really isn’t firmly one or the other. “I just need a change,“ something, “It kind of feels like everything is going in circles at the minute. Mickey’s the only thing keeping me sane.”
“Ian…”
“I know, don’t put my mental health into another person’s hands,” he says, but it’s draining, so much like circling the grate. “I can’t help it though. He just… I don’t know how he does it. It’s like he always knows what I need.”
He made breakfast this morning—nothing wild, just bacon and eggs—but Ian could feel the stars in his eyes the second he sat down. It was just simple. He likes that.
“You guys have gotten close,” Fletcher notes, and Ian nods.
“More than that,” he says. “I really like him.”
Too much.
There’s a second. One, where it’s like Fletchers gearing up to make him realise it himself.
“But he’s leaving?”
“Yes.” He knows it, that’s not the issue. “I just don’t know what to do.”
It’s late one night.
That’s always the setting though, really. It’s always late and it’s always dark, and this evening Ian has a cigarette slotted between his lips. He’s smoking out the kitchen window and Mickey’s sat on the wiped-down counter, doing the same. Smoking in silence. It’s as mundane as it gets.
He’s got a hand on Mickey’s thigh. It’s settled there quite simply, just to keep them touching, and he knows he needs to say something. The last session he had with Fletcher was bad and it made him realise a few too many things, so now he’s figuring out how to bring them up.
In the meantime it’s quiet.
“I don’t think you ever got around to teaching me those life skills,” Mickey says when he stubs his smoke out on the windowsill.
Ian cocks his head. “Yes, I did,” he frowns. “Without me you’d still be figuring out how to turn the oven on.”
“Funny. Real funny,” Mickey doesn’t laugh. “No. Like, actual cooking. I’m still just heating things up.”
Oh.
“I didn’t know you were interested.”
It’s a small smile. “Well, a bit more interested in the teacher,” he says, slowly moving so he can stand up and let Ian’s hand fall away. “Show me something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Mickey shrugs. “Pasta sauce or whatever. Something that you like to make.”
He’s stubbing his cigarette out too, raising a brow. “You want to know my recipes?”
He doesn’t say if it makes him swell. That a silly part of him, when he’s finally understanding their dynamics, is far too happy at the fact Mickey’s not given up yet. It’s reassuring. And he’s allowed to be happy at that. Because if he doesn’t do it now then he’ll always regret it after—he can thank his therapist for finally forcing him to know it.
“Well, it might be a while before I get to taste them again,” Mickey says. It’s obvious he’s searching his face for a reaction. When he doesn’t get one he nods. “Give me something for the road, Gallagher.”
So that’s how they end up making pasta.
It’s a simple sauce, one that’s tried and true and doesn’t require all the prep in the world. There’s nothing too difficult about it, and in all honesty, it’s not even Ian’s favourite recipe, but they’ve made it before. He just doesn’t have the salmon to go with it.
Maybe Mickey will teach the recipe to Mandy too. Maybe he’ll batch it up and bring it for lunch for his new Florida job. It’s… it hurts a bit to think but it’s a familiar sting. Reliable.
“You’ve got to cut things up very fine,” he says at one point. “You can blend it, but it’s easier if you just get thin slices.”
There’s an onion on the chopping board and it’s being sliced very carefully. Mickey going the extra mile as to not cut himself today.
He tilts his head. “Like this?”
“Yeah,” Ian says. “But, a bit thinner.”
There’s a little scoff. “I’m trying not to cut my fingers off.” Which makes him smile a bit more.
“I thought you’d be an expert with a knife.”
“I am,” Mickey shrugs. “When it’s a weapon.”
And he’s meant to be teaching him, right? Not just standing there playing parole, so one second he’s watching Mickey in his shorts and his t-shirt, with his ears poking up from his hair, and the next he’s sliding closer. Trying his hardest to be cool.
“You want some help?”
“I can cut an onion.”
The window’s still open, breezy but the heating’s on so it’s not cold. That’s not why Mickey shivers, they’re in tune enough for Ian to know it’s the feeling of his chest, pressing against Mickey’s back, that makes it happen.
“Look,” he says. His chin can ghost over his hair, the perfect height to make him stall. “Start like this.”
He takes the onion off of him, revelling in just how easy it is when the knife slides out too. And he makes a sharp, precise cut, finely chopping up the little slice.
Mickey’s hands are smaller than his own. He sees it when his cheek is pressed to the side of his hair and he’s trying to take the onion back. He dwarfs him. To prove it, he lets go, and covers the back of Mickey’s hand with his own, just enveloping him for a moment.
There’s a deep breath.
“And then what?”
“Put your hand in like a fist,” Ian tells him. He’s allowed to shape his fingers, curl him up so he’s in the right position, and then give him back the knife. “And slice.”
After a second, he lets go.
Dirty hands but they don’t care. He’s got his arms wrapped around Mickey’s stomach and they’re so close it’s making him delirious.
“You smell nice.”
Real, real nice. As though Ian could keep his nose buried in his hair forever.
“Used that fancy soap you keep buyin’ me.”
Fuck…
“Not that,” he breathes. “Just you.”
That they’re in his kitchen and they’re doing nothing special. Yeah, he really likes this. Likes it enough that he’s got his head hanging down. Lips trying to find Mickey’s jaw.
It’s just touching, nothing to overthink.
Kissing his neck, finding the cold skin. The way Mickey’s head rolls to one side is perfect, he’s so responsive.
“Fuck, Ian,” he sighs, leaning back so he can rest on his shoulder. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
It’s just so sweet. “Who says I can’t finish it?”
His hand feels so big on the expanse of Mickey’s stomach, like he’s covering so much of him without even having to try. And that lets him edge up his shirt. Just holding, not drifting further down.
He’s half hard against his backside and when Mickey’s head lolls to one side he’s following with teeth. Mouthing over the spot between his neck and his jaw.
“Fuck.”
“So good, baby.”
So ridiculously good when they’re not arguing, or upset, or doing things because they have to. And it still won’t be sex, but what they do doesn’t have to be a rush, that’s what he thinks has finally clicked.
“Thought you wanted to make dinner?”
Ian’s brows are scrunching together. “You want to wait?”
‘Fuck no,” Mickey groans. “But–” He’s bringing his hands back to pry away from Ian’s hips at the waist, giving himself the time to think. “Fuck. You’re meant to be teaching me how to cook.”
Yeah, oh, Ian lets his eyes open, barely comprehending when they shut. They were in the middle of something. They can’t just stop now.
“Okay,” he nods. Maybe he’s a bit pink, slightly embarrassed at what he tried to pull. “Okay. Let’s get this in a pan, then.”
They blend the tomatoes. Well, he lets Mickey do that part. Lets him put in salt, then lemon, add some cream and put it on a low heat while they let the pasta cook.
And in the in-betweens they’re making out.
Now that it's been a second the confidence has dwindled a bit, and he’s just letting their legs touch and his hand drift into Mickey's hair, and he gets a little whine the wind comes again. Because he really loves that sound, really enjoys how Mickey’s lips go red and he tries to act tough to make up for it.
“Fuck,” he ends up saying. “You sound so pretty.”
“Don’t say that shit.”
“You do,” he repeats. The way they fit together so well, how those legs spread and he finds his way between, and it doesn’t matter what anybody else thinks. How many people try to say that hybrids are weird and not socially adept, and shouldn’t be given that same respect, because Mickey’s Mickey through and through. He’s nothing strange when he’s on Ian’s couch. “Mickey… Mick.”
(Sometimes, when he stares for too long, Mickey looks away.)
There’s a hissing in the kitchen.
Mickey sits up. “What’s that?”
“Shit.”
Apparently enough time’s passed that the pasta’s overboiling. The water’s bubbling up and falling into the flames and it’s making a sizzling sound when he rushes to turn it off.
“Grab the strainer,” he’s saying, because for some reason Mickey’s just standing there, leaning against the doorframe with an amused look on his face.
It takes a second but he does it, and in the end nothing burns.
It’s the same recipe he’s made so many times, and he’s plating it up for them both.
“This is good,” he has to say, even if for some reason it really doesn’t taste the same.
It’s blander. Like it’s got a bit less kick than usual, but Ian doesn’t want to say he’s messed up. That somehow he’s managed to fuck up the one thing he was reliable for and now Mickey’s going to leave with a shitty recipe. He takes his fork and twiddles it around, settling down in his chair.
