Work Text:
“Sit down, Ian.”
Ian raised an eyebrow, petulant as he was, “I'd rather stan-”
“I said sit,” the bitten command was followed by Ian with little argument, though he did stick his chin out and fold his arms as he settled into the hard chair of his coaches office, sighing heavily with annoyance. The man in question, Hugh, scowled at his gymnast and sat with a thump in his own chair behind the desk, rubbing thick fingers against his temples in a wasted attempt to keep another Gallagher-induced headache at bay. Ian pursed his mouth and licked at the inside of his cheek, bouncing his knee whilst trying to keep his temper in check, letting his nose flare a little when Hugh raised his tired eyes to meet the put-out face sitting across from him.
The stare down lasted a moment too long and Ian cracked under the cool pressure of his coach's glare, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, folding his fingers together, “Don't see what the problem is here.”
“You wouldn't,” Hugh snapped, sitting straight in his place, his stare hard and edging very close to irritated. “You never do though do you?” Hugh said flatly, blinking while Ian felt his cheeks flush as his ire flared from his toes to his ears, knowing he looked every bit as pissed off as he felt sitting there like some kid getting a scolding from the principle. Only this wasn't as simple as that and he knew it, that's why he was so annoyed that the blame was being pinned on him and Ian was finding it very hard not to fly off the handle and yell in his coach's face.
“Still don't understand why I'm the one copping all the flack here. He dropped me. He dropped me!” Ian narrowed his eyes and scoffed when Hugh put his hand out to stop him from exploding, turning his heated stare from his coach to the water dispenser in the corner, imagining it melting into a fizzling pool of nothing from his laser-hot glare.
“You wound him up to the point where he couldn't concentrate properly. You pushed and pushed and pushed him to the brink, and when he failed, he couldn't even pull up any remorse for dropping you on your pretentious ass!” Hugh snapped, rubbing his hands over his face quickly with clear frustration. “He was beyond excellent and you know it, and yet you forced him out like you've done with every other spotter I've gotten you. The hell, sunbeam?! He was the seventh one to quit in the last four fucking months, Ian!” Hugh was yelling now, slamming his hands down flat on the table with such force that his computer screen wobbled and Ian jumped a little, feeling a touch flighty now he was facing his coach's rage. Ian could tantrum all he liked, yell, scream, bitch and lash out, but his coach was a whole other element and he was one Ian knew not to push when he lost his temper. Sheepishly, Ian turned his gaze back and hung his head after an intense three second catch of Hugh's fiery eyes.
“I'm sorry. I don't know why I do it-”
“I fucking well do, you little shit!” Hugh barked, “You don't like them. It's that simple. They don't push your boundaries, they don't argue with you, they don't give you anything to feed off of and you hate that. I know you very well, Ian, and I've had enough of this ridiculous chip on your shoulder. If you don't like the spotter, you goddamn say so and I'll keep looking. You have to work closely with the guy so your say is important, as important as mine, and I'm sick of losing extremely talented spotters because you like playing stupid fucking games- you know what? I'm getting real mad here, my blood pressure is rising and the wife will kick my ass if I have a heart attack because of you and your stuck up nose. Go, get out of here, maybe grow up a bit while you're gone?!”
Ian snapped his ashamed face up and screwed it up in apology, feeling like an asshole, “Coach-”
“I said go, Ian,” Hugh sighed, rubbing at his temples again, staring at the wood of the desk. “It's the weekend. Do something with it. Come back Monday morning with a new mindset and attitude and I won't kick you off the team. Be warned, you'll hopefully have new a spotter waiting and I know the perfect guy, if he's willing. Never thought to ask him before but then that's because I had other options and he would have more-than-likely beat the ever loving fuck out of you for even attempting to look down on him, let alone speak the way you do. I'll call him. If he won't, you're out of the running so you best hope your last chance agrees, hm?”
Ian gave a stoic bob of his head and swallowed. Well, shit.
–
Monday morning came around with a capital letter and a heavy weight clawing at Ian's shoulders as he pulled into the parking lot of the gymnasium, eyeing it warily as he shut off the engine. It was early and yet the place was full of cars and near every single one of them he recognised. Except one. It was parked in the space next to Hugh's red Chrysler, a deep blue Ford Kuga with a little yellow tree shaped air freshener hanging from the rear view. It was inconspicuous and yet, it was imposing and threatening the hell out of Ian the longer he stared at the car gleaming like a sapphire in the morning sun. It probably belonged to a mother bringing her kid in for the under-10's activity day over on the other side of the massive building. Much as he tried to think that as he hauled his heavy body out of the car, warily staring at the Kuga as he rounded the back of his Civic type-R and popped the trunk, something told Ian that the person who owned that beast of a car was going to own his ass in the next hour and not in a manner that sat well with him. Staring at it still, Ian tossed his bag over his shoulder and carefully dropped the trunk door so he didn't grind his nerves further – he hated when people slammed any door on his car. It was his pride and joy and the one luxury he'd managed to attain over the years and God damn anyone who slated, harmed or purposefully dirtied his white beauty of a machine. He tore his gaze off the blue car and locked his own, striding away towards the main doors to wind his way through the arena to the hall he usually found himself in during the week.
There was nothing said, written or drawn in warning that could have prepared Ian for the sight of an unfamiliar gymnast throwing himself around on the pommel horse when he entered the hall, all noise whiting out and all vision tunnelling to this guy swinging his legs up and around the apparatus like he was made to do only that. The hard line of his pin-straight back was apparent through his vest as the black material clung to him like a second skin, riding up with every swivel his hips gave in rotation, exposing the curve of his hip and line of his tight abdomen as he moved his whole body. His arms bunched as he turned in rotation, straight legs up and over, up and over, toes pointed and steady as he swung and moved so quick and powerful that Ian forgot where he was. He was certain his mouth was hanging open as he watched the guy move to dismount, still no idea of what he actually looked like as Ian's eyes had glued to the body and the way it moved and rolled and bunched under the onslaught of movement. Unknown Guy moved into a handstand and dismounted one-handed, landing without any difficulties in poise, back still to Ian as he pulled in deep breaths that had his whole body heaving under Ian's fascinated stare.
“Gallagher, ass in here,” Hugh's voice snapped Ian's attention to the right for a second and he nodded, his feet taking him into his Coach's office even though his eyes craned his head to get another peek at this stranger who had walked out of a magazine. Holy fuck was Ian's blood speeding through his body like a locomotive, and yet, as he tried to glimpse the face that belonged to the built and lithe body, he found the guy had vaporised. “Hey, bean pole, pay attention to where you're going!” Hugh's bark caught Ian's attention just as his chest collided with the door frame, saving him from going full body slam into the hard edge, though the thump to his sternum ached and he rubbed at it absently, shutting the door while peering through the slats of the blind to spot the beauty in the green beanie and low riding, matching gym-pants.
“Sorry.”
“Listen, I hope you did as I asked and today I'm looking at a willing-to-buck-up Ian Gallagher and not brat-features-extraordinare?” Hugh asked, folding his meaty arms over his chest to stare Ian down. Not many could stare him down in reality as his height proved it difficult, but Hugh was a taller and bigger brick wall and Ian found himself shrinking under the unimpressed and yet curious stare of his mentor.
“More than willing, Coach,” Ian conceded with a dip of his head and little bow, spreading his arms out.
“Don't be a little shit, Ian,” Hugh sighed as his gymnast straightened and flushed a little. “I have both good and horrific news for you! I'm just going to come out with it because to be honest with you kid, it's all wrapped up in one package,” Hugh flashed an eyebrow and Ian felt his skin chill as the guy curled one side of his mouth up in a smirk, “You have a new spotter. My guy agreed and he's here and he's waiting to introduce himself before you spend the day with him. You will get to know him as a person this time, not a spotter, not an employee and you will fucking behave and be civil because if you don't at least give him the benefit of the doubt considering this is the first meeting, you don't know him, he doesn't know you, you gotta work out what works best... you're gone. Am I clear?”
Ian gave another bob of his head and swallowed, both nodding and shaking his head because shit, this was really going to happen if he clashed with this spotter off the bat. This was one of the biggest tests he'd faced, reigning in his automatic self-preservationist disposition towards people. “Crystal Coach, crystal,” he croaked, rolling his bottom lip under his tongue while Hugh blinked a few times in thought.
“Good. I don't want to lose your talent, kid, you're really good at what you do but you're an asshole of the likes I have never known previous,” Hugh narrowed one eye and tipped his head toward the hall outside of his office. “Should be by the crash mats to start warm-up with you. He's an old-school gymnast, used to compete before he got hurt bad because his spotter was as useless as you like to think those I pick are. He knows exactly what he's doing and because of the accident he had, he's over observant and intricate. That's why I left him to last, he just knows his shit. He's got the all the markings for a coach but he doesn't want the kind of scope I get with all you guys, he prefers one-on-one so, you've got the best I could hope to hire this side of the fucking planet, you hear? He's more than ample and I've given him reign over you, kind of stepping in when I'm busy as hell with the rest of the group. You respect him, he'll get the best out of you while keeping you as safe I would. He's your ticket to the Games, boy, do not fuck this up.”
With Hugh's fiery warning, Ian was out of the office and walking double speed to the changing rooms to put his bag away. He had no changing to do as he had his kit on but he needed to remove his socks, shoes and jacket at least. As he went through the left side of the double doors, he very nearly collided with a guy coming out the same way; Ian wobbled and a hand curled around his arm to steady him.
“Left in, left out, man, Jesus,” Ian hissed, his voice dying quickly while dodging the scowl of Satan himself as the shorter guy merely scoffed and shoved the door open harder, staring Ian down despite being eye-level with Ian's mouth as he let go of his elbow. For the second time in ten minutes, Ian found himself shrinking under the stone-hard glare of an imposing figure, only this one wasn't taller and that made him all the more unnerving but, at least Ian now knew what Green Beanie looked liked up close; fierce scowl, black hair and piercing blue eyes that framed a perfectly straight nose, eyes that had made Ian regret speaking the second they snapped to his face, holding for a moment before the guy was gone, thundercloud and electric air trailing him and his I own this floor walk.
Barefoot and slightly shaken by Short Stack wandering about being all new and like he'd been there since the universe had been created, Ian was edgy as he wound around the hall along the sidelines, meandering between other gymnasts and giving light greetings, eyes peeled for the broody guy but he'd vaporised again. The crash mats were up on the elevated level with the trampolines at the back end of the hall, overlooking the other two thirds of floor littered with apparatus and, as he climbed the short staircase, his heart jumped into his neck. There, waiting by the damn crash mats was Green Beanie in all his tight vested glory, and his gaze was on Ian as he reached the top step, realising that he was looking right at his new spotter. Well then.
“Left in, left out, right?” the guy teased, though it was only the light tilt of his voice that suggested he was teasing because holy hell that scowl was eating up his face. He lifted his chin as Ian sheepishly approached and widened his stance, his biceps bulging without being made to. Christ he was ripped and Ian hated the air he had about him as soon as he was within five feet of his stocky presence.
“We follow rules here,” Ian pursed his mouth, mirroring the pose defiantly, “Stops accidents. You know, doors break noses and crush toes? Would've thought you'd know that seeing as you're some vet gymnast.”
The guy snorted and rose his eyebrows so fast, Ian was momentarily stunned still, dipping his head while his face contorted into an incredulous expression the longer he stared at Ian, “Smart mouthed really doesn't cut it, fuck me.” The guy rubbed a hand over his face and when his features reappeared, Ian was struck a little by how soft he looked for a fleeting second, calculating and pretty as he spread a hand out, “OK, me bein' a veteran and all that bullshit, you've had the run down from Hugh so you know what I'm about. Now, how's about this for starters; you put up and shut up or you turn the fuck around, go down to the office and tell Hugh just where he needs to post your reference. You either can it and we make this work or you don't, choice is yours, wise guy, 'cause it ain't my ass on the line.”
That smug, all-knowing grin curling his rosy lips had Ian's blood boiling for a whole other reason; fuck, he hated him. “Hugh said you wanted to do warm-up so, let's start with stretching,” Ian spat, barely able to hold the annoyed heaviness out of his voice.
“Before I put my hands on you, I need your name, left in, left out. Hugh told me your surname but that's it,” his spotter moved back a little.
“Ian.”
“Well, Ian, I'm Mickey. Now,” Mickey shoved a crash mat back with a grunt, his ass pushed out in Ian's direction and if he wasn't so inclined to want to pull his hair out, Ian might have admired the swell, but as it was, he wanted to kick it hard enough to break his own toes, “I found it helps to understand a guy easier if you engage in a physical exercise so you can gauge his temperament, his strength and all that. Nothing like a fist fight to bring out the ugly in someone... not sayin' we're gonna fight though. See, we gotta know if I can handle your weight, where to be gentle 'cause some people have sensitive areas unlike others and, purely for the fun of it, if you ever fancy testing me, you gotta know what the fuck you're gonna piss off. So, kick boxing to start, but no contact, just lift your legs and duck and all that shit. I gotta know just how far you can push your joints. I gotta know when you're gonna give, a'ight?”
Ian nodded, totally on board for showing this fucker just what his longs legs can do, “Like a trust building thing?”
“Kind of, yeah, but more of a who am I dealing with thing, if you know what I mean. Anyway, circle me and defend, though, like I said, I ain't gonna touch you and you ain't gonna touch me unless you stumble. You gotta learn to use me to steady yourself,” Mickey said, moving to stand in the middle of the area, swinging his arms to loosen his shoulders and kicking his legs a bit. Knowing how high they could go and at what angle too, Ian felt a slight bit jealous. He'd never mastered the pommel and his dislike of Mickey, knowing he was a fucking pro, was only growing the more he looked at the dark haired man. Mickey wasn't doing anything wrong either, and Ian knew it, he totally knew it and yet he wanted him gone. He didn't like him. But he loved his place on Hugh's team and without this Mickey becoming his shadow, he was out on his ass. Baring that in mind, Ian began side stepping around Mickey, picking up speed the more he did it.
“Got any music? I find it easier to warm up to music,” Ian asked, his voice jumping with his body and Mickey gave a little shrug, moving away to where the speaker system was by the stairs. Ian kept up his circling, pushing his legs further apart until Mickey ducked back into place and rocked side to side with his knees spread so far that Ian wondered if a tap to his ankle would have him involuntarily split. The bastard could probably split like a dream too.
“Come on then,” Mickey goaded, grinning as Call On Me started blaring out and Ian rolled his eyes so hard he almost fell over backwards with the motion. He kept his back straight and spun on the spot to bring his right leg over, kicking close to where Mickey's smug face should be, but he was ducking low enough to the ground that he should, by rights, be sat on it. Mickey kicked out at Ian's ankles and he jumped high in the air, tucking his feet under to avoid the swipe and make his thighs stretch. “Fuckin' get a load of Kangaroo Jack here! Got some powerful pins,” Mickey praised with a laugh and Ian felt his own smug bastard leak out because obviously Mickey was impressed by the height he'd pulled out and he wasn't even fully limber yet.
They alternated between one kicking high and the other low for a few full circles, Mickey very nearly taking Ian out with a kick aimed at his face, the smooth skin of the sole of his left foot so close to Ian's mouth that he could feel the heat off it. He expected the asshole to have a stink to his toes but no, the fucker had a baby powder scent and they were clean and well looked after and Ian loathed him and his damn feet.
“C'mon, pretty boy, you can do better than this. Push!” Mickey barked, ducking another one of Ian's attempts at kicking his teeth out. Pretty boy? Ian growled and forwent another kick, instead his anger bubbled out and he tackled the shorter man to the floor in a football slam, and didn't he go down hard. “The fuck?” Mickey croaked, his words stunted as his head bounced off the spring-loaded floor and his teeth clacked satisfyingly.
“Sorry, I stumbled,” Ian leered, wriggling to pin Mickey's legs with his knees and his fist-forming hands with his own larger ones, effectively trapping his new spotter on the ground with nowhere to go.
“Fuckin- what is your problem?” Mickey wheezed, his face twisting in pain as Ian's knee dug into the soft inside of his left thigh. “Get off man, enough,” Mickey stopped trying to escape and merely blinked up at Ian, no real trace of emotion on his face and it threw Ian a little, his grip loosening only a fraction because this guy wasn't scared of him at all, not a peep of fear or uncertainty in his eyes or in the way he went lax on the floor under him. He wasn't even annoyed. That was new.
“You're just going to lie there and take it?” Frowning with confusion, Ian found himself tumbling backwards with a bang against his back; Mickey moved quick and had managed to slip his right leg free and plant his foot, flat and sure, against Ian's midriff, bringing out some kind of mammoth strength to push him off and away a good few feet. This dude was an enigma and as Ian caught his breath and coughed, staring up at the high roof, he wasn't sure if he wanted to know him or fuck him off entirely. How was he so confident in knowing his counterpart after less than a hour? How could he throw Ian's cocksure attitude with a patient stare that held no animosity or worry, nothing but calmness and mild trust? He didn't know Ian wouldn't hurt him, he wouldn't but that wasn't a certainty to Mickey and he had had him pinned with his body weight, snarling in his face and yet the guy had barely flinched. The fuck was he? And the power in his leg. Ian had already seen how powerful Mickey was but still. Fuck this guy and his strength and his observational skills; he must have sussed Ian the second he'd seen him and God, if that didn't piss Ian off.
“Told you no contact but of fuckin' course you don't do as you're told!” Mickey's face appeared in Ian's eye line, a deeply suspicious scowl etched into it. “Get up and finish off this warm up shit you do. I'm gonna get the rings ready, asshole,” Mickey was gone with a grumble, bit through my damn tongue motherfucker, the floor shaking with his stride and jolting Ian a little before the shakes stopped entirely.
Ian hauled himself up and shook his head. Yeah, what was his problem? Not his fault Mickey was able to rile him up so fast, so screw him. Ian made his way down the stairs and across the hall to where Mickey was setting up the powder and mats around the rings, happy with the warm up he'd gotten. “You gotta boost me,” Ian noted, dipping his hands in the powder while Mickey moved back a little, licking his bottom lip as his eyebrows flicked up a bit.
“Honest to God, you think I don't fuckin' know that? If it weren't for your ass, we'd still be working on getting to trust each other and I'd know just how heavy you are but, as it stands, you fucked that up and now you gotta hope I can lift your stupid ass. C'mon, Kangaroo Jack, time to show me what I'm working at keeping in one damn piece,” Mickey motioned at the area under the rings and had the most unimpressed look on his face Ian had ever witnessed on anyone. Shrugging, because if he opened his mouth Ian was sure he would get a tooth torn out, he moved to stand in front of Mickey, shaking his arms and head to loosen his neck out a bit. He could feel Mickey's body heat behind him, the presence of his hands just below his shoulders in preparation to grip around his ribs and haul him up when Ian jumped. He smelled warm, like the warmth outside on a hot, still day but mingled with baby powder and something heavier, something more man than anything and Ian'd be a fat liar if he denied it didn't spike his body's natural pull towards such an arousing hit. Christ, the guy was breathing so steadily, poised to move as soon as Ian forced the spring into his legs, ready to catch him, ready to move him, ready to hold tight until he was satisfied with how he hung from the metal loops high above the floor. Mickey wasn't perturbed, he wasn't nervous at all and Ian could feel his confidence and the safety he encompassed radiating from him like a fan had been switched on behind him and was forcing it to billow everywhere. Asshole.
“OK,” Ian clapped his hands lightly and looked up, clocking where the rings hung. “One, two, three-” he pushed into a jump and immediately Mickey's hot hands were holding him tight just above his hips, sure and safe while Ian adjusted the grip of his hands and prepared to have his spotter let go and force all of his strength into his arms.
“You good?” Mickey asked from somewhere by his backside, his voice calm and steady, curious even, and not at all strained like Ian felt it should be because for fuck sake, he was holding Ian up in the air, his entire body weight while he toyed with the rings, not holding on at all, not taking any strain yet. “Come on, man, if you aren't happy, let me drop you and try again. If you can't do it-”
“Fuck you, I can do it!” Ian barked, looking down to see Mickey's bare feet sticking out from under his own hanging ones, the guys pale skin standing out against the dark mats and the loops around his feet that kept his gym pants from riding up. “Rings are my thing, or didn't you find that out, dumbass?”
“Like that is it?” Mickey chuckled and Ian yelled in shock as Mickey let go of him, Ian's hands gripping tight to keep him in the air but his fright had the rings swinging his body all over the place. “Yeah, looks like they're your thing, pal.”
“Fuck off, asshole,” Ian spat, looking down to see Mickey wander in front of him, arms folded as he checked over Ian's swaying body while he fought to keep still. Was he checking him out? Fucking better not be. No, Ian concluded, when Mickey shook his head and laughed to himself, he was checking how Ian hung, his grip and how the apparatus was working under the weight of a six foot plus man. Ian could see the blue eyes of his disgruntled spotter flashing everywhere and then he moved out of sight, behind Ian as he finally managed to hang perfectly still and straight.
“Do what you do, man, I'm right behind you,” Mickey called, observing and calculating everything Ian was doing even though all he was doing was pulling his body up until his arms were out straight, shaking a little under the strain. Knowing the fucker was watching only made Ian want to prove himself to this old-school clot-head; regardless of the voice in his head telling him he really didn't need to, Mickey was his spotter, not some guy he needed to impress or peacock to, Ian took a deep breath and went for it.
“Where you should be,” Ian snarled, grinding his teeth when Mickey scoffed loud enough for him to hear, then he dropped his arms and began throwing his body into loops and flips, abusing his apparatus much to Mickey's apparent amusement.
“Don't need to be so hardcore, man. Don't hurt yourself,” even though he said it with clear concern, Ian heard it as goading, taunting, and he pushed harder. “Yo, slow down Ian, seriously. I can't get a grasp on what you're doing here! Jesus, fucking hell man, calm down!”
“You shut up!” Ian gasped, throwing himself over in a loop, jolting his shoulders hard before holding his body out perfectly straight, “I know what I'm capable of!”
“Yeah, and I don't and I gotta know it all if you don't wanna end up busted and bruised! Smarter move would've been to start slow so I can see your weak points!” Mickey yelled over the sounds of Ian's breath being punched out of him with every forceful down swing, the rings chiming and the noise of the hall in general.
“Don't have a fucking weak point!” Ian shouted, wincing when his back twinged and his wrists stung under the force of holding himself upside down, rod straight. Ian knew he was pushing it too close, so when he swung down and let go, did the splits in a flip, his whole world narrowed to Mickey below him, watching him with open worry as his fingers tapped against the material of the sling on the side of the mat he had. As his less-than-adequately-dusted hands barely caught the rings, his body's momentum caught up and Ian's fingers slipped and he was falling, much to his utter horror and embarrassment, the air in his body flying out in a groan as he hit the crash mat Mickey had hauled over like a whippet.
“You OK?” Mickey asked softly, crouching near to Ian's head. Turning to look at him, Ian could see he was concerned and being genuine, no judgement or amusement, and yet...
“The fuck do you think?” Ian spat, groaning at he pushed to get off the mat. Mickey stood and ran a hand down his face. “If you hadn't been talking to me while I was trying to concentrate, I'd still be up there wouldn't I? Not nursing a sore back!” he knew as soon as he stopped talking that he shouldn't have said anything because it really wasn't anything to do with Mickey at all. It was his own spiteful streak, his compulsory need to be the best no matter who was there. Mickey rolled his lip in his mouth and looked down for a moment, Ian unable to work out if he was pissed off, blank or hurt or whatever as his own annoyance trickled through his body, his heart pounding.