“Really?” Mickey asks, because he’s still a bit more blunt. “Feels like it’s missing something.”
The fact he can tell feels fuzzy. “Oh yeah? What?”
The seasoning, the flavours? Is it overcooked so the tomatoes turned bitter? Was there not enough lemon so the acid couldn’t cut through the salt?
“I don’t know,” Mickey shrugs. “Think I like it better when you just make it.”
Oh.
That’s not what he was expecting to hear.
He smoothes his brow, saying, “We can try again,” but Mickey’s already shaking his head.
“What’s the point?” He’s stabbing the plate like it hurts. “It’s just pasta.”
Later, after dinner.
“I got you something,” Mickey says out of the blue.
It causes Ian to frown a bit, his brows raising as he watches Mickey fiddle with looking away. A silent question, a what?
“It’s stupid,” he continues. “And you can’t laugh, okay? It’s not really like me.”
Now, he’s curious. He leans back on the couch. “What did you get?”
“It’s really–” Mickey cuts himself off with a scoff. “It’s really gay.” They’re gay, that’s not crazy. “Just, keep an open mind.”
Truthfully, Ian’s a little terrified. He watches quietly as Mickey stands up and goes to where his coat hangs, fishing something out from the pocket then coming to sit down. And it’s…
Oh no. Fuck no. That’s a little box and Mickey’s looking nervous and oh fuck, oh shit, Ian is not ready for marriage just yet. That’s a big step when he still hasn’t even brought up his stupid therapy talk. Marriage is way too quick. Mickey’s moving.. What is this? Why is he–
Mickey’s waving a hand in front of his face.
“Relax,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’m not proposing.”
Oh.
Yeah, no, Ian didn’t think he was. And he shouldn’t want Mickey to propose anyway, so actually thank God he’s not proposing. No, yeah. Totally.
The box is pushed into his hands, Mickey sitting down on the L spot of the couch as Ian takes it. It’s chunky. Like a jewellery box, and there’s a bit of weight on it. He just keeps it in his hands for a second.
Mickey clears his throat. “Open it?”
Oh yeah.
He pops the lid, and his mouth drops immediately.
What the…
“Lady at the shop said it’s a promise ring,” Mickey says and he’s not looking, he’s very much staring in the opposite direction as if that’s going to make him any less red. “For when I move out… so you know I haven’t actually left.”
It’s…
Oh.
A little tacky ring, more like a band than anything else, that Ian thinks his eyes are glued to. No way Mickey bought this for him. That’s probably why his words rattle out.
“But you will have left?”
He’ll be gone for good and Ian’s just going to have this ring. It’s not even a wedding band, it’s a promise thing, something he can hide away whenever he doesn’t feel like the commitment. What’s that meant to mean? Except, Mickey did buy it for him. Or acquired it, whatever that may mean. So now he’s looking this thing in the eye and he’s realising his stomach’s dropped.
That there’s a pit there, and a lump in his throat, and he needs to sniffle because his eyes hurt a bit. Slow, slow, realisation. Mickey went out of his way to do something he thought would make them closer. Mickey doesn’t want to forget this.
There’s a nudge to his thigh, a socked foot poking him gently.
“Maybe physically,” he shrugs. “But I’m still around. You’ve got a phone.”
Yeah.
Maybe he does.
Then, it’s later.
When he’s lying on his back, in bed. They don’t sleep together every night because that’s too much, but they do sometimes and tonight is no exception.
Ian feels wrung out.
He can’t wear that thing. It wouldn’t feel right.
It blurts out.
“Sometimes, I don’t think I’m worthy of love.”
Hanging for a second, spreading through the room like smog.
In the dark, Mickey’s head snaps to look at him, but it’s just a shadow so it hardly feels like a threat. And Ian keeps on staring at the ceiling. Fletcher told him to just say it, that way it won’t feel like he’s constantly living a lie.
“Oh yeah?” Mickey breathes. His brow must furrow, eyes must haze. “Why’s that?”
“I don’t know,” he says, but he kinda does. “Family?” Swallowing the words. “Or the fact I don’t even know who I am sometimes. That I like to hurt people.”
“You don’t–”
“I do,” Ian sighs. It might be sex, and it might not happen often, but he does. “A bit.”
Mickey doesn’t say anything back. Listening, like an invite to keep on going.
“Fletcher says you make me feel like I’m a kid waiting for my mom to come back,” he finally says. “You rush into my life and make things exciting and then you leave again.” A deep breath. “You’re bad for me.”
In the way that even if he hated Monica when she left, the moment she came back he always fell for it. Thinking that this time would be different. She’d finally love him enough to stay.
Part of him knows that it’s different. That every time Mickey’s left it’s not because he didn’t care, but because he was running from something else entirely, but it still hurts. Thinking that this time he’s going to go to Florida and Ian’s going to be there waiting by the phone, waiting for his mom to love him.
His head feels heavy.
“Do you think he’s right?”
“I don’t know,” Ian sighs. “Do you?” It isn’t fair to ask. “Do you get some sick enjoyment from making me feel like I can’t do anything when you disappear?”
He doesn’t need to look at Mickey to see the hurt.
“What happens when you go to Florida?” He’s rambling. “Are you ever going to come back?”
Slow, for a second. “Do you want to break up?”
“Jesus, Mick…” His eyes squeeze shut to try and bat away the sting. “Are we– are we even dating?”
A hand stumbles onto his arm. “We are.”
He wants to accept it, but when he’s kicked into high gear he can’t.
“Right,” he mutters. Then, “We just don’t feel real.”
Even the silence is wounded. The second he says it he wants to take it back. Real, of course they’re fucking real. But he says things sometimes just because he thinks they’re going to hurt. Feeling it when Mickey tenses makes him regret it though.
“Real,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Fuck you.”
He’s not running though. His thumb, even if it’s stopped swirling patterns, is still settled on Ian’s arm, and they’re close. In his bed. Close enough for their legs to touch and their breathing to become mangled. But Mickey’s face on his shoulder roots him. It doesn’t let the feeling make him stumble.
“I know this is scary,” Mickey’s saying. “Trust me, man. I’m not thrilled about moving there either.”
“But you’re going anyway,” Ian cuts in. “Why? Because you don’t trust your sister to take care of herself? She’s not going to die out there, get the fuck over it.”
It’s like he can hear Mickey blink, feel his ears go down like a hurt puppy. “You’re upset.”
“No shit, I’m upset,” he huffs, and he kind of prefers when Mickey argues with him, that would make him feel less like an emotionally immature jerk. “You’re leaving again and you don’t even care how it makes me feel.”
It’s unfair and he knows it. But fucking Christ he just told Mickey he reminds him of all the times his mom left and he’s not even getting any emotion back. It hurts.
It takes a second for Mickey to nestle down.
“It’s killing me, man,” he says eventually. And even in the dark it sounds like he doesn't want to be watched. That slowly opening up is never going to mean face to face conversations where they can look each other straight in the eye. “I really…” it’s bitten off at first, “I really fuckin’ like you, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone before.” He shakes his head like he’s thinking about it. “I haven’t.” Then the kicker. “I might uh, I love you.”
“Don’t say that,” Ian frowns instantly. It’s not tactful, and not what he should say in the moment, but it’s what’s coming out. Eyes stinging, the lump in his throat getting bigger. “No, don’t say that shit when you don’t mean it.”
“I do.”
Fuck.
“Why?” He’s asking. “Huh? Why do you love me?”
It’s clearly not what Mickey expects, because his answer takes a bit too long to formulate.
“You’re different,” he says slowly. Maybe his ears are doing their little flattening thing, maybe Ian’s just making shapes up in the dark. “You're better than everyone else out there.”
It kind of washes over him.
“What?” He breathes, questions, can’t believe. “So you love me because I’m better?”
That doesn’t feel like a good reason. Just feels like he’s taken home a stray and suddenly it’s got Stockholm. He doesn’t want to be the one Mickey goes to because there’s no one else. That’s not comforting.
“No, I can’t explain it,” Mickey frowns. “I just do.”
He wants to believe it, it just might take a while. Mickey knows it and keeps on talking.
“I never really thought I’d get something like this,” he’s saying. It feels like a bedtime story when he’s on his back. “Thought I’d end up dead before I was twenty, either from the shit my dad pulled or a drug deal gone wrong. I want to be better than that.” He makes a small sound, keeps his head down on Ian’s pillow, facing him. “And you make me feel things. Like it’s fine if my dad’s dead, because he never loved me anyway, I can build my own life, and choose the people I have in it.” He pretends to be casual. “I choose you.”