Mickey lifted his head and stared hard for a second, a look that made Ian wonder if he was going to find himself on the business end of Mickey's simmering temper. “Know what? Go fuck yourself,” he shrugged, arms out and head shaking a little and then he was gone, his powerful gait taking him through the double doors to the changing rooms without a second glance back. Ian pinched his top lip between his teeth and stared at the wall nastily, letting his adrenaline wear out until all he felt was guilt. He'd not even managed the morning; Hugh was going to drop him like hot shit.
When Ian, both terrified and nervous, wandered into Hugh's office to tell him what he did before Mickey could, he found his coach sitting behind his desk, pinning Ian with a look that said he already knew and was seriously disappointed. That hurt more than if he'd yelled get the fuck out and find some place else, failure.
“Told you, huh?” Ian mumbled, sitting down when Hugh nodded over his folded fingers at the solitary sentencing chair.
“Uh huh, called me from his car,” Hugh drawled, his eyes sharp where they peered over his fingers, making Ian feel smaller than he ever had. “Said you were being a little bitch mostly, kept trying to rile him up, went against his requests blah blah but I had told him to expect that and it's nothing to him really. But then you went as far as to blame him for your stupid ass trying to prove something, pushing so hard that you fell from the rings. Mickey worried you'd really hurt yourself regardless of the crash mat he put under you, even after all the shit you'd been pulling, your well being was his first port of call. Genuinely thought you'd hurt your neck or something, and he felt like shit 'cause he is there to prevent that from happening. He was all about your sorry ass and was about to apologise for being a lame spotter, but then you opened your mouth didn't you? Proud of yourself? All that salt-in-wound rubbing must really make a man feel like he's Zeus.”
Ian hung his head and looked at his hands hanging between his knees. Mickey had done nothing wrong; he'd done everything right and still he blamed himself, felt terrible he'd failed when he hadn't and Ian had only made him feel worse, so awful that he'd barely retaliated and left. “I'm so sorry.”
“So you should be,” Hugh sighed, his tone as disappointed as Ian felt with himself. “But, it's not me you need to apologise to now is it? You'll get your chance,” Hugh smiled as Ian's head snapped up, “Oh, he hasn't quit because, unlike you think, he's not some walk-in who's going to put up with your crap, he's not a loser, he's not soft or weak, he's fucking hard-ball and you're lucky he's got a spine. He's taking the rest of the day to draw up plans for you because, believe it or not, he'd seen enough in that hour to know what he's working with. He'll be back in Wednesday morning, and so will you and I suggest you leave that fuckin' pretentious thou-art-holier attitude of yours in the trash where it belongs and tuck your tail in nice and tight.”
Ian swallowed and dabbed at his eye, “Understood coach. I'm sorry.”
“Wednesday, Ian, last chance. His words, not mine this time. He always gives a second one, but no more. You turn into princess bitch again, expect a revoke of your placement and membership as well as a tremendous ass kicking from Mickey because he ain't gonna stand for your lip again,” his coach warned passionately. Ian glanced up and nodded. Mickey hadn't given up and that was something Ian respected.
“I won't let you down, coach,” Ian assured, standing when Hugh sat back and pointed his pen at him.
“You never let me down, because I don't have expectations Ian, just belief. You let you down.”
–
It was Wednesday morning and Ian was terrified – not of Mickey, but of himself. Second chance and he just knew he was going to fuck up somewhere because of his stupid no-filter mouth. He was going to try though, really try and prayed that something gave way and he managed to just stop. Small mercies and all that. Ian knew himself though and he swore.
“Best get the applications in,” Ian muttered spitefully to himself as he pulled his car into the space next to dark blue Kuga, eyeing it as warily as he did before. It had to be Mickey's. It looked beautiful, easy on the eye and wonderful but under that pretty exterior, it was a powerful thing that would take Ian's Civic out if they ever collided. Much like Mickey to Ian. Not that Ian would ever openly admit he still found the fucker stunning to look at and watch and it made Ian hate him all the more. Locking his car as he walked away, Ian gave the Kuga a sharp look as he rounded the bonnet and went for the building, the blue catching the sun and gleaming at him like that fucking cocky smirk its owner had. Ian hated that car.
“Morning, sunshine!” Called Lorna on the front desk, holding out his pass, “Don't you look oh-so-fucking-jolly today! Who went and pissed in your coffee?”
“Shut it, miss,” Ian sarcastically grinned at her as he passed, snatching the card out of her manicured fingernails.
“You know, you should drop the attitude before you go in. Hugh is in a foul mood and the guy trailing him looks the embodiment of a thunder cloud. Seriously, drop it in the trash or don't go in. I can't afford a new funeral dress because of your ass,” she looked annoyed as she scowled at her computer screen, puffing her long fringe from her eyes.
Ian snorted and put his hand over his heart, “You'd go to my funeral?”
“That all you got from that? Piss off, Red, next time I won't give you a heads up,” she flipped her imaginary long hair over her shoulder and got busy typing away. Ian smirked at the back of her blonde head and sauntered through the corridors in search of Hugh and what he knew to be Mickey skulking about. Great.
“...not asking much. Come on, Mickey!” Hugh's bemoaning voice filtered out his office as Ian approached barefoot, thankful for the matted floor so he could eavesdrop.
“Not asking- I ain't teaching him that! If he's not got the hang of it after being here as long you say he's been, then I ain't gonna be able to teach him shit am I?” Mickey snapped back. “You've tried and where's that got you, huh?”
“Don't you throw that in my face, kid. I'm not able to physically show him like you can and he works best if he's got a visual he can work with. More of a practical learner than one who takes instruction.”
Mickey chuckled, “Got that right.”
Hugh sounded pained, “Don't fucking start. Look, I've tried with other guys showing him and his attitude always fucks it up but you don't seem to give a shit about it.”
“Tolerance. I can deal, I've dealt with worse.”
Hugh sighed and was quiet for a second, “Now, I've warned him ahead of today so hopefully he comes in well balanced and willing to try harder, work with you the way he should. If he doesn't, then I'm going to have to let go of the best gymnast in here and it makes me sick to think of doing that but you are my last hope at turning him around here. He needs to have every apparatus down in order to pass, you know that. Look, wipe that scowl off your face, asshole, I'm asking for your help here-”
“And I'm giving it. Nothing was said about me teaching him anything! I'm a spotter, not a coach,” Mickey pointed out and Ian frowned a little, glancing about to make sure nobody was watching him listening in on this. Whatever this was.
“I honestly think that if he was given the opportunity, he'd pick his ass up and commit properly and stop being a whiny little shit. If he thought we had honest faith in him, and I fucking do, he just doesn't see that, then he'd be the best he could. I know him and yeah, pretentious is his middle name, but give him this chance and he'll shine. He's a good guy when he lets you know him, just got a shitty shell he keeps himself hidden in.”
“Not doing it.”
“Mickey, you're killing me!” Hugh whined and Ian suddenly had the urge to cough. He fought it, panicking as he looked around to hide somewhere before it came out. “Please, just try, for me? He's got today to prove himself and if he fucks up, no skin off your nose, right?”
“Spotter, Hugh.”
“Fucking wasted on that and you know it! Goddamn it Milkovich, you stubborn fuck!”
Ian struggled and twitched and doubled over, coughing up a lung it seemed, and as his eyes watered and his stomach cramped, his blurry eyes could see two sets of shoes in front of him.
“Ian, you OK there boy?” Hugh looked worried as Ian stood and took a deep breath, wiping at his eyes. Mickey was folding his arms and frowning but then, when wasn't that ugly indent on his face?
“Yuh, yep, had a tickle,” Ian wheezed, regretting leaving all of his stuff in his locker, water bottle and towel included.
“Well, nice of you to join us at least. You're late,” Hugh smiled a little and looked at Mickey. “Mickey's going to teach you the pommel horse.”
If looks could incinerate, Hugh was ash. Mickey's head whipped around and he looked murderous as he stared at Ian's coach, jaw working while his nose flared and his fingers dug into his biceps. So that's what they had been talking about – well, talking was generous, more begging and ignoring than anything. Ian felt his belly flip at the idea as he'd never been taken seriously enough by anyone when he got on that piece of equipment and Hugh could, like he'd said, only tell him so much. Ian needed to be shown and from what he'd seen of Mickey Monday, he was more than perfect for the job but he didn't look happy to agree, angrily staring at Hugh who was daring with him a patient look down his nose, daring him to say no in front of Ian knowing it was something the gymnast really wanted. It was like denying a child a much wanted ice-cream to their face.
Mickey bit the inside corner of his mouth, the skin sinking in a little and then he sighed, dropping his arms, “Fuck, fine. This is your chance, Jack, to prove to Hugh you deserve to stay here and to prove to me that I'm not wasting my fuckin' time. Jesus!” Mickey growled and walked off, pulling his arms to stretch as he stormed as dramatically as he could over spring loaded floors towards the rings and pommel horse.
Hugh turned from smirking at Mickey's retreating back and levelled Ian with a stern look, “Don't fuck this up.”
Ian smiled, “Coach.” Then he was practically skipping to the changing rooms to switch his tracksuit bottoms for gym trousers, making sure his vest was tucked into the rib-high waistband and the foot loops tight and secure before he made his way back out to see Mickey filling the basin with powder. He was wearing his black and green combo again and had bandages wrapped around his palms and wrists, his feet bare and looped and for a split second, Ian's mind supplied cute at the sight of the shorter guy fussing and scowling. Ian frowned; he wasn't cute, he was dangerous.
“Uh, thanks, for this,” Ian ducked his head as he came close enough to hear Mickey cursing under his breath. Blue eyes glanced at him and held for a moment, Mickey's face flashing from annoyed to calm to royally pissed off again. He straightened up and motioned at the seats against the wall and Ian went.
“Regardless of my fuckin' feelings on this bullshit, I'll show you what I can do and you watch like a hawk, hear me?” Mickey said blandly, like he couldn't care less if he tried, and began dusting his hands, rotating each ankle as he stood and fluffed the stuff.
“Boss,” Ian nodded and blanched with the look he got shot. OK, someone was not in any mood for lightness right now. Ian was trying though. If Mickey was doing this, as well as guarding his ass and helping him become better, then Ian was willing, more than willing to let his walls down and be himself without wondering if he was going to be judged. Mickey clearly didn't give a flying fuck about anything Ian did, so why would he care if Ian was generally easy going and friendly. This was a job to Mickey, nothing more.
“Watch and absorb 'cause once I'm done, I wanna see if you can put on a similar display for me, a'ight? I ain't doing this twice in one mornin',” Mickey sighed and approached the horse. “Hey, how long you got before you gotta use all this in competition?” he asked over his shoulder, hands on the pommels while he paused.
“Two weeks.”
“Ah fuckin' seriously? Thought... never mind. Best buck up, Slim!” Mickey hauled himself up and started straddling the horse, swinging leg before leg over, travelling as much as he could. Ian took in everything he could from where he sat, getting distracted more than anything by the sheer strength in Mickey's arms and the pin-straight poise he had when he snapped his legs together, barely brushing the horse as he moved all over it and spun, adding in flairs and scissors with his legs going up high like they did on Monday. Damn, he was pretty.
“If you put in effort, I'll give it back doubled. It's the way I work,” Ian called as Mickey started rotating his hips and swinging his legs in circles stupidly fast, his hands grabbing and sure and firm on the horse and pommels. Jesus, Ian was transfixed by Mickey and his professionalism.
“Should have-” Mickey grunted, lifting up to handstand and spin into his dismount. He landed hard and sure and held for a second before clapping his hands together, very pleased with himself as he turned and wandered towards Ian with a coy grin, out of breath and bulging with power, “-tried that approach Monday.”
Ian shrugged and stood up as Mickey waved at the horse for him to use, “Yeah, well, I don't like you though so tough titties.”