On the same pillow, Ian turns to look at him.
Fuck…
His mouth feels a little dry and there’s still a rock in his stomach, but it feels like it’s there for a different reason entirely. Mickey might love him. Mickey, who’s been through so many things and knows that Ian’s not all there either, doesn’t mind pretending they’re normal together.
He really likes this guy.
Wants to believe that he loves him, and can’t quite figure out the line between what’s now just his own responsibility to accept.
He can’t keep breaking down forever. At some point, he’s just got to realise that there’s no use fighting any of it.
“We need to talk about Florida,” he ends up saying, facing Mickey on this pillow. “”How we’re going to get this to work.”
When they can visit, which holidays they’ll do. Mickey nods.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk about it,”
Ian’s shaking his head. “Not tonight,” he whispers. “Please.”
Nothing more tonight. He just wants to close his eyes and go to sleep. But for some reason, Mickey’s pulling away.
“Do you want me to sleep in the other room?”
What? “No,” Ian frowns, tugging him close. “Come here.”
They’re going to be fine. They will.
The ring mocks him.
It sits on his bedside table untouched for days, because he’s scared he’ll break the box. And every time he comes downstairs he has to pretend he doesn’t notice Mickey see he’s not wearing it. Because the thought hurts them both to realise.
Just… love?
It feels like such a big word. More than he can understand, more than he can navigate.
When he sits down after getting in late one night, and Mickey’s asleep in the guest room. He’s got the ring between his fingers and he’s fiddling with it loosely. Maybe he could put it on a little chain, keep it under his work shirt so he doesn’t have to take it off at work too.
Some days he thinks he deserves it more than others. Some days when his head’s clear and his meds are stable, he thinks he’s worthy of the things everyone else is. But he’s not okay, he thinks. Doesn’t think there’ll ever be a point in time where he’s absolutely okay. His head will always be a little fucked and he’s got things in his past that still gets dragged up just when he thinks he’s over it.
But when he puts the chain on he doesn’t think he has to be.
That, if he stops holding himself back, then it doesn’t matter if he can’t trust himself.
It’s a pretty ring. Silver, subtle, on closer inspection not too cheaply made.
Mickey’s not going anywhere. He finally thinks he can deserve it.
The station does this thing every now and then.
It’s a bit of fun, when they know they’re getting into the worst months for deaths, and they’re being run ragged, so they want to make sure morale is up high. In the summer, it’s sports. But in the winter it’s just dinner. And he’s allowed a plus one.
Ian doesn’t know how he brought it up, just that he did and Mickey hesitated for a second before saying yes. And now they’re standing by the entrance, getting ready to go into the little buffet hall.
He’s in a button down shirt, the collar open just slightly, and Mickey’s eyes are glued to the spot underneath where the ring is pressed against his chest. Hidden slightly, under the fabric, but able to be tugged out.
It’s a warm feeling, really. Warmer every time he remembers who bought it for him. So he keeps a small smile on his face when Mickey looks away. They’re here together. At a real person event.
“You can take that off,” Ian says, all hushed. “No one here cares.”
There’s always something. Mickey in his chunky hat, not making any move to take it off despite the fact they’re in a heated room. He’s gotten better at it though—when they go on dates by themselves he’ll take the hat off and try not to look so uncomfortable. But in public he’s still the same. In the grocery store, on the L, he’s stubborn.
Mickey shakes his head.
“It stays on.”
It’s a private event. “It’s weirder if you wear it.”
No one here cares. They’re his work friends. Mickey’s not the first hybrid they’ve met.
But the scowl deepens. “I don’t care. I’m keeping it on.”
Whatever. “Fine.”
They wander into the open room, Ian keeping an eye out for the people he can recognise. There’s always someone new here, it’s like they’re hiring every other day, so he’s on a bit of an extra mission to find Rita. In the meantime, they’re on their way to the drinks table.
Halfway there.
“Ian!” Seeing Andy out of uniform kind of feels like seeing a bull in the supermarket. He’s tipsy too, smiling a bit too wide for a guy that’s normally far too reserved. “And this is?”
“Mickey,” he introduces. Then, like an idiot, “My… partner?”
If his voice curls up a bit that’s one thing, the way his face scrunches however is the real kicker. Boyfriend’s juvenile, partner, right? That sounds good? He’s trying to see Mickey’s expression, only able to see how he’s got his head turned away like there’s something he’s trying to hide.
Yeah, partner. He’s not objecting so, that’s something.
“Oh, it’s nice to meet you,” Andy says, eyes going wide in a bit of surprise. He reaches a hand out. “I’m Andy, I normally drive the ambulance.”
Surprisingly, Mickey takes it.
“Nice,” he hums, nodding his head to Ian. “So you’ve got to babysit this one all day?”
An awkward laugh. “Pretty much.” Then, something clicks, an oh. “Rita wanted me to tell her when you got here.”
Thank fuck, she’s already here. “I’ll go say hi,” he says. “You coming?”
Mickey shakes his head. “In a second, I want a drink.”
That’s how he ends up leaving the two of them there, finding Rita hanging out by a standing table with her husband. She passes him her glass when he comes along, sending him off to leave.
“Hey,” she smiles, pulling him into a hug. “You brought Mickey?”
She’s got her ears out; she doesn’t care.
“He wanted to see where I worked,” he shrugs. “And there’s free food.”
It was mainly the free food, but he’s not gonna admit that. Rita raises a brow, questions surely, that she doesn’t ask. Not when today’s meant to be about keeping the mood light
Still, she pokes a bit. “You guys sort your shit out?”
“I think so,” he says. Because there’ll be hiccups, sure, but the part of him that said he can’t have this is staying silent, letting things run their course. “We’re doing good today.”
She nods, looking like she’s about to say something else before she stops dead completely. Pausing, hesitating.
“Holy shit.”
Brows screw together. “What?”
“The ring?” She says, like he’s been keeping something huge. “What’s that?”
Gently, he pulls it past the collar of his shirt, just so she can see the glint a bit better. On a flimsy chain, with the colours clashing slightly. He really likes it. It’s strange to have.
“Oh,” he breathes, looking down. “It’s a promise ring,” he wears it around his neck. “Mickey got ‘em.”
The one he wears too, on his finger. Maybe he’ll explain it differently to people when he moves to Florida, just that he’s taken, so it sounds more serious. Either way it’s cute. Somehow, Mickey’s learnt that Ian likes cute things even if he sometimes doesn’t understand them, and now he does them too. It’s kind of amazing
Rita looks wordless. She blinks, and shakes her head, then lets it be. When she looks away, she barely stifles a laugh.
“Andy looks terrified.”
Oh, yeah.
“Fuck,” he sighs. Yeah, by the drinks table, Mickey's holding a glass of something and talking to a very worried Andy, one that’s trying to plot his own escape every second. “I should probably go over there, right?”
“Probably,” Rita nods. But before he can, she catches his arm, hesitating, saying, “You look happier today, though. That about him?”
Huh.
His shoulders feel more relaxed.
“Hard to say,” he tries. “Talk to you later?”
She nods and lets him go.
“Ian!” Andy’s on him and panicked the second he shows back up. It’s terror as he looks between them. “Mickey here was just telling me a really fun story about how you guys met.”
Oh fuck, what lie has he come up with now?
A brow raise. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Andy nods. “He said he stole from you for months, until you forced him to move in with you?”
Oh. Well… his mouth hangs a bit. “That’s not entirely true.”
“How’s that not true, tough guy?”
Mickey’s got his annoying little shit smile on. It’s teasing and so familiar that Ian rolls his eyes.
“I didn’t force you to move in,” he defends, because he’s not having Andy think he’s genuinely insane. “I just invited you.”
“By stalking me and my sister, ‘nd then playing white knight with my brother too?”
Okay, it doesn’t sound good on paper.
“Fuck off.”
“Lovely meeting you,” Andy’s saying, slipping away. “Bye now.”
He practically runs to a different group.
“Don’t scare him,” Ian chastises. “He’s still new.”
It’s met with a brow raise. Mickey laughing softly as he shrugs his shoulders. “He was asking way too many questions.”
“Really?” Real surprise. “I don’t think I’ve heard him speak more than two sentences since he started.”
“Guess I’m just a natural charmer.”
Tch. “Yeah, right.”
Mickey drops away for a second, picking up a glass like he’s only just remembering it. It’s a wine glass, the same as what he’s holding and he’s pressing it into Ian’s hands, full of red wine and all.
“Got you this,” he says casually.
Are they trying to get messy? “Wine?”
“It’s free.”
It’s nothing crazy. At the end of things it really is just like any other night, with cold buffet food and round tables where everyone has to just pick a seat. But it’s fun. Somehow, Mickey actually talks to people and it doesn’t look like he’s in agony the whole time, so that’s a win. And Ian gets to sit next to him the whole night.
He gets to introduce them as partners, and he doesn’t feel like he’s living a lie when saying it.
It’s great. They have their downtime too.
“You think you want to come talk to everyone else?” Ian asks, when they’re still on the red wine and the food tables are pretty much clear. “Or dance? I think the DJ is going to be done setting up soon.”
“I’m not dancing here,” Mickey scoffs.
But, “Yeah you are.”
“I’m really not.”
Ian’s going to get him to dance.
And he does. He’ll take it as Mickey being actually pretty tipsy, and that’s why he gets up and starts mothing with no rhythm to the songs. To be fair to him, no one else here has rhythm either, so so it’s not an awkward sight. It’s just funny. It’s nice. And when he’s done, the songs are getting too pop-y and he’s too tired to keep it up, he sits back down, leaving Ian to dance whoever else he can find that wants to.
He almost forgets this was something Mickey hesitated to do.
But when they’re drunk, drunk off of the red wine, woozy because the glasses seemed endless, there’s something different.
A moment, barely, where Mickey takes a glance to the side. It’s so small it’s hardly noticeable. Mickey sits back in his seat and his eyes cross the room for half a second, right before he bites his lip. Chews. Then his hand goes to his head and he grabs his hat right by the scruff of his neck, and pulls it off.
He ruffles his hair. He lets his ears spring up. And Ian watches.
Holy shit. Holy shit.
Mickey must feel the stare because immediately his head jolts up. From across the room, his gaze locks with Ian’s, the smallest of doubt sitting behind it. A little glance around the room again, he shrugs like his shoulders aren’t raised.
And Ian can’t help it. Thinks his lungs are swelling in his chest, because it’s fruitless to try and contain the grin that spreads across his lips. His smile, at Mickey, there, finally taking his hat off in a room full of strangers. He’s beaming and it’s stupid, and he knows he must look like an idiot, but seconds later, Mickey’s smiling back.
It’s slow and it’s small, but it’s a smile.
Ian thinks his heart falls out.
“Where’s Kathy?” Ian frowns, bouncing on his feet before the run.
Mickey didn’t come this week. Maybe he’s earned it. He’s allowed that restbite.
“Oh, you didn’t hear?” Abby frowns. “She he had a stroke, she’s in hospital.”
He runs faster that day.
They kiss, a lot. Probably an abnormal amount, he’s got to say.
Kissing and touching and sitting on the couch, like there’s nowhere else to even go.
One night, Mickey’s got his head hanging back. “Mandy’s looking at apartments,” he says, out of nowhere, cutting the movie off in the middle.
It was background noise at this point. So, Ian turns to look at him.
“Oh,” he mumbles, trying to keep whatever self-destructive emotion he feels off his face. “Really?”
He’s glad he’s not scared to bring it up—they’re past that.
“Yeah,” Mickey nods. “Said it’s better to start looking now so she can get a plan in motion.”
“Oh.”
That makes sense. They’re still months off it but it doesn’t hurt to start looking.
Mickey knocks their feet.
“You start looking at California, or you uh– not serious about that?”
“I’m not moving anytime soon,” he says, and it’s true. He’s built a life here. He has a whole house, there’s no use pretending he’s going to do something else. “Maybe you’ll get a view of the beach.”
Mickey scoffs. “Not likely, best we could afford is a shitty two bed somewhere inland.” He still gives it a thought. “Maybe we’ll go visit.”
“You have to,” Ian says. “You can’t move to Miami and not see the beach.”
“I don’t know.” Mickey looks back at the ceiling. “Feels like something I’d do.”
Ian would see the beach, if he had the chance. He’d go swimming and get tanned, and honestly he’d make a good lifeguard—that feels pretty paramedic adjacent. And he’d plant tomatoes in the garden, because he’d never move anywhere that doesn’t have one, he’s got too used to it now.
Some things wouldn’t change. He’d never join a yoga club, or drink matcha, or do any other California bullshit. But if he moved somewhere with a beach, he’d see it. It would only make sense.
Mickey’s trying to catch his attention.
“You should come visit,” he says, all casual.
Ian hums, “Yeah?” It does feel nice to know he’s invited, even if Mickey’s looking away when he says it.
“Yeah, man.,” avoiding that eye contact, “S’not like there’s gonna be anything out there for me. You’ve got to come visit.”
Fuck, he really hates this.
“Depends,” he tries to joke. “Can we go to the beach?”
“Course we can.”
And he knows the answer before he says it, knows exactly what he’s about to say and just how unfair is is, but it’s coming out anyway, because he just needs to hear it again. “If there’s nothing for you in Miami then why are you going?” Hear that he’s not the reason anyone leaves. “Just stay here,” please, “In Chicago.”
“I promised,” Mickey says, and it hurts him too, that’s the real reason why Ian shouldn’t ask. “Maybe if it were a few years ago then I’d tell her I don’t want to, but not anymore… I owe it to her.”
Mickey’s a good guy.
“Have you told her you don’t want to go?”
“Kinda,” he sighs. “But now that Terry’s dead she’s got more of a reason to fuck off and never come back. I don’t want her to just disappear.”
Honestly, he didn’t know that was a worry in the first place. Mandy would stay in contact? Why wouldn’t she? But it doesn’t feel like it’s something he wants to say.
“I should go, right?” Mickey asks. “It’s the smart thing to do?”
Selfishly, he wants to say yes.
The same way he likes to wear his ring on his chest, while Mickey keeps his on his finger. He wants to say that Mandy’s going to be fine, that he doesn’t owe her anything even if they’re family. But convincing him doesn’t feel right. Like if he really cared about him, he’d let him make his own decisions. (But it’s not selfish to want someone to choose to stay? Is it?)
“Florida’s nice,” he ends up saying. “Maybe you’ll change your mind. They have sun.”
“So does Chicago.”
He doesn’t expect it from Mickey. Maybe just because it’s been a bleak few months, so he has to remind himself too. It’s a lie though. Chicago doesn’t have sun in the way that Florida does. So Ian can’t help his scoff.
Why is he convincing him to leave? “They’ll have Mandy.”
“I’ve known her for long enough.” After a moment it settles and Mickey shakes his head. “It’s stupid, I’ll get over it. Just, hard thinking about the future, y’know?”
It kills him not to know the end date. Slowly, he shuffles along the couch, moving so they’re both in that crook, ready to kiss his head.
“I’ll visit,” he says, because unfortunately part of him thinks that if he really wasn’t okay with it, then Mickey wouldn’t go. “As long as you want me to.”
“I want you to.” Mickey kisses him back. “You promise you’ll come.”
Vulnerable and wanting and not the guy he met at the beginning of things. A different version of him, who asks for things like he’s unsure if he’s going to get them, but will still take the risk. Is that Mickey? Is that who he really is? Maybe a part of him thinks he shouldn’t say yes. That cutting the tie would be easier than having it get any tighter around his neck.
Ian likes him though.
So he breathes him deep, and nods his head. “I will.”
Talking to Lip was inevitable. The reliable thing when Ian thinks he’s going crazy in his own skin, and there’s nothing there to calm it.
They meet at the Alibi, resolutely southside, again.
“New necklace?” Lip asks. He sounds a bit concerned but Ian can’t be bothered with it today, he just bats off the questions and then dumps his soul.
Lip blinks.
“You don’t sound like you want to go to Florida,” he says, hesitating with his drink. It’s non-alcoholic, because it’s what he knows he needs to have, but that doesn’t mean Ian’s not watching it—just to see how tight he squeezes the bottle neck.
“Because I don’t,” he huffs. “But, that’s where Mickey’s going, and I don’t want to lose him just yet.”
“You’d be miserable.”
“I’d get used to it,” he tries to say. It’s one of those hurdling thoughts, the type that keep on coming, staying for a day and then deciding they weren’t worth it. “I mean, what’s keeping me here? Really?”
“Your whole life?” Lip frowns. “You’ve got a job, you bought a house.”