Mickey snorted and sat down heavily, uncapping his bottle and stretching his toes out in a feline manner, “Feeling's mutual, asshole. Now, get on the fuckin' horse and show me what I'm workin' with here. Your attitude can go die somewhere for all I care, as long as you work hard and do what I ask and stop acting like a little bitch when shit don't go your way, then we got a working relationship. If I gotta protect your lanky carcass, least you can do is let me. C'mon, get to it.” Fuck, Ian smiled, hiding it as he had his back to Mickey, loving the gruffness of the spotter's voice and take-no-shit approach and God, Ian hated him and his lithe body and stupid skills and the way it made his heart pound and blood burn with jealousy. Totally jealousy.
–
Friday rolled around and Ian was in a foul mood – Wednesday had been good for him and Mickey and their bond building exercises the spotter had come up with. He'd worked Ian hard on the pommel horse, barking at him when his legs bent or he hadn't kept his toes pointed, telling him how to hold his body so he didn't brush the thing too much, making Ian hold himself in a handstand and do the splits so he was giant human 'T' before travelling along the horse and back without dropping his poise.
“This is not an apparatus that requires strength of body, so stop fuckin' actin' like it is!” Mickey had snapped, circling Ian while he held perfectly still, a hand braced on each pommel with his legs split and up, feet higher than his ears. “It's the shoulders, back and arms that this beast requires. If you can't use them properly, get the fuck off and stop wasting everyone's time. If you can't rely on your shoulders, you ain't gettin' nowhere. Like the rings, your arms are your everythin' here.”
“Fuck, it hurts though, shit!” Ian had grit out when his arms had begun shaking and his palms ached. Mickey had scoffed and come to a halt right in front of him.
“Stop whining like a little bitch. Forget the pain and focus, centre your thoughts on keepin' your ass up there and not down here. Stop believing you're gonna fail and fall off. If you do, know what happens?”
“No,” Ian growled, his stomach muscles adding to the protest.
Mickey had bent forward a little and looked up at Ian from under inky lashes, his face serious and so goddamn pretty that Ian wobbled a touch, “You get back on and you ride that fucker 'til you can call it your bitch.”
Ian had been so surprised by the deep note in Mickey's throat that he'd wobbled and dropped, tipping off backwards and bracing to meet certain back and neck hell only to have his ankles gripped hard and sure, Mickey holding him in an arch over the pommel horse like it was nothing. Regardless of how he disliked Mickey and honestly felt threatened by him, he was a good teacher and a pro-spotter so he had Ian's respect, not that he'd tell him. Aside from basic mistakes made by not having used the horse to his potential before, and the wobble Mickey had caused and rectified, Ian had done pretty well overall and his spotter-turned-pommel-coach had been pleased enough that he'd taken a back seat for the rest of their day, letting Ian control what they did and how much he pushed himself as long as he didn't deny Mickey's help. They'd even done a trust fall that Ian faked knowing was going on and had let Mickey land with a thud on the spring floor, scowling and suspicious. They had two major spats that ended with Ian sitting on the sidelines while Mickey had used the trampolines to let his anger out, jumping hard like a bratty child and swearing to himself about fucking red-headed assholes even though Ian was sitting close enough to listen. Most of the time they bickered and no matter what Ian quipped when he felt nasty, it was like water off a duck's back to Mickey, lifting his eyebrows in warning most of the time before switching focus. It was like he had an internal meter that took Ian's bullshit and it took a lot to get it in the red. It had been an OK day and Hugh had been smiling when Ian left.
As Ian took his foul feeling self through to the changing rooms, he was pleased at how quiet the place was considering it was Friday evening. Most Friday's had the arena heaving but usually Ian was there during the day, but today he'd been called into work to cover a shift and had had to reschedule with Hugh, subsequently Mickey, for this evening and he hated using equipment when he'd been on his feet all day. Factor in that he had been flirting with a guy the night before, dancing and drinking and well on his way to getting laid good and proper, and yet the guy had been rinsing him for drinks instead. You're pretty and all, but you're too high maintenance for a one night stand. Fuckhead had sauntered off nice and drunk on Ian's wallet and got to sucking face with an old queen. Suffice to say, Ian was ready to jump down the throat of anyone who dared look at him or speak to him with anything less than sunshine and rainbows and Mardi Gras cheer.
Rounding the set of lockers he used, Ian could hear someone humming in the showers around the corner and grumbled to himself just because. He dropped his token into the door and waited for the mechanism to drop the lock. Nothing. He frowned and yanked the handle and still, the door wasn't to be opened.
“Fucking! Piece of shit!” Ian banged his palms off it, tried to pull it out of the wall and kick it but still, it stayed put like the taunting wood and metal fucker it was. Nobody else around, and barely anyone in the halls, Ian sighed and scratched his head in thought. Hugh had left once he knew Ian was in, his day done and every other gymnast under his tutelage done or not due in, so it really was only Ian and few faces he didn't know. And Mickey. Like he was going to seek that grumpy fuck out; it'd only end in a fight he wasn't booking for so Ian needed to chill out before he went looking otherwise there would be no point at all, angry as he was. It'd be like pouring water on an electrical fire. Ian's only hope at maybe getting his locker open was singing what sounded like 'Freeek' somewhere in the steamy labyrinth that was the shower room. Ian liked that song, it was a grinding on a hard body in a heated club and about ready to come in his jeans kinda song. The owner of the voice had the sexual lilt bang on and the deepness, but Ian was too pissed off to really care all that much.
He took off his Nike's and his tracksuit bottoms and jacket, leaving them on the bench with his bag and flask, socks soon added before he forgot and went and soaked them like he had done a few times. Ian was left in his blue vest and boxer briefs, cupping over his genitals shyly even though he was totally alone and the other occupant was a dude anyway. Not like it wasn't something this guy had seen before, but still, politeness.
“Excuse me?” Ian called, going through the arch into the tiled area, the air heavy with warmth and steam and the joyous song of the showering occupant. “Uh, hello?” Ian tried again, going further in, glancing in each open space, around the partitions and walls for wherever this guy was hiding. Cornering what had to be a section in Narnia, Ian found him and his voice dried up in his throat because fuck, fuck, that back and ass were sculpted from marble, pale and firm and who the hell was this?!
“Can I come on in, my sweet baby?” still singing and Christ, he sounded like he was as switched on as the shower beating down on his body. The guy had his head bowed under the spray so he was mostly covered by steam from the boiling spray, his feet hidden by suds and his hair and hands lathered as he stalled his singing in favour of not drowning with the water running down his cheeks. He looked worthy of a magazine, lines and muscle planes and bulk and soft smoothness that Ian found himself hungry to touch and discover. No, this was about a locker, not his curious George. Ian cupped his groin again, flashing cold when he felt the swell under his hands, mortified over his body's reaction to such a sight even though his mortification was mostly down to the fact that it was still growing and would be easily spotted. “Hello?”
Shower guy shook and very nearly slipped, gripping the wall crevices where shower gel and sponges or whatever could be placed instead of on the floor, “Shit, fuckin' hell Ian, scared the life outta me!”
No fucking way. “Mickey?!”
“Yes! Jesus Christ,” Mickey hissed, not moving or doing anything more than what he was originally doing, head under the water with his mouth open to ward off death, eyes closed, side on to Ian's mortified stare. He'd been getting hard over looking at his asshole of a spotter washing himself – he was hard over watching his asshole of a spotter washing himself. Ian ducked and flinched and tried to hide or something but his agitated movements caught Mickey's vulture-attention. “Somethin' wrong, Jack?” he asked, only moving his head enough to watch Ian out of one eye, water running heavily off his parted lips, nose and chin. Fucking asshole.
“My name is Ian, dumbass,” Ian tried for irritated but even he knew he sounded pained and with the way he was moving, he painted a curious picture.
“Yeah, I know. What you come in here for then?” Mickey's voice was low and careful, interested and wary at the same time as he cocked his leg into a bend and leaned forward a bit to hide his groin and Christ didn't that make his ass the centre of Ian's focus – curved and smooth and accentuating the cut of Mickey's hip. When Ian failed to supply an answer in his search for cover, Mickey spoke again and Ian was certain his voice wasn't that deep before, softly curious, “You're dressed so you ain't in here for a shower. S'the matter, Ian?” Ian wished he'd stop saying his goddamn name now, wished he hadn't sassed him, because that was not a decent way to say it.
Shifting so he was leaning on the wall instead of fidgeting everywhere, his hands hovering over his near-full erection, Ian tried for blasé, “My uh, my token jammed and I can't get it back out or get a locker open so I thought I'd come seek out whoever was in here and ask if they could either help or supply a spare. Didn't know it was you.”
Mickey nodded but barely moved, eyes sharp and dark in the swirling steam, “Huh. I got a spare in my bag, left pocket on the front, but it's in my locker so you'll have to wait.”
Ian didn't move, he didn't dare, so he tried to keep his eyes elsewhere and not on Mickey's body as he washed and paid very little attention to Ian's loitering. Or so he seemed to, not looking or glancing but he did speak after a minute of running water filling the weird silence, “You can wait outside, right? I was enjoyin' the peace.”
Ian eyed Mickey's back when it was turned on him and drank in the lines and dips and curves of pale skin, that backside of holy proportions. Jesus, Ian had never seen an ass so plump. He wanted to touch it, grab it, squeeze-
“You deaf?”
“What, no. I just...” Ian couldn't tell him he wasn't moving because he was rock hard but Mickey did have his back to him so he could possibly escape. “I'll uh, be outside,” Ian thumbed in the direction of the exit but Mickey was busy bending forward to wash his shins and oh. Did Mickey even know he had a gay man standing behind him, seeing the exposition of what his cheeks hid, a flash of his balls... Ian had to leave, he had to. He pushed off the wall and turned as Mickey bent around his legs and caught him mid-step like a child sneaking off, arms up and hands splayed to keep steady. Mickey's eyes were fixed to Ian's extremely unforgiving boxer briefs. Oh how he wished his gym clothes didn't need such form fitting underwear hidden underneath. Stupid bunching VPL's.
“So that's why you weren't movin'... gettin' a good look in wer-”
“No!” Ian snapped, hands flashing down to cover what Mickey had already seen. His spotter straightened up and let out a heavy breath, turning back under the spray side on again. “I... shit, OK, I had no idea it was you and by the time I had realised, my body had already betrayed the fuck outta me and I could hardly stand here showing you what it was doing without you thinking the worst of me so I tried to hide it and then I did try to sneak without you seeing so fuck you if you're judging me. I haven't done anything wrong, it's uh, the way I'm wired. So, uh, right. I'm going. Forget the token and today, see you Monday if you can bare to work with a gay gymnast, Jesus fuck!” Ian bitched, making to storm out but slippery tiles only served to make him look like a cat on a hot fence. As if Friday was behaving like a Monday.
“The fuck you always goin' off on one for? I was teasin' you, Jesus,” Mickey groaned like he was seriously going to lose his shit over this, bouncing a little in annoyance.
“I'm not the judgemental fuck who can't just ignore... things!” Ian snapped, stopping his failed attempt at stropping off.
“And I'm not the bitch who can't keep his fuckin' trap shut for five minutes, going off on spiels 'cause he thinks the world owes him or some shit, makin' himself angry for no reason!” Mickey growled, slamming his shower gel into the crevice a little too hard because it fell back out and Mickey flat out kicked it straight across the length of the room.
“Oh, I have no reason to be angry?” Ian laughed bitterly, encroaching on Mickey's space even though the guy was still turned from him, nothing threatening about him other than his voice. “You are fucking judging me over something I had no control over-”
“Huhaaa I was teasin' you!You think you know me? That it? You think you know what I'm all about, what I'm thinkin' and all that?” Mickey turned with one hand over his groin with the other raised and jabbed a finger at Ian's face, the guy himself seething, “You know fuck all.”