“I’ve got a mortgage on a house,” he corrects. “I can move that.”
He looked into it. A bit finicky but he’d be able to figure it out. It wouldn’t be that hard.
“So do it, then,” Lip calls his bluff, eyes knowing when he sees hesitation. “See–” pouncing on it. “You don’t want to.”
Fuck. “I don’t know what I want.”
Nothing is simple nowadays.
“That’s the issue,” Lip says. “Don’t throw your life away for him though, promise me that.” He narrows his eyes. “Ian.”
“I won’t,” he says thoughtlessly. Not his whole life, at least. It’s just, he really wants to. “I won’t.”
“Hey,” Ian says when the door opens. “Is Kathy in?”
It’s a guy in his mid-thirties, one he’s never seen before.
“No?” His nose is turned up. “Who are you?”
“Ian,” he tries. “From a few doors down. She hasn’t been at running club lately, I was just wanting to check in on her. Maybe give her these?”
The store-bought flowers that he’s holding in his hands. The ones that look shitty in comparison to what she grows. Whatever, it’s the thought that counts.
“I can pass them along,” the guy says, but it’s solemn, it’s shrugged. “I doubt she’ll be back here anytime soon?”
“Is it bad?” Lacking tact, rushing out. “Is she okay?”
The man takes the flowers. “We don’t know. I’ll tell her these are from you.”
The door slams right in his face.
“Fuck,” Mickey groans, on his lap, while Ian sucks hickeys onto his neck, hand down his pants just for heavy-petting. “Fuck, yeah, just like that.”
“Say it,” he pleads, because he thinks he’s become addicted to hearing it. “Say it.”
“Love you,” Mickey mumbles. His hips stutter and his face is so flushed. “Love you, fuck.”
Ian wishes he knew how to say it back.
It’s a regular day. He’s on break and he figures he doesn’t want to spend it at the station, so somehow he finds his way to the mall, getting ready for another hour of complaining and private laughs.
He heads straight to Mickey’s store, because that’s what he always does. Goes to the entrance and cranes his neck to try to find him. Except, he’s not stationed outside.
“Hey,” he calls, to a girl in a similar colour shirt. “Hey, do you know if Mickey’s around?”
She frowns. “He left an hour ago. Some girl came and got him, said he quit.”
What the fuck?
“He quit?” Ian echoes, and she shrugs.
“I don’t know, man. Go find him yourself?”
Fuck.
Fuck.
What?
He’s slamming open the door to get home. Bang against the wall, letting it fall back and click shut and make the loudest fucking noise it can.
He’s been stressed and he’s been antsy and it was a shitty day at work, and the second he gets through the door he stops. He pauses. His heart sinks.
Because Mickey’s duffel bag is by the door.
“Were you just going to move out tonight?”
Somehow, even with the door slam he’s surprised him. Mickey, who’s picking putting laundry in the machine.
Wide-eyes. “Ian?”
“You quit your job,” he accuses, getting closer, neared, more upset. “What the fuck? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Ian,” Mickey mediates, standing and it’s so infuriatingly calm. “Mandy only told me she found a place today. I wasn’t hiding this from you.”
“But–” He swallows the hurt. “You didn’t want to come to the station and tell me? I went to the mall? I looked like a fucking idiot trying to find you?”
“Ian–”
“Were you just going to leave?”
He sees Mickey blink, trying to find the space to get bigger, and when he does he breathes deep, a sigh that’s worse than if he just spat in his face.
“Of course not,” he breathes. Hands out, telling him, not just saying. “I was just getting a headstart.”
But it’s… it’s not right. Fuck, he quit his job. He’s got a bag by the door. Ian’s shoulders feel too heavy, eyes too open. It’s not time, surely. His voice is loud. “No Mickey, what the fuck?”
Hands on his arms try and keep him down. “I got some money today,” Mickey says. “That job I did finally paid out. Mandy came to give it to me, said she’d want to use it on a deposit if I was still gonna give it to her.”
“A deposit?” He questions.
“Yeah. Nothing concrete, but it looks good.”
The hands are good at keeping him lulled, rubbing up to his shoulders and then back down.
“Don’t freak out over this,” he continues. “Been stressin’ you out since I got here.”
He wants to shout. Doesn’t think he has it in him.
So his eyes hurt a little bit, sting like there’s something prickling there and he’s boneless, not knowing how to stand. An actual deposit. After so many months of just saying it, it’s finally going to happen.
“What about your GED?” He has to ask. It was in the works, ready to happen.
“I’ll cancel it,” Mickey says. “Move it.”
“Can you get it in Florida?”
“I don’t know,” he sighs. “Probably.”
There are more questions to ask. Things to sort out, but for now, Ian wants to hold him. Face pressed against his ears, breathing in his smell and taking his warmth. It doesn’t feel like shattering right now, just like going numb. Because he doesn’t know why he doesn’t ask him to stay, or why he doesn’t ask to come with. All he knows is it’s over, and he’s accepting it.
Hugging Mickey tighter to make up for the difference.
“Dinner,” Mickey says when they split. “Let’s make dinner.”
Ian just follows him along.
It’s anticlimactic.
So much time built up that when they’re in bed it shouldn’t feel special. But it does, somehow, when they’re together and fumbling in the dark. It feels special when he has his lips on the back of Mickey’s neck, giving him a proper goodbye.
“Condom,” he mutters when Mickey’s reaching back and trying to guide him in, pressing the blunt head against his rim. “Fuck—condom, Mick.”
“Don’t need it,” he breathes, and it’s fuck– it’s so attractive. “Want to feel you raw.”
“Jesus–” Hips flinching in a stutter, heat running through him wild. “You can’t say that.”
“Why not?” Mickey groans. He’s pushing back and Ian’s holding himself at the base. Raw, okay? Feeling each other properly, he’s clean. “Gotta ask for what you want, Gallagher.” Louder. “Right? Communication, we gotta do that.”
“Yeah.” Mumbling. Fuck. “Communication.”
He sinks in slowly.
“Fuck.”
Lets Mickey get adjusted to his size and tries to squeeze his eyes shut to ground himself. So tight. Mickey’s walls are constricting around him and it feels so good.
And Ian wants to please him. In this ridiculously innate sense. He wants to make sure they both remember this, and it’s never something that they’re able to get over. But it’s been so long since he last had sex, and now he’s doing it with the guy he feels so much for, he can’t really be the god he thought he was. Just, collapsing.
“Oh my god,” Mickey breathes out, gaspy.
They start slow but it doesn’t end that way, more like punched out moans and clumsy thrusts. But it’s perfect, and it’s passionate, and Ian really loves being inside of him. Needs to do this forever.
“Fuck.” His spend leaking out of him, too lazy to get up and clean. “Mickey…”
There’s a feeling in his chest. It’s fuzzy and stagnant, and kind of committed to watching Mickey’s lips part when he breathes. Nothing crazy, just there. Settled and making it feel like he’s swallowed a lump.
Mickey’s just in his bed and Ian can’t think of anything except how warm he is, how nicely he tucks into his arms.
Fuck.
Slow blinking. Hazy blinking. He doesn’t want to guess what the feeling is, just knows that it’s there and it’s beating and truthfully it’s been brimming under the skin for a while, backed up behind the skittishness that made this so drawn out. So his chest rises and it falls and he has to press a kiss to the top of Mickey’s hair just to remind himself it’s real.
The start of the end.
Miami, Florida.
This is why he doesn’t do relationships.
It’s hard to really accept but there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Nothing except go about his days while Mickey ties up loose ends in the city.
They’ll stay in contact, they talked about that. And they’ll keep wearing their rings, and telling other people they’re taken, and there’s nothing to indicate they’ve broken up, but it still sort of feels that way. Still feels a bit unpleasant.
“You’re thinking,” Mickey grumbles, ruffling Ian’s hair with his free hand. “Stop it.”
He collapses down with an open beer, and raises a brow.
“What we watching?”
“Don’t care,” Ian mutters. “Something sad?”
“Melodramatic much?” Mickey scoffs, but he turns on a sad film anyway.
He really is leaving.
Huh.
They only have sex the once. It’s not because they’re holding back, just because they don’t want to ruin the other moments. And the drive is there because every time he looks at Mickey he wants him. But it’s different. They just want to sit in the garden and share a cigarette now, because the smaller moments matter a bit more.
Flicking off the ash, and touching the soil.
The time passes.
The day that Mickey leaves is the same as any other.