“I know you're a cocky bastard who has a chip the size of Europe on his shoulder that he brings to work and unleashes because he can't handle someone who has fought for what they have, someone with a touch of attitude because he's sick of lame ass spotters fucking up his chances because they don't know shit!” Ian yelled and Mickey growled. OK, so that was a bad blow because Mickey wasn't lame at all and he did know his shit but fuck it, Ian was angry and he'd had a day of it and if Mickey wanted to get up in his face then he was going to take him out. Hugh wasn't here and he could totally beat Mickey to his bag and call his coach first to complain.
“Maybe your spotters aren't the lame ones at all, asshole, maybe it's your self righteous complex and I know everything attitude, fly off the handle at everything temper that fucks up your chances, hm?” Mickey was boiling, Ian could see it in his eyes as he stepped closer, his shorter stature against Ian not a barrier. Ian was itching to smack that smug grin off his face when he noticed that his words had an effect on Ian, “Maybe you're the shit one but everyone's so fuckin' scared to set your whiny, tantrum throwin' ass off that they pander to your every wish and make you think you're any good. A bit of skill and pretty face doesn't hide the fact that you've got the nastiest, shittiest personality goin' and nothin' and no-one can change that. Much as this pay-cheque is glorious, let me tell you, guardin' your neck and wantin' to wring it limp is warrin' inside me, so help you God if you don't back the fuck up.”
Ian swallowed and his nose flared as he stepped again, chest-to-chest with Mickey while staring down at him with every ounce of hatred he could muster. As his jaw twitched and Mickey's wet skin soaked the front of his vest, Ian could feel word vomit coming and knew, just knew this was going to get him murdered but Mickey was looking at him like he was filth so his last fuck went out the steam vent and he spewed the words through his teeth, “Might be the case, but I'm not the one spotting am I? At least I'm not a complete fucking failure, Mick.”
He knew Mickey moved quick but holy shit, nothing prepared him for an angry Mickey at all. Hugh had been right in his warnings but also underplayed it because in a growl and blur, Ian was pressed against the nearest wall with an arm across his throat and a hand twisted in his vest at his side, Mickey pressing his entire weight into his arm as he curled his lip and snarled at Ian's gasping chokes. “Say that again,” Mickey growled, seethed through his teeth and Ian felt panicked for a second before he looked down desperately and noticed that Mickey was flicking his dilated eyes from his own down to his mouth and back, over and over while he waited for Ian to repeat himself. Mickey wasn't looking at his mouth for a response though, Ian knew it, he knew that look, the heat in the blue gaze and the very obvious hard line of Mickey's cock against his thigh.
“Do it, I fucking dare you,” Ian goaded, his voice going to pot with how much this turned him on, worryingly so in fact. Gravel encrusted as his throat was, it had the desired effect because Mickey snarled and let up on Ian's throat, instead of crushing his Apple, Mickey's hand reached up to pull Ian down as he surged up and caught his mouth hard, kissing like he fought because as much as this was suddenly sexual, Mickey was still angry as hell and so was Ian. Mickey got as close as he possibly could, stomach pressed against Ian's navel while his hand stole away into red hair and gripped, his other dropping the fabric of Ian's vest in favour of curling around his hip to hold his lower back while he sucked on Ian's lower lip, licking into his mouth every so often, his movements turning teasing. Ian didn't know what to do with his own hands as Mickey was stark naked and soaking wet still so they flitted somewhere in the vicinity of Mickey's shoulders.
Mickey tipped back a little and glanced up, eyes shy and yet not at all, heavy and heated, “Put your fuckin' hands on me, man. Won't say I don't bite because I do.”
“Jesus,” Ian breathed while Mickey nosed his jaw and nudged his head back, full lips hot and teeth sharp where they were dragged and pressed along the thick band of muscle on the side of his neck. Mickey's hands roamed and found purchase on the waistband of Ian's underwear, pushing the elastic down and pulling back to watch Ian being bared to his eyes.
“Fucking would have, wouldn't you?” Mickey clicked his tongue and looked back up from Ian's dick springing free, unimpressed with Ian's self-aware smirk. He pushed the boxer briefs the rest of the way down with a foot in the crotch, wasting no time in stealing more kisses as he took Ian in hand and gave sure and long strokes, tight and twisting and driving Ian a little insane.
“Back off a bit,” Ian got out through kisses, pushing at Mickey a bit to have him move enough so Ian could kick away his underwear and pull his sodden vest off, latching back onto puffy, soft lips the second he could and pushing Mickey backwards until hot water rained on them both. He reached down and found himself stooping to get a hold on Mickey so he forced the passionate guy back more against the wall and hiked his right leg up, hooking it over his hip so Mickey was forced to tip-toe and Ian eased his stretch by bracing his own knees against the tiles, allowing Mickey to use him to stay upright. “Hold on to me and I'll- fuck, I'll wank us off.”
“You think I'm some kinda selfish prick, that how it is?” Mickey snapped and Ian bit his lips in warning, losing himself in kissing that plush mouth for moment, licking in and nipping.
“No. Jesus, drop the snark would you? Fuck. You're shorter and I've got you, so unless you want fucking cramp or whatever, fall over and have to stop, use me to hold on to and I'll use my fucking spade hands,” Ian flashed a hand up and wiggled his fingers for good measure and Mickey stared a little before conceding with a bob of his head and hard kiss. Ian, pleased with the turn of attitude, took them both in in his right hand and cupped Mickey's hiked ass cheek with his left and pressed close, groping and rolling his hips while Mickey swallowed his noises and licked his own back into Ian's mouth, clawing his nails across Ian's shoulders and into his hair, seemingly loving being pinned still and fucked against.
“Still hate you,” Ian hissed when Mickey dragged his nails hard along his arms to just above his elbows, digging them in to hold on as Ian's rolling pelvis jolted a little hard, his fist tightening.
“Fuckin' loathe you, you ginger mother- fuck, harder, c'mon,” Mickey urged, his chest rising and falling with his panting and Ian grunted, moaning a little and burying his face in Mickey's throat, licking and biting from his collar up to his ear and along his neck and shoulder, fucking into his fist hard while nimble fingers scratched and held tight.
“You piss me off so much, asshole,” Ian hissed, pressing their foreheads together while fighting to breathe and groan at the same time, Mickey's eyes rolling the harder Ian rocked, swearing under his breath while their noses touched and water made Ian's dick slippery where it slid hard along the length of Mickey's trapped in the grip. “Think you're some kind of pariah of gymnastics,” Ian panted, licking water from Mickey's cheek.
“Don't claim to know shit, so shut the fuck up- ahh that's fuckin' great,” Mickey gripped the back of Ian's neck with one hand and the other joined Ian's around their erections, cupping and rubbing his palm over the head of his still cock and Ian's every time he thrust forward.
“But you act like you're-”
“Fuckin' Christ, Ian! I don't claim to know shit, I don't act like I know anything more than what I do, and if it's more than you or Hugh, then that's fuckin' that, a'ight?” Mickey was desperate and Ian could tell, he was gripping the back of his neck hard and tight and his face kept screwing up and his tongue would peek out as his lip curled in.
“Close?” Ian huffed, slowing his rolling hips to a gentle pace, swallowing air like it was going out of fashion. Mickey hummed and then choked a little, nodding rapidly, his cupped hand not so much rocking now as it was vibrating, the barest of movements with a hell of a lot of pressure. It felt really good so Ian stopped moving all together, holding flush against Mickey and stroking them hard while the vibrating pressure increased, claiming Mickey's mouth with an open slide of his lips, tongue licking and trying to press the obscene noise filtering up out of his trapped spotter back down his throat.
Mickey tensed and started grunting brokenly, barely getting a sound out and clamping his teeth down into the meat of Ian's bottom lip, eyes wide and stunned for a second and then he let go; he let go of Ian's lip and Ian's head snapped down to see him let go of their dicks, he let go of the most pleased moan Ian had heard yet and he let go, Ian watching with fascination as he pulsed, coming up his taut stomach and over Ian's dick and hand. The sight and the noise and the smell accumulated, the warm jelly feel of Mickey's release around his burning shaft and the twitching of Mickey's hips and his sated groans had Ian swearing a storm, stealing a hard kiss as his own orgasm ripped through him and rendered him passionately desperate, whimpering and relying on Mickey's hand to keep his head still while the spotter kissed him quiet, soft and reassuring. They were both silent for a while after, Ian trying to breathe into Mickey's neck while he stretched his fingers out, hot and pleased with himself but also extremely unsure of what they'd just done. Mickey had his chin propped on Ian's shoulder and Ian could feel him grinding his teeth, in thought or anger, he didn't know, wasn't sure he wanted to know right now really, so he planted a kiss to the side of Mickey's Apple and felt him relax a tiny bit, grinding come to a halt.
“You uh,” Mickey tried and cleared his throat so Ian pulled away slowly, “You gonna leave still? You know, forget today and go the weekend?” Mickey asked softly, eyeing trailing up Ian's nose to his hair, fingers carding soggy strands back into place regardless of the water demanding they fall free.
“You want me to?” Ian wondered, enjoying the gentleness that Mickey simply appeared incapable of.
Mickey bunched his nose and shook his head a little, a light expression and one Ian found cute. Again with cute and Mickey. “Nah. Let's wash up and then get back to it. This-” Mickey motioned between them with a wagging finger, his face hard and scowly again but his eyes held a little softness in them that Ian found he liked the look of, “Changes fuck all. You're still a major asshole.”
“Likewise, fuckhead,” Ian sassed, letting go and disentangling their bodies in order to allow Mickey his shower space while Ian took one three heads over, using the little sample gels he found in the higher crevices that the shorter guys rarely checked. After a minute of washing in silence, it was as though nothing had actually happened because Ian couldn't find it in himself to start up general conversation and Mickey looked like he wasn't bothered by his presence at all.
By the time they had dressed – Mickey supplied the spare token and Ian got a locker though he had to go commando and use the spare t-shirt he had that fit slightly too big – and had made progress with Ian's poise on the pommel and the parallel bars, Ian was back to bitching and hissing insults and Mickey's bullshit meter cracked enough to send him over to the trampolines without a word, taking out his anger while Ian fumed in the corner because without his stupid fucking spotter, he couldn't use the apparatus unless he dared to dance with pain. He was more than capable of using stuff by himself, but having gotten used to someone watching his every move, predicting him, observing and knowing his body from an outside perspective, seeing weaknesses or pre-empting a slip, Ian didn't want to risk anything and Mickey fucking knew. Smart mouthed, smug ass bastard Mickey, bouncing his fury into the mesh of the trampoline, knew Ian had come to rely on him because he was good at his job and... he just knew. He was the best Hugh had ever given Ian and he hated Mickey for it, hated him for protecting and guiding and pushing the way he did because it was exactly what Ian had been searching for in the other spotters and now he couldn't think of doing any routines or practise work without his grumpy sourpuss shadow.
Ian kicked his plastic chair over and yelled out, the sound bouncing around the arena, causing the very few users to stare at him while a deep cackle radiated from the trampolines, “Shut the fuck up!”
“Nah,” Mickey called back, doing back flips and bum drops, “Laughter is the best medicine and I'm real fuckin' sick of you so suck it up, Jack!”
“Ian! My fucking name! Is! Ian!” Ian screamed, each break in his speech driven home by a growl and punch into the matted floor he was on. Mickey merely laughed harder, even oohoo-ing like Tigger and Ian swore and swore until he was red in the face, much to his spotter's never ending amusement. Much as they worked perfectly well together when they weren't trying to disembowel the other, and much as Mickey was perfectly suited and Ian was confident knowing Mickey had his back where gymnastics were concerned, Ian still hated that fuck bouncing up and down with his middle fingers up in Ian's direction, smiling big and cheesy and fuck, those lips were begging to be bitten and sucked and...Ian really hated him.