It’s cold outside, because it’s always cold these days. When the days are shorter, and the light feels soulless, winter will always be dim. But Mickey’s got his hat on. And his hands are bundled warm, and Ian can’t blame the winter for everything. He thinks that without it, they’d never have even met.
Mandy’s sitting in the car.
She came in for a drink an hour ago, then said they needed to pack it up. It’s a 20 hour drive to Miami, they should go before the daylight does.
But Mickey’s still standing there.
On the drive, by the road. And Ian wants to kiss him.
But that’s not going to happen anymore. Everyone leaves, it was only a matter of time.
“I guess this is it then,” Mickey seems to breathe. It’s so quiet when Mickey’s usually loud. It’s so final, even if the words pretend they’re not. “This is goodbye.”
It feels a bit like breaking. A hollowness. Ian’s eyes won’t water, they’ll just sting, they’ll sting and they’ll sting and they’ll sting, because oh, he wants to cry. He wants to pull him close. But this is it, after everything it’s just this standing outside of his house.
Mickey’s last memories here won’t be sad, he won’t let that happen.
“Don’t say that,” he mutters, shaking his head. (He called out of work today, because he thinks that coming home to an empty house, a cold one, would break him.) “You can come back whenever you want.”
“And do a 20 hour drive?”
“Or a 5 hour flight.”
He can’t see those ears—the ones he’s grown so attached to, but right now he thinks they’d be flattening. They’d be pressing against the top of his head, and making themselves small.
“5 hours, huh?” Mickey echoes, as though he didn’t know the distance. “5 hours.”
There are bruises on his hips but they’ll fade in a week. In a week, there’ll be nothing on Mickey’s body to claim him at all. He’ll be able to erase Ian from his life entirely.
“Yeah. We can do that.”
Perhaps it’s the truth. Maybe, they’re just the words that Ian would want to hear too. But either way he stands there, and tries to make his knees stay strong—this feeble attempt at not breaking down in the middle of the street. It’s just, this is really it. Even now, he can’t believe it.
“Hey Mick,” Mandy’s got the car door open. “I’m sorry but we really have to go.”
And the way his lips part is instant. There are words that get caught in the back of Ian’s throat. Because if there was a time to say it then it would be now. If he could ever be selfish and beg him to stay, then now would be the time to do it. But Mickey doesn’t like Chicago. He doesn’t like the cold, or the streets, or the fact that there’s nothing to make him stay, so Ian smiles.
He can’t kiss him, not now.
“Take care of yourself,” Mickey says. On the street, in his hat, about to leave. “You’ve got to promise me that Gallagher, alright?”
It takes a few seconds for it to come out.
“I promise.” Then, “If you promise you’re not going to steal from anyone else out there?”
A brow quirks. “Anyone? That’s a big ask.”
“Fine,” Ian smiles. “How about you promise me you’re not going to go digging around in anyone’s gardens instead?”
To move in with them. To worm his way into every aspect of their lives, become so commonplace that when he leaves it’s like starting anew. (Where to start? How to act? How to live?)
“I think I can do that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The car horn honks.
“Mickey!”
“Fuck,” he sighs, looking back. “I should get going.”
Ian can’t reach out. “Yeah, you should.”
Because he’s powerless to it all. When Mickey smiles back, it’s happening. When he stills, like he doesn’t know what to do, it’s a decision made.
“See you around?”
All tentative. (They agreed they wouldn’t kiss goodbye, that that wouldn’t do them any good.)
So Ian nods.
“See you around.”
Because that’s easier than begging for him to stay.
Mickey, nodding. Stepping back. Leaving.
“Wait,” Mickey seems to realise, turning around and fishing through his pocket. “I bought this the other day. Put your number in.”
It’s a shitty phone, like one where the keypad has to be slid down. Ian takes it gingerly.
“This mean you’re going to keep in touch?”
It’s softer than he means it to be but Ian can’t keep the emotions out of his voice. He doesn’t think he wants to when Mickey smiles back.
“Course it does.”
So he types in his number slowly, handing the phone back over when he’s done. And Mickey won’t have any photos of them, he’ll barely have any data on that little thing, but Ian can’t help but feel sad when the contact image stays blank. He shuffles on two feet.
“Bye, Red.”
And wonders why a guy so expressive, has to leave.
“Bye Mick.”
So he’s pulled into a kiss.
A final kiss.
A languid one.
Where Mickey wants to bite him but obviously shows restraint, hands clutched so suddenly to the sides of his face. And Ian wants to melt. He knows that these are the times where he needs to, where the last few seconds will be the ones always remembered. But he can’t. His shoulders are stiff and his back is tense, and Mickey is slipping away too quickly.
This is it.
He tries to remember the taste.
“Fuck, Mickey.”
But the car door is already closed, and the engine is already starting.
And Ian thinks his heart just broke.
“You’re an idiot.”
It isn’t helpful but it’s Lip.
He sighs down the phone. “Thanks.”
“Well you are,” he doubles down. “Why didn’t you ask him to stay?”
“I shouldn’t have to,” he says, instead of admitting that all of his thoughts are in a mess. “If he wanted to stay then he would have.”
“You really believe that?”
No.
But, “What am I meant to think?”
Lip calls him dumb a thousand and one times. Says that obviously he wanted to, that he’s got a family and just because they’re fucked up it doesn’t mean other people don’t care where their siblings go. And it isn’t comforting, but it makes him less resentful. He can’t hate Mandy for wanting her brother around, not when there’s a hybrid dead in the news every week.
Except, how is it fair that she gets him, and he doesn’t?
None of it’s okay.
That’s just the state of things.
One week.
It passes slowly. Monday, then Tuesday, then onward.
Ian doesn’t mean to count it, not at all, except he does. He finds himself sitting with Rita, having lunch, and wondering if Miami is warm in Wintertime. If the sun rises in the same position, then falls across the other.
Mickey never liked the cold.
Ian doesn’t like it either.
“Kathy!” Ian nearly collapses when he sees her. Worse for wear, grey, but alive. “You’re back.”
“I am,” she smiles. “It’s good to see you.”
“Are you doing okay?”
He doesn’t want to admit that the little old lady down the street has actually been weighing on his mind for quite some time now, but he hopes it’s obvious enough. That, she knows, and got his flowers, and doesn’t have any more bad news.
“I’m alright,” she says. Quiet, quiet, strange. “Happy to be in my own house again.”
Prying would be wrong. Invasive at the least. But something about the way she says it nags. It hits all the wrong spots, enough to make him frown.
“Just alright?”
“You know how it is, dear,” she hums. “It’s just a matter of getting older.”
Maybe his mouth dries up. Maybe he’s imagining it. But Kathy getting older is just another inevitable.
When he goes home, he doesn’t have anyone to tell it to.
Mandy’s number is disconnected.
“I miss you,” Ian says, quietly.
The phone feels warm against his face, heat from being on while he plucked up the courage to call.
“I miss you too,” Mickey says, tinny on the other end. “S’weird being out here.”
He called once and it didn’t go through, probably while he was unpacking, but it still felt like dread running through him. Like maybe Mickey wasn’t going to answer, that this wouldn’t carry on. But on the second call, he picked up. And that stupid worry disintegrated.
“Is it warm?” He asks, because he’s cold. He’s on the couch, in sweats and a t-shirt and he’s waiting for the heating to pick up.
“Barely,” Mickey scoffs, then a pause. “You wearing your ring?”
“No,” he chuckles, but it’s hanging down on his neck. “Of course.”
“Good,” Mickey says. “I am too.”
The chatter’s boring. When they can’t see each other it’s bland, but Ian’s still hanging on.
“You been to the beach yet?”
He can almost hear him shaking his head. “Think we’re gonna go down tomorrow,” Mickey hums. “See if the view’s worth it.”
It will be.
“Okay,” he hums. “You think you can call me again after?”
A second.
“Gallagher,” a little huffed. “Of course I will.”
There’s something about gardening that’s still therapeutic, two weeks later, when the rain comes down.
It’s been a dry season, starving all across the board. But today when it rains, it pours, and Ian can’t help but sit in the garden, with his plants, and watch them bloom.
Rain can leach nutrients from the soil, if there’s too much. It can cause mud to splash, can make fungal spores spread. Ian doesn’t know too much about the specifics, he researched broadly but was always the more hands on type—in JROTC, in basic, in everything. But he thinks the tomatoes could use some rain.
They’ve spent so long without.
“Hey,” Ian says.