–
Over the weekend, Ian had relentlessly chased ass in the clubs, even on Sunday when it was rather quiet because, admit it out loud or not, no matter what he did to distract himself, Mickey's moans and the feel of his body were endlessly torturing him. It didn't matter if he cornered a pretty little brunet in the bathroom and swallowed his noises and bit his skin and it didn't matter if he had found a cute black haired guy with a mouth that rivalled Angelina Jolie's pout, capable of sucking an orgasm from his body in minutes, and it didn't fucking matter one bit if Ian had found a buff guy with bright blue eyes and a penchant for staying stoic while he rode Ian into his bed. It didn't matter one fucking bit because no matter what he did, he could not, for the life of him, shake Mickey from his memory. Every sound a guy made flashed up a red flag, Ian's head saying no, that isn't right. Not an inch of skin felt right under his fingers tips and not a single kiss felt comforting or natural, just forced and automatic.
Pulling his Honda into his usual space at the arena, Ian scowled long and hard at the blue Kuga two spaces over, gleaming in the sun like the indignant smirk Mickey had left Ian with on Friday evening. He pulled the keys from the ignition and sat for a moment in the silence of his car, glaring at the blue one like it was the spotter himself. Was it even his car? Ian didn't give a shit, it was for now, and as long as he had something to aim his displeasure at then he didn't care if he looked like some vengeful car loather to all and anyone who could see him.
“God, I fucking hate him,” Ian hissed under his breath as he hauled himself from the car and went through the motions of getting his kit out and locking the vehicle, wandering towards the entrance without shaking his stare, dodging the potted plants and benches. Stupid Kuga and it's fucking imbecilic, perfectly divine and amazingly skilled driver.
“Hugh's after you!” Lorna called as Ian passed her desk, barely looking up from her stack of papers, flipping off the ever ringing telephone.
“When isn't he?” Ian retorted, stomping off with his scowl seemingly permanent for today. It was Monday, everyone could fucking deal. Sex was sex, he got off, but when he was denied the fulfilment that came from being with a partner who made him feel and burst at the seams, well, he hadn't got off at all. Nothing worse than being left with the skin crawling need to touch and let go, enjoy the pleasure and the sounds and the everything. Ian felt like his skin was trying to peel off by the time he locked his things away, dressed in his set of red tank and gym trousers with white cut outs down the sides, and he felt like it looked. Burning hot with pieces burning so high they might combust or tear off.
“Gallagher!” Hugh yelled across the floor when Ian emerged from the changing rooms and he took a deep breath to calm himself somewhat. It wouldn't do well to snap or appear in any kind of mood given the threat over his head.
“Coach,” Ian greeted once he was close enough, forcing a sunny smile for the sake of keeping his balls, “Heard you were looking for me?”
“Hah, kid, when am I not?” Hugh snorted, handing over a schedule sheet and bottle of fruited water. “Mickey's up in admin sorting some things out so you're on your own for a bit. Need a different spotter or?”
Ian stuffed the icy bottle under his arm and was thankful that the freezing sting helped direct his irritation to the floor, “I'll uh, use the vault and floor until he appears. I can do that in my sleep so I don't need a spotter, thanks Hugh, should be fine.”
Ian's bright smile seemed to placate his coach as he gave a nod and clapped him on the shoulder as he went by, “Good lad. You'll have a first aid guy anyway, in case.”
“Coach,” Ian sighed heavily as Hugh wandered off chuckling, adding fuel Ian's pissy mood. It wasn't his coach's fault he wanted to pin his spotter to the wall and fuck him until he couldn't see anything but glittery stars. But he wasn't here and it wasn't going to happen. Professionalism was required if Ian wanted to pass his qualification and, despite Mickey not being there to have his back and push him for however long today, Ian wasn't going to let his filthy thoughts ruin that.
But they did. Ian had never made a first aider move out of their seat, never, and yet, today, after God knew how many vaults off the springboard and awkward landings, his guy for the day had taken on imitating a meerkat with how much he was up and downing from his seat, though he never moved away from it. Ian just had him worried and had yet to hurt himself though his pride was taking a beating.
“God fucking damn it!” Ian spat after landing outside of his zone again, seething at the hulking apparatus in front of him, rounding it with accusatory stabs of his finger. “I fucking hate this stupid fucking piece of shit vault and that asshole springboard! It's too damn springy and my handsprings are too soft because of it and my feet hit harder than most so I'm not getting height off it because it's too fucking springy!”
Aware that he both looked like and was, indeed, behaving like a spoilt juvenile, Ian deigned to ignore the stunned and wary stare of his first aider, pretending that he wasn't there at all as he bent to check the springboard. There wasn't anything he could do to it as it was set how he always used it. And the vault was locked into position too. The only thing off about the whole ordeal was Ian himself and he knew it and he was about two seconds from stamping his feet and tearing at his hair.
“Maybe go to the floor now, Ian?” his first aider wondered gently, moving in that direction regardless of if Ian agreed or not.
“Yes, yes, off we fucking go to see me fuck this up too,” Ian muttered to himself, snatching up his towel and bottle with way more fire than needed. Ian abused the floor like he had a personal vendetta with it, landing hard with curses and grumbles and added slams of his feet. His first aider had taken to putting earphones in to counteract the deafening noises, or at least he was trying to; Ian could see him wince with every landing, jump a little each time he ran for somersaults. It made Ian grin a little, feeling sadistic in his onslaught. Nothing he did was perfect and he wobbled too much, stumbled a great amount of times and by the time he did a back flip and landed flat on his back, winding himself, he was about ready to set light to everything.
“Lack of respect for the apparatus you're using and your own abilities will fuck up what you're doing, but then I should think you know that, Jack,” Mickey's presence, however goading and cheeky, put Ian's frazzled emotions in check immediately. Just knowing he was there enveloped him in a safety net and his frustrations damped a little, though Mickey being the sole cause for said frustrations kept them bubbling away under his skin.
“Fuck off,” Ian breathed from where he lay on the spring-loaded floor, winded and tired. No way was he going through with anything else for at least ten minutes. “Pass my drink? I can't move, man,” Ian bemoaned and sniffed, licking his lips when Mickey's weight thumped towards him, his chuckles rending Ian's skin goosebumped and alive.
“Here you go, princess,” Mickey smiled down at him, standing over Ian's head. Ian was struck by the blue of his eyes and the raise of one black eyebrow, ignoring the shaking bottle in front of his face for a minute while he looked his fill even if he was upside down, “Take it or I'll dump it on you.” He kind of wished Mickey wasn't a gymnast of sorts because the staff who didn't use apparatus wore shorts and if Mickey were wearing shorts and not his gym trousers, Ian would've been able to see right up them.
“Can I go scout the hall?”
Mickey turned his head and gave a nod, “Yeah man, I got him covered now. Thanks for babysitting!”
“Fuck you,” Ian forced out as he sat up, guzzling his water with a scowl at his feet.
Mickey snorted, “In your dreams, vaulter supreme. Now, need five or you ready to go play on the horse for a bit? We got, what, three more sessions before your event, right?”
“Yah,” Ian almost choked on his drink, “Three.” Definitely in his dreams, both waking and asleep. Mickey's aura felt like he knew it too. Ian loathed him.
“OK. Guessing, as you went at the floor like you wanted to go through it, that you're done on this and the vault for today?” Mickey said, his walk shaking Ian where he sat, grumbling some kind of affirmation though it wasn't intelligible. He turned to see Mickey wandering off, his ass bunching tight in his gym trousers, something Ian instantly wanted to destroy in both a good and bad way. He got up and followed, happy to note that Mickey had collected up his towel and had placed it on a chair beside the pommel horse where he stood dusting his hands. “I'm gonna play while you catch your breath, Red,” Mickey said without looking up, coughing and blowing out of his nose when he clapped a dust cloud too big.
How many more nicknames was he going to throw up today? Ian wondered, sitting heavily as Mickey held onto the pommels and lifted himself from standing into an upside down split, a perfectly held T-pose for Ian to drink in. Jesus. His arms were bulging and his chest was puffed out, legs shaped in his trousers and, from the bump in the barely-there-V given how perpendicular his legs were, he had a jockstrap on. A second more of stock-still posing and Mickey was travelling the horse, back and forth on his hands, twirling and keeping his toes pointed. All to soon – Ian bemoaned this as he was busy taking how strong Mickey's back was and how he didn't wobble even a touch, mildly sad that the guy couldn't compete any more – Mickey dropped and swung his legs one over the other in a blur of black and green and pale skin, huffs and grunts.
“Why don't you compete any more?” Ian asked as Mickey threw himself around like it wasn't a hardship at all, something Ian wished he felt.
Mickey slowed a bit and took to holding the pommels again, facing Ian as he swung his legs in circle underneath himself, “Where'd that come from?” he asked, a little out of breath.
“Just, you look like your in your element on that and well, seems a shame that you don't compete,” Ian shrugged to which Mickey pulled a frown.
“Shattered my leg. Apart from this, which I understand wholly, I wouldn't be much good for anything else 'cause of the run ups and the dismounts. This is the least pressurized dismount of the lot. Can't have a gymnast in competitions who can only use one piece of equipment, you know that as well as anyone,” Mickey quickly hauled himself up and travelled into his dismount and it was then that Ian noticed he landed with his right leg ever so slightly back. “Pisses me off but no matter how much time I spend wonderin' or being fuckin' angry at it all, it changes nothin' in the end. Better to do what I'm good at for different reasons now. So I'm not winnin' shit, but I can help someone else win shit, and it just so happens that the first someone is you, Beanpole,” Mickey gave a little smirk and clapped his hands to rid himself of excess powder.
Ian stood and rotated his shoulders, glaring at the horse out of spite. If it weren't for the stupid piece of wood and fabric, he'd be set but as it stood there, maliciously goading him, Ian was also kind of thankful he wasn't excellent on it. Much as Mickey annoyed the hell out of him and riled him like no other, made his skin burn and his fingers itch to both punch his beautiful eyes shut and grab his body and pull those lascivious noises from him again, he was so very skilled and competent and the best tutor Ian had had for a while aside from Hugh. He considered himself lucky to have such a person around him, willing and able.
“So, you can't compete, and I don't know how you're gonna take this but I'm glad you can't because you get to put my ass in line. So, uh, yeah, you know?” Ian could have kicked himself in the shins and shoved his ass down the stairs with how utterly ridiculous he sounded and with idiotic embarrassment creeping up his back, he looked at the floor so he kept it under wraps. Whenever he felt stupid, he usually lashed out and Mickey didn't need that right now.
Rather than call him out on his tardy tongue like Ian thought he would, Mickey huffed a little laugh and Ian glanced up to see the remnants of a fond smile edging off his pale face, “Yeah... C'mon, up on the horse. I want you ride that fucker until you don't need my advice, just my hands.”
Ian snorted and moved to the powder, digging deep to feel the softness of it running through his fingers, coating his hands in gentle grip. He very nearly commented on the whole just my hands part but firmly kept that canned because like hell did he need to start on that right now. His concentration needed to stay on what he was doing, not what he wanted to be doing, and that something was a thing he wouldn't ever be doing if Mickey had any say. It happened, never again, changed nothing. Ian clapped his hands lightly and turned, “I fucking hate this thing.”
“Hey,” Mickey quipped, pointing at Ian sharply, eyebrows up, “If you don't respect that thing, become one with it like you do with everythin' else, then what we're doin' will be for jack shit. You learn to love it or you'll never overcome it. Look, if you don't accept the challenge completely and show the horse that you own it, not the other way 'round, you'll never master it. It's the only one you struggle with and that's why I'm fuckin' helpin' you. Love it or I don't teach you and you live with dreams, not realities. Own that fucker. Not like you've got a reason not to, right?” Mickey gave a lopsided smile and wiggled his left leg. “I got pins in this and I still make sure that asshole there doesn't beat me. Didn't take me overnight to master it either, took me a long time man. You've got months of use under your belt, you just gotta get passed this-” Mickey touched his head and Ian licked his lip, nodding, “You're capable. You know you are. You're better than you think you are, you just gotta believe me, Ian. I don't bullshit.”
“Yeah, kinda know that,” Ian agreed light-heartedly and approached the horse, his back to Mickey thankfully because his face was heating with how sincere the guy was being and that he had used his name for once, and sweetly too. Damn his fucking genuine face and knowledge and skill and God, Ian needed to block it out.
“The fuck you waitin' for Jack? Giddy the fuck up!” Mickey barked and Ian, though he could hear the smirk in Mickey's deep voice, felt his skin prickle and his guard go up. Maybe Mickey was doing it to break the weird fond mood or maybe he was just being a little bitch, Ian had no idea because he refused to look at him, but it got on the right nerve and kicked him into gear.
“Fuck off!” Ian grit as he jump-lifted himself up and started scissoring his legs, over and over.
“Stop and hold yourself still, arms tight, legs out in a split but instead of holding yourself in an upside down T, I want you to keep them just above the horse. Don't touch or brush it if you can,” Mickey said seriously, coming around so he could look at Ian's stern face. Ian did as he was asked and found his arms shaking a little, “Know you ain't no novice there, princess, so fuckin' breathe through it. Stop holdin' your breath.”
“I'm not holding my damn breath,” Ian growled, knowing Mickey had him sussed and hating it. He was holding in his breaths, pushing them out in tiny sharp bursts in an attempt to keep himself still and he totally understood that that was the opposite of what he should be doing. Still, he wasn't going to admit shit to Mickey as he licked his teeth and hummed, cracking his wrapped knuckles absently. Ian wondered if he should take to wearing wraps for better grip and comfort because the pressure on his palms and the bones in his hands were starting to hurt under the weight of his body.
“That how it is, huh? OK, champ, least I can catch you if you pass out,” Mickey said offhandedly, behaving as though Ian was being a child and he was not at all bothered, moving to circle Ian's shaking frame. “Point your toes.”
“God,” Ian groaned, hating that he forgot something so simple. As he did as instructed, the muscles in the backs of his legs burned like fire and he very nearly held his breath again.
Mickey's presence stopped right behind him, hovering near Ian's back left side, his voice low and purposeful when he spoke, like he was observing something he found curious and wonderful, “You don't have to berate yourself so much. Relax and breathe. S'just a piece of equipment and, it's not ownin' you today, right?”
Ian took deep breaths and let them out slowly, “No.”
“Or ever, right?” Mickey's voice was dropping and Ian didn't know if he was doing it on purpose to test his concentration or if it was involuntary with how goddamn close Mickey was behind him, no doubt copping an eyeful of the power in his pose. Either way, it was messing with his focus and his arms were aching from the previous abuse he'd put them through. Mickey shifted and repeated his question in an even lower tone, barely audible over the blood rushing through Ian's ears and system because now he could feel Mickey behind him, so very close, so near to touching him; he could feel Mickey's warmth, his breath tickling the bulge of his tricep, the smell of powder and warm skin radiating off him like a fog. He could feel his eyes, he would swear he could, traversing his back and down to his ass and taut thigh.
Mickey said it again and Ian closed his eyes, inhaling sharp through his nose, “No.” Concentrating on Mickey and what he was maybe doing behind him, Ian found his arms had stopped shaking and his breathing was easy. Adverse to his focus, Mickey was also creating a sharper version and it was an odd notion to Ian, but who was he to argue when it was working.
“Good hold, Ian, but just lift this leg a little higher,” Mickey mumbled, his hands coming to curl around Ian's thigh gently, easing it up slowly so Ian didn't jump or wobble to counterbalance. “Perfect,” Mickey praised and then his presence moved away, circling around the horse to plant himself in Ian's sight again.
“Can I move now?”
Mickey tilted his head like he was calculating something, watching with folded arms and guarded eyes, “Hands hurting?”
Ian gave a brief nod, “Just a bit.”
Mickey inhaled and coughed, “OK. Do whatever you like now; travel, swing, scissor, split, artistic elements, that kinda stuff. Combine them or focus on the routine you are going to do, whatever. But, get your legs under control and keep your toes pointed at all times, helps to stop the rag-doll effect and helps you keep your back straight. I'll be back in a minute, just gonna go find some wraps for your wrists. You feel confident enough for me to leave you?” Ian knew he wasn't asking to be petty or condescending, he could see it written on his face and heard in the gentleness of his voice. He was still his spotter after all, Ian's safety his first port of call. Ian liked that he cared even if they didn't like each other, it made him feel soft and safe and respectful, his confidence blooming a little knowing Mickey honestly had his back and would catch him if he fell no matter how hard he pushed the guy or himself.
“You'll be gone for like, two minutes. I'll be fine.”
“Didn't ask that,” Mickey shook his head a touch and licked the back of his bottom teeth, rubbing his eyebrow.
Ian dropped his pose slowly and steadily, pointing his toes down to the floor to readjust his grip on the pommels, smiling through his strain, “I'll be behave and won't push myself, swear. Contrary to what you think, I don't actually like hurting myself all that much. I'm confident that I'm gonna own this fucker by the end of today, though, that's what you really wanna hear, right?”
Mickey smiled, a bright and wonderful thing even if it was brief, turning to seek out what he wanted, “Damn right you will.” Ian wanted to hate the belief Mickey had in him because why should he even have any to start with when all Ian was to him was a little shit who's neck he had to guard. Ian briefly wondered if he should cut Mickey some slack as he hefted himself up and swung his legs in circles underneath himself, travelling back and forth over the horse and it's pommels quickly. As he heard Mickey's barks in his head to move faster, keep your toes pointed, back straight, shoulders loose for fuck sake, do you want to fall off mid rotation and put yourself outta the running?! Ian growled under his breath.
“Like fuck am I cuttin' him shit,” he hissed to himself, looking over the arena to where Mickey weaved through a pack of kids and their tutor, disappearing into the medical room. They worked best being abrasive and conflictive; no matter how genial Mickey was behind that scowl or how Ian could be if he dropped his shield, hostility kept his determined streak alive and Mickey's laser focus on him when he was pissed. “Fuck, I hate him!” Ian grumbled as Mickey came sauntering out of the room with a couple of things in his hands, his hips swinging and his shoulders pale and gleaming under the bright LED lighting. No mater how much Ian repeated his I hate Mickey mantra, watching him while he scissored his legs and did flares, he knew it no longer held much truth really.
“Got you some wrist supports so we'll see if they help or hinder,” Mickey waved the packets at Ian as he strode by and put them down on the seat, turning to lean against the wall and watch Ian push up on his hands to get his legs high only to drop them in wide, swinging scissors, barely brushing the horse. “You're real good at that whole throwing-yourself-about thing. All those tantrums must've really helped, eh?” Mickey laughed when Ian swore at him, fucking shut it, but Ian couldn't stop the smile spreading over his face at the sound of his rumbling laugh. Shit, he didn't hate Mickey – he liked him.
–
Friday came around quick enough, the days blurring together with sleeping, working at the Learning Centre, pushing hard at the gym to strengthen his shoulders and back as much as he could in preparation for Saturday afternoon. The only day that didn't blur completely had been Wednesday, the chunk of the afternoon Ian had spent with Mickey standing out crystal clear amidst the whirling colours and noise. And now he was brighter than ever, sitting on the spring-loaded floor cross legged and curious while Ian dried off after using the parallel bars.
“Never could use those correctly,” Mickey commented, nodding at the apparatus with a blank expression.
Ian turned and regarded him for a second, “No?”
“Nah, man. Was real difficult to get the power in my arms. Yeah, considerin' I go hard on that horse and could vault like no one's business, those bars just... I dunno, maybe my arms are too short or my bottom half is too heavy, whatever, was stupidly tricky for me is all. Prefer the high bar, that's a fun one,” Mickey waved the bars off and took to chewing his lip, looking over towards the rings. Ian pursed his mouth in thought and towelled his neck and collar. He'd spent the first half of the session on the pommel horse until Mickey called time and praised him, saying he didn't need to keep at it, he had it down for tomorrow if he kept level-headed.
“Gonna do a quick set on the high bar actually,” Ian said with a shrug and Mickey nodded, getting up to follow. He dusted up and placed himself under the bar and Mickey quickly settled behind him, giving him a boost and moving to stand next to the support bars the bracketed the thing into the floor.
“Easy now,” Mickey said when Ian threw himself into a rotation too hard and ended up not making it, bracing his chest against the bar for a moment to recentre his balance. He carried on with his swings and swore when he over swung again and lost the grip of one hand, almost letting go completely. Mickey didn't say anything but Ian could see him mirroring him as best he could, hands creeping out whenever Ian go too close to the edges of the bar where it was more taut or if he looked, to Mickey, like he was going to come off it. Normally he'd have no issue on the apparatus at all, but his grip was slippery and he simply couldn't collect himself enough to centre his weight; his legs felt heavier than usual and his shoulders were too tight.
“Dismount,” Ian called in a loop and Mickey moved into position at the end of the crash mat as Ian forced himself harder and faster into his three swings before letting go with an Oh shit! because he knew it was wrong, it felt of kilter and loose and he tried his best to finish his spins and land but he barely made one before he hit the crash mat on his right side, thigh and hip taking the brunt; Mickey had seen it coming and had managed to get in quick enough to hook his arms out and catch around Ian's chest and arms. It was enough to keep him from banging his chin or snapping his head back, but it took Mickey out too.
“Fuck me, you're one heavy son of bitch when you've got G force on your side,” Mickey moaned and Ian echoed it, the pain rather intense and when Mickey shifted, he realised he was partially lay on the guys leg, his bent knee really, and that's what was causing the pressure in his side. “Are you OK?”
“Yeah, just a bit... yeah,” Ian breathed and Mickey made a noise that said he agreed with what he was trying to say, even if he couldn't voice it. “Thanks for catching me though, could be worse.”
“Sure you're OK or do you need to stand up before you can tell? Came down fuckin' hard, man,” Mickey said as Ian lifted his middle up and braced on his elbows and knees to let Mickey out from under him. Much as his filthy mind was saying stay down, he hurt too much to give it much power.
“Hip and thigh fucking hurt,” Ian groaned as the floor around him shifted with Mickey's weight, all over the place before he was circling, crouching down near Ian's hanging head, his hand flat on his lower back.
“Think that's from my knee to be honest. Think you can get up or do you wanna roll for me and I'll do what I can here, maybe get some tape or whatever?”
“Nah, just... cramped up I think. I don't need tape. Help me get up?” Ian said to the floor, lifting his arm up and out for Mickey to hold on to, diligently not looking at Mickey because he felt embarrassed enough as it was. Mickey ducked under his arm and held him up as Ian tested his weight baring and hobbled around in a little circle, ever aware of Mickey's iron fingers around his wrist and arm curled around his lower back protectively. “Yeah, all good,” Ian said after a good minute or two of pushing his limitations and finding it really was just a shock of cramp that had crippled him. Mickey sat on the floor and watched him further, taking in how Ian was moving with his fierce eyes.
“Last one for today, hm?” Ian nodded over at the rings and Mickey grunted in agreement, his body jumping with it. He looked gentle and serene sitting on the floor bare foot, toying with the loops around his feet, absent of mind and calm.
“Yeah, I think so,” Mickey heaved a sigh and pushed up, not arguing with Ian's idea now that he wasn't in a heap on the floor but moving like he hadn't just launched himself from the high bar. “Don't need to use the vault or floor though, do you? 'Cause I don't think that'd be good after shocking your leg like that.”
Ian shook his head, “Nah, I'll be fine with those tomorrow. Just need to make sure I got my ring flips right and then we can call it a day. Really could do with not pushing it any more, don't want sore and tight muscles tomorrow after all this work you've put in.” Or a busted limb.