It’s tired today but he’s trying to keep it out his tone, pretend that his forehead isn’t pressed to the counter and his body isn’t bent at the waist. He doesn’t smoke alone, and not when he isn’t drunk, but it’s the kind of day where either would be appreciated. Where he kind of just misses human touch.
“Hey,” Mickey frowns, but there’s something quieter about it too, an, “Uh.”
Instant. “What’s wrong?”
Is he hurt? Or sick? Or did something happen to Mandy? Her phone wsa off, it wouldn’t be a surprise? What is it? What–
“I don’t have many minutes left on this thing,” Mickey ends up saying. “Won’t be able to put any on for a few days either.”
At first it doesn’t click. So what?
But then he processes it. No more minutes means no calls. No credit means no texting either. On Mickey’s shitty phone that’s all they have.
His voice is caught in his throat. “Why?”
“Blew through my money quicker than I thought,” Mickey says, offhand. “Bought something a bit impulsively.”
“What’d you get?”
He clicks his tongue. “Mind your business, Gallagher.”
An already shitty day, slowly getting worse. What’s so bad that Mickey can’t tell him? A new guy he’s going to spoil? No, shut up, that’s not fair. Just, ask…
“So you won’t be able to call me?”
“Yeah,” Mickey sighs, but he tries to pick it up. “Think we can still talk from your end though. Not really sure how it works.”
“Okay.” That’s something. He tries to stand straight, ends up back where he was at the start. “I’ll call you.”
“Good.” That’s the end of it. “Tell me about your day.”
A ticket from Chicago to Miami could cost $78.
Mickey’s phone is disconnected too.
Friday.
Saturday.
There’s an ambulance and it’s racing down the road. Ian sees it when he’s walking home from work.
He doesn’t know who’s on shift, or why the siren is so loud, but what he does know is that before it can turn the street, it’s stopping.
Right outside of Kathy’s house.
Sunday.
“Maybe you should go out,” Lip says, he’s at his and Tami’s place and he’s trying to be helpful, but it really isn’t working.
Ian hums slightly. “Where?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “A bar? Meet someone new. Get your mind off of it.”
“Banging someone isn’t going to make this hurt less.”
Not to mention the fact he’s in a relationship.
“It might.”
He fixes him a glare.
“Or you can never have sex again?” Lip rolls his eyes. “I don’t know?”
In a brotherly sense, it’s helpful. Just saying that the world ticks on, but, “I really like him, Lip,” is all he can think. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never felt this way before.”
“Not even with–”
“No.” None of his ex’s compare to this. “No-one.”
So Lip shrugs. “Go get him back then,” he says. “Fly to Florida. Do some big grand gesture.”
“He left.”
“Jesus Christ,” it’s a sigh. Lip’s a good guy, sometimes that gets blurred, but it’s tough love. “You’ve got to stop moping. Life goes on.
“I don’t think it will.”
He’s hit straight in the head with a pillow. Fine, that was dramatic.
Anyway, “Can I stay here tonight?”
Lip frowns. “What?”
“My house is too quiet.”
It really is. It’s hard to lie in bed when he’s got so used to having a separate side. Hard to cook when he’s used to doubling the recipes. The whole house lacks life, it’s draining.
“Ian.”
“I’m fine with the couch,” he tries. Then he cheats a bit, “I just don’t want to be alone.”
He knows the moment it works, because Lip’s eyes close, head shakes.
“Fine, yeah,” he huffs, probably off to go beg Tami. “I’ll get you some blankets.”
It’s still one the worst nights of sleep he’s ever had.
Monday.
Tuesday.
Tuesday.
It starts with a knock.
Knocking*
Like hammering on the door.
It starts on a Tuesday with a knock and Ian’s gotten quite used to things happening when he least expects it—so for a little while, he ignores the sound. If it’s Lip, he’ll call. If it’s Debbie she’ll leave a message. Because there’s nothing special about a knock, everyone does it, with the same cadence, force, pressure. It’s as simple as that, and yet it’s never ending. For five minutes, just knocking.
It’s just, the knocking doesn’t stop.
Knocking, so loud it feels like being throttled, loud on the door, in his ears. And Ian’s tired. It’s early, near 7A.M, and he really wanted to have a lie in today. He only gets one day off a week, and this one he was going to celebrate by eating pizza and watching reruns. It was going to be great.
But this knocking stirs him.
Feet on the floor, hands rubbing his eyes. He’s got to go through the motions, tugging on a sweater just so he’s not too cold on the way down. Jesus. Whoever’s here couldn’t have waited until noon? He’s grumbling the whole way there. Pissed off and tired and when he gets to the door he doesn’t even bother to look through the peephole, just swings it open and… And…
Holy shit.
Holy fucking shit.
“Hey Gallagher.”
As casual as the day he met him.
Ian’s hand is frozen on the door handle.
Holy shit.
That smile. “You think I could come in for dinner?”
He doesn’t think he can move.
Blinking. He blinks.
What the fuck?
Because Mickey is in Florida. He’s in Miami with his sister, living in their new apartment with their new jobs and friends, and he’s not standing on Ian’s doorstep. Here, in Chicago. Bundled and warm, and absolutely definitely real.
He’s got to rub at his eyes, make sure the sleep is all washed away.
But there, when he drops his firsts, Mickey just raises a palm, a bag full of groceries dangling in the air.
“I got groceries. Figured we could make something up.”
Mouth agape. Standing.
“Ian?”
Remembering to breathe. This is real. Mickey’s here. (How is he here?)
“What…?” Is all he can say, because he’s still not able to breathe, thinks he’s going lightheaded from how much he stares. “How are you– you’re here?”
He’s in his hat. Ian never thought he’d be so happy to see a hat before, didn’t think it was possible. But his lungs feel like they’re swelling and his breathing is getting stuck in his throat all the same. Holy fuck. Mickey came back. Mickey came back for him?
“Yeah.” Eyebrows raise. “Is that okay?”
Of course it is.
The words can’t claw their way out. All Ian can do is pull the door open a little bit more.
“Where do you want this?” Mickey asks. “Is the counter okay?”
Like he never even left. Mickey, taking his coat off. Mickey placing the grocery bag on the counter. God, Ian’s going to think this memory will be with him forever. The complete bonelessness at seeing it all unfold. He closes the door. Can’t stop to lock it in case Mickey will disappear in the seconds he’s turned away.
Maybe it was raining. Maybe that’s why Mickey’s got to shake off his head the second he pulls his hat off. But either way, he’s got his hands on the counter and his ears are springing up and Ian’s knees buckle.
This is happening.
He needs to move.
“You’re here.” Like a tape recorder, over and over with the same three thoughts. “You’re in Chicago?”
He’s not articulate enough to explain it all. Not in touch enough to describe what it feels like. But it’s warm. As though his chest is rising, and his feet have to scrape across the floor. It’s moving slowly, hands trying to find somewhere to rest. And he needs to sit down, balance himself, somehow. Because Mickey is smiling at him. Holy fucking shit, this is real.
The grin. “Happy to see me?”
That’s what launches him across the room.
“Fuck.” Ian’s crushing him before he knows it. Enveloping him in the most bruising hug. He’s solid and he’s freezing and he’s being wrapped in Ian’s arms. Nose in dark hair, breathing in. Holy shit. “What the fuck, Mick?”
Up until now it could have been a hallucination. Ian thinks it when the body goes boneless in his hold. That, his meds could have been acting up. That, his mind has been going into overdrive, making things up, trying to hurt him. But he can’t deny the feeling of those arms. The back that’s firm under his palms.
Mickey’s just as broad and as little, and he fits against his chest just right. Ian doesn’t want to let him go. Still, he peels himself away.
In his kitchen. By the window. Mickey’s back.
“Miami wasn’t for me,” he says, in that lilted tone. The one that’s mocking but still somehow so authentic, like he raises his brows and curves his smile and asks, how could Ian ever think he’d stay away. “It’s too different.”
And how could Ian think he’d ever stay away? He stands in his sleep clothes and feels like an idiot. Inhale. Exhale. “I thought you needed the sun?”
“Yeah.” Without missing a beat. “Kind of sucks I didn’t get to see you burn there, Freckle Face.” Their knees knock together. “Figured, we could visit when the sun comes out?”
We. Ian hangs on it.
“It wasn’t what you thought it’d be?” He needs to ask.
“Mandy liked it. Said she couldn’t deal with my sulking anymore; made me get my shit together.” A click of the tongue, so entirely blasé and Mickey-like that Ian shouldn’t be emotional.
He shouldn’t think that Mickey went all the way to Florida and then all the way back, just because he missed him. But the thoughts run and they run and he needs to pull himself together.
It’s just, no one’s ever really cared about him like that.
No one has left and then come back because the thought of being away was just too difficult.
His shoulders shake.
It’s not overthinking. That’s why Mickey’s here, right?
He needs to question it.
“So you’re back?”
“Sold my phone, bought a plane ticket.” Mickey grins. His fingers find the waist of Ian’s sweats. “Hey Firecrotch.”
And Ian slams right into him.
Lips slotted together, hands grabbing by the waist to pull him close and catch him when he stumbles. It’s nasty. Mickey leaning up into him and kissing and kissing and–
“You’re back for good?” Between breaths, panting down.
He can’t wait for an answer, needs to kiss him again. Kiss him until he’s smiling, until Mickey’s face is pink and pale and he can’t pretend to be as unaffected as he wants. He’s not the tough guy, he’s turning to putty—Ian likes him so fucking much.
“Well I still kind of want to see the West Coast,” Mickey grins, barely pulling away. It’s dirty. It’s such a smirk, but God it feels like honestly. “You think you’ll take me there, Gallagher?”
It’s like going dumb. He doesn’t know how to stay upright.
“Depends.” More confident than he could ever feel. But he holds the side of Mickey’s face and it’s like the life comes flooding back. The ability to ask, the idea that he doesn’t have to live without this. “You gonna kiss me again?”
It’s so much.
When he pushes him against the counter. When he hauls him up with his hands on his thighs and grips him by the back of the neck. Mickey kisses like he’s figuring things out, hands and tongue and this isn’t going to be sweet. They can do sweet, they’ve figured sweet out. But after so long never thinking this could happen again, that’s not what they need.
Ian’s got to haul himself away, got to let himself hum because if he doesn’t then surely he’ll begin to wine.
Oh yeah. Mickey bought groceries.
“It’s a bit early for dinner,” he chuckles, letting their foreheads knock together.
“It’s stuff for soup.”
“Soup?”
“Yeah.” Mickey actually looks away. “Like, how you made before.”
Ian feels his eyebrows furrow. “I didn’t realise you missed my soup so badly.”
“Fuck off.” He gets a thump on the shoulder. “No, no. Like what you made the first time.”
He still doesn’t get it. “The first time?”
He half expects a glare, daggered eyes, annoyance. But instead, he sees Mickey burn. He looks away, shakes his head. “You made soup,” he mumbles. “Y’know, the first time we met?”
Oh. Ian’s starting to smile. “I’m pretty sure the first time we met you ran away.”
“You know what I mean.”
He’s standing there between Mickey’s legs, draped over him like that’s where he’s meant to stay. Thinking back to all those months ago. Humming, then having to frown. “I don’t remember that.”
“Probably wasn’t important to you,” Mickey huffs, but it’s joking. “It was the first hot meal I’d had in a while, though—couldn’t understand you.”
“Yeah?” Ian figured that bit out. “I couldn’t understand you either.”
He watches Mickey breathe his laugh, rolling his eyes when he leans back. “Whatever. I thought the soup would be a nice gesture. Turns out you don’t even remember it.”
“If you wanted to make a gesture then you should have brought some pizza dough.” Contemplates. “And some wine.”
“Wine?” Mickey bites his tongue. “Wine’s expensive, Gallagher.”
“I’m not worth it?”
Thighs squeeze around him. “You really want me to answer that?”
God, Ian’s missed him.
“I should put that stuff away,” he grumbles. Refrigerate the perishables, unpack the rest. But there’s a hand on the side of his face and he lets it guide him away.
“We can do it later,” Mickey says. “There’s some stuff I want to take care of first.”
“Oh.” Brows pull together. Errands, really? “Are you going to be long?”
Because he really doesn’t want to move, not when he’s got a leg hitched up on his waist and Mickey’s starting to warm up. Melt.
But lips are stretching wide. “You’re a fuckin’ idiot.” Mickey hums, groping him, hard. He bucks forward, forces Ian to fall into him. “Bedroom, Gallagher. Now.”
And oh, now he gets it.
There’s no time to call Lip, or anyone, or anything. No time to check his phone, no time to brush his teeth. Right now, all he can do is let this happen.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“Fuck.”
Ian’s never been the type to cry during sex. He gets emotional. Thinks, that sometimes, those emotions get the better of him. They bottle up, then burst out, and it’s why he denied himself something so amazing for so devastatingly long. But he doesn’t cry.
Today won’t change that.
Maybe it’s pathetic. Maybe, it’s a testament to all the times he was told he should be more in tune with those emotions, because he’s gay, and therefore intrinsically different to every other guy on the street. But right now, Ian won’t let himself sob. He’ll crumble, and he’ll kiss the pinkness of Mickey’s lips, but he won’t cry.
Not today.
“Never do that again,” he begs, because there are limits to his strength. Limits, when he’s hovering above him and trying to meld their skins together. Mickey takes him so well. Mickey reacts to every touch so perfectly. Claiming him. “Never, leave like that again.”
Fuck. The way he arches. How he grabs at Ian’s shoulders, then his arms and drags him down, so he’s got to put a hand against the headboard to stay put.
Lips that part, eyes that Ian can read. Now, he can actually understand. He feels the words, Mickey’s desperation. “I don’t plan to.”
And Ian breaks. Shudders. His whole body wracks with nothing but need. Because he’s above Mickey, inside him, but it’s still not enough. He needs to burrow beneath his skin, needs to feel him every second of every single day.
Collapsing, on the bed. Skin tacky. He thinks the sweat is sticking to the sheets. They should get up and yet they don’t.
Mickey. His breathing is loud.
And his hand, so slowly, finds Ian’s elbow. It falls down, ghosts each freckle, and Ian knows he’s careful in every movement. Knows, that even if his eyes are closed, Mickey’s watching him. Slowly taking him back in. They get to have this every day.
The squeeze makes him open his eyes.
Face to face, lying on his back, with the tomato-thief that ruined him. He can hardly believe it.
“You still got any doubts?” Mickey whispers, mutters, breathes.
The smile cracks.
“You came back.”
Mickey rolls his eyes. He’s still touching him though, soft, in Ian’s bed.
And it makes the cogs turn. The question of where they really left off. After all this time, Ian’s learned that he just has to say it. That, the refusal to simply talk is what causes the frustration. So he doesn’t look away. He looks at Mickey, with the racoon ears, and the sex-crazed hair, and he speaks.
“This is–” Stutters. “Does this mean that we’re a couple?”
There’s a blink. A slow blink.
Then Mickey squeezes.
“You’re my boyfriend,” he says, and it’s definite. “You’re my fuckin’ boyfriend, Gallagher, you got that?”
He’s still not going to cry. He just has to bite his lip, to stop the prickling from under his skin, to force the stinging out of his eyes.
“Fuck, Mickey,” he exhales, hand coming up to the side of his head. “I’m never going to let you go.”
When he kisses him, he means it.
“Hey guys,” Ian beams. “You’ve met Mickey. My boyfriend.”
Lip grumbles over his glass. Debbie raises a brow. And Carl just nods.
“Cool.”
“Nice.”
“You owe me fifty bucks.”
Ian scowls.
So there’s this thing that happens in the summer.
When the wind gets warm and the light lasts longer.
Ian sits outside with a book. He has his glasses on low, and they reflect the sun’s glare profusely. He’s in a deck chair, sipping lemonade because he can.
And it’s warm.
So entirely warm, sticky with heat and tackiness and all the effects of a Chicago summer. And in those few moments, he smiles, because the tomatoes have bloomed.
Mickey, on the other end of the garden. Mickey with animal ears and a grin, and dirt on the tracks of his palms. He scrunches his nose up at bugs, and pokes the plants as though they’ll grow faster. And Ian thinks he’s beautiful.
He thinks, that when Mickey looks at him, he’s beautiful too.
So there’s this thing that happens in the summer.
Where he kisses him and he thinks that winter won’t be so cold. And maybe one day, he’ll have the strength to ask if Mickey would follow him to California. If he took the job transfer and put this house on the market, he would come.
For now, he doesn’t ask.
He sits in the garden and he watches Mickey dig, and he thinks that one day, he’ll tell him he loves him.
That day will come soon enough.