“Me?” Mickey laughed, “What, you my little protégé now, Jack?”
Ian smiled and shook his head, “Asshole.”
“I ain't the one on the stuff, man, it's all you. C'mon, time to go throw your ass around a bit more so I got all your movements logged so I ain't on total fuckin' edge tomorrow,” Mickey snorted and moved off with his owning stride, leaving Ian to stare at his retreating back and bunching ass. Damn those fucking trousers. He snatched up his towel and bottle and followed like a puppy, near tripping over the lip of the floor as Mickey bent to adjust the loop on his foot. Ian set himself right and detoured to the powder, throwing his things on the floor near a chair because if he wanted to place them on the seat then he'd have to walk around the back of Mickey with his ass in the air.
“I'm set,” Ian said as he clapped his hands lightly and moved into position, hands up ready. Getting on the high bar required a short boost from Mickey, middle of the back push up really but it had still sent Ian's skin running with pins and, as Mickey hummed and his presence manifested right behind Ian, he'd forgotten just what a boost up for these rings required; Mickey hands settled on his waist and his fingers tapped as he got a good grip on Ian's body.
“Ready when you are,” Mickey muttered, braced to throw Ian up in the air when he jumped but Ian couldn't get himself ready to force the power into his legs, not with hot hands that had sure fingers digging into the soft skin above his hip bones. Those fingers that had been digging into his arms, his hair, dragged down his neck under hot water against a slippery, sport hardened body. “Ian?”
“Shit, sorry, daydreaming,” Ian shook his head to clear it and it did absolutely nothing to help when Mickey audibly sucked on his lips and shifted a little closer, his heat trickling all over Ian's lower back. If he just moved a touch, pushed his backside out even a little then it would surely press against Mickey's navel and-
“Seriously, jump for fuck sake,” Mickey huffed and Ian coughed, shifted his legs and shook his wrists. “Those supports doin' you any good?”
“Yeah, really helps take the edge off,” Ian mumbled and put his arms up, glancing at said supports around his wrists and palms, “On three.”
Mickey's grip tightened and he followed Ian's squat, “One. Two. Three.”
Mickey pushed at his waist and his chest pressed against Ian's back and he froze up, he didn't jump, he didn't dare breathe but Mickey, prepared to heft him up, went with what they were supposed to be doing and lifted Ian up onto his toes, forcing him over onto his front with the push he gave. “Shit!” Ian squawked, his powdery hands giving him no grip on the thin mat he met with his chest and chin, Mickey winding him from behind.
“The fuck, dude?” Mickey wheezed, coughing and groaning in mild pain and shock; he was pressed tight against Ian's back, one hand still gripping hot against his waist, his crotch cupped flush to the underneath of Ian's ass, thighs tight together. Mickey's forehead came to rest against Ian's back between his shoulder blades, his other hand curling around Ian's elbow, “You OK?”
Was he OK? Ian was fine where he was, curled up with his spotter melding to his back, his smells and heat and heartbeat tickling his spine. “Winded. Sorry, Mick, concentration went off somewhere,” Ian said quietly, shifting his spine ever so slightly as he knew his waist, hips, ass, thighs and the skin under Mickey's head would move with it. Mickey made the smallest, barely-there noise of enjoyment before he moved quickly, carefully extracting himself so Ian could move, clearly interpreting his shifting as uncomfortable when it was anything but.
“Just, don't go doin' that tomorrow, a'ight?” he said and Ian rolled onto his back to find Mickey sitting back on his heels, thumb pulling down his bottom lip while he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Sure you're OK?”
Ian gave a nod and put his hand out for Mickey to pull him into a sitting position when he offered his own, “Yeah. 'M sure. You OK?”
“Smashed my nose off your granite back.”
“Ouch, sorry man. Lemme see,” Ian hushed as he leant forward to get a look, checking for blood and pressing with his fingers. Mickey kept perfectly still and Ian was more than aware that those azure eyes were both intrigued and confused as Mickey stared at him. He was also aware that he had Mickey knelt between his splayed legs, caged in while he inspected the damage he might have caused to the gruff and yet pretty face he held carefully with one hand, the other stroking down the sides of Mickey's nose slowly, waiting for a wince or a curse. “Nah, nose is fine. Still, my fault, so, I'm sorry,” Ian removed his hands and moved back only a bit, offering a sheepish smile to which Mickey swallowed and kept his stare going.
Mickey's hands came up and cupped Ian's jaw, the guy leaning in so close Ian thought he was going to kiss him but instead his eyes bore into green and narrowed, widening to narrow again as Mickey seemingly searched for something.
“W-what are you doing?” Ian whispered, his mouth instantly pressed shut by Mickey's thumbs.
“I'm wonderin' if you hit your head or some shit. Your concentration has been right off and I found myself concerned up until like, two seconds ago 'cause now I can see what's botherin' you, why you caused a crash,” Mickey grumbled, so close their noses brushed as Ian fought to keep from going cross-eyed. “It ain't gonna happen again, so get it through your system and keep your dick on lock down otherwise you're gonna fuck yourself tomorrow and then I really will have to kick your stupid ass for wastin' my fuckin' time, horn dog,” Mickey growled and shoved back, giving Ian one hard look before standing up and walking away.
“It's not like that! I'm not- Mickey! I'm not some fuckin' horny kid who can't control himself! I was checking your ugly fucking face for injuries, fuck!” Ian shouted but Mickey wasn't listening, off towards the trampolines. Apart from the kid element, that was a steaming pile of bullshit and Mickey's laugh told Ian that he knew it, had read him perfectly, knew what Ian wanted and fuck, he was close to loathing him as much as he wanted to tear his clothes off, the smart assed fuck. “What about this? I can't get on the rings by myself asshole!”
“I'm done! Done! Fuckin' done with you so go home, put a chastity belt on it before you really fuckin' hurt yourself!” Mickey yelled back and Ian growled, punching the floor. Liking Mickey was far worse than hating him and Ian wanted to scream and throw a fit; it wasn't his fault Mickey affected him like he did and like gymnastics, he got one taste and wanted everything. Obviously he had to go find someone to take his mind into another realm and forget Mickey's body and noises and what his presence did because it was clear Mickey wanted nothing more to do with Ian passed pocketing a pay-cheque. Ian got up and snatched up his towel and bottle and shot one last venomous look up at Mickey doing bum drops on the mesh, paying Ian no attention and it hurt more than his words or notions.
“You know what?” Ian seethed, unable to help himself as he stormed up to the higher level towards the guy, “Fuck you. I don't give a shit what you think, I don't care if you think that's what I want because yeah, actually, it fucking well is, I mean, have you even looked in a mirror? Who wouldn't want you on sight?!”
“Go the fuck away, ginger nut, I ain't havin' my ears assaulted by your petty ass,” Mickey grumbled and Ian let out a frustrated noise through his teeth, very nearly shaking from the overwhelming need to have Mickey understand him even a little, maybe even take it in and cut Ian some slack here. The guy fucking well knew what he had been doing, he had to have because he knew every one of Ian's movements like his own and that was after the fact that he had seen how Ian had reacted to him in the shower room.
“Listen to me, asshole, you have no idea how I work and think outside this arena,” Ian bit, moving close enough that his growling voice wasn't heard by anyone else in the area, only Mickey bouncing lightly, “So, we messed about, and I'm fuckin' sorry I even bothered now. Much as I want you, I fuckin' hate you and your bastardised attitude. I have been trying so damn hard to work with you, but you know, after putting my hands on you and kissing you and all that shit, I kinda can't help how much I want more of it. Sue me for finding every aspect of your spiteful ass attractive but you throwing it in my face like this is bullshit. You know you affect me, and yet you get so fucking close to me, like you're testing me or some shit, see if I can handle it and it's unfair and I can't concentrate so you know what? Fuck you, you fucking fuck! Don't come tomorrow, I can use one of the spotters the event hires.”
Mickey stopped heavily and swore, hissing as he rotated his ankle, “Seriously? You're gonna go drama-bitch on me?”
“So what if I am?!” Ian clenched his jaw to reign in his anger as Mickey seemed to ignore any fault he had in this. “You fuckin' know what you're doing and I don't understand why you're doing it if you're so damn adamant that nothing's changed, nothing's gonna happen 'cause you sure as fuck aren't acting like it, sly as you think you are. You know me, I know you as well, dickhead. I know you know exactly what you're doing and to mess with someone like that is shit. Like fuck do I wanna work with someone who taunts to the point where an accident happens and then has the balls to blame the other guy. You're a dick and I fuckin' hate your ass so, no, don't come tomorrow. Know what? A place on an Olympic team is my dream goal, asshole, but to be honest, I can forsake that if it means not having my head fucked with. I can go to some other coach and start a-fucking-gain.”
Mickey tipped his head and rolled his bottom lip into his mouth, eyebrows shooting up as Ian took a step back to leave, both to get out of there and to avoid the smack in the mouth he could see coming. “You've got some seriously fucked up accusations here, Jack, I ain't doin' shit. Serious though, you want me gone and you wanna start from scratch 'cause you can't handle somethin' you're makin' up?”
Ian closed his eyes and took in a calming breath, teeth grinding. “You are something else, man, such a fucking wanker. I'm serious. Fuck you, fuck this stupid threat Hugh issued because for fuckin' once, it's not me messing shit up. As of right now, you have no gymnast. Fuckin' done with this, all of it!” Ian spat, shaking his head as he took a step back and then turned, leaving in a broiling mass of anger he was sure burned brighter than any single hair on his body. He could hear Mickey swearing but no sound of mesh and springs accompanied it.
Ian tore his locker open and packed anything loose into his kit bag, not bothering to shower or change, and took himself towards Hugh's office on rapid fire feet. His coach had left for the weekend, so he took the pack for tomorrow that held his number and pass and put his membership card and any tokens he had on the desk, knowing he would see Hugh tomorrow but the guy wouldn't see any of this until Monday morning. Ian wouldn't say anything and prayed Mickey didn't, but if he did, then he'd face it head on. He was entitled to compete with or without the membership or enrollment on Hugh's team, though it would make his selection harder if Hugh backed out tomorrow, being without a coach, but Ian would deal with that too. How can one person make you better while destroying everything you are in a matter of minutes? Never before had Ian ever given a spotter a second look, but this one... he fucking hated how much he liked Mickey and had let his guard down for a fleeting second, thinking they could be something, friends if anything, but Mickey had bulldozed everything by not fronting up and twisting the blame. Ian knew he was in the right and normally he would fight his corner but this time, he wanted out, he'd had enough, time to leave.
“I tried,” he said, writing the same thing with I'm out on a post-it to stick to his card and then left quickly, dodging any and all on his run for his car. He threw his bag in the back seat and started up the Civic, taking a few collective and calming breaths while curling his fingers around the steering wheel. He glanced across to shoot the Kuga a filthy look and found it occupied, Mickey sitting in the drivers seat with a hand covering most of his face, pinching his brow and rubbing his fingers back and forth. Ian sighed and put the car into reverse, focusing on not hitting anything or any people before he pulled out and off towards home, not giving the shining Kuga or the arena a second glance in the mirrors.
–
“Nervous?” Hugh asked Ian as they walked out in the arena for the second time, deafening noise of forty plus gymnasts and their teams buzzing around, com-units yelling out numbers and names, girls hissing fits at their tutors, guys grunting about stupid apparatus and spotters ghosting who they were set with. Ian had told Hugh a bullshit story about Mickey's leg acting up and the guy crying off during the practise session and his coach had bought it with a heavy sigh, signing Ian over to a heavy set guy named Kevin.
“A little bit but that's a given,” Ian replied, not feeling this whole thing at all. Usually he would be a nervous, excited wreck but today he felt empty, like a robot going through it's programmed routine. If he got nowhere today, he knew he was hanging up the spandex for good. Fuck starting over, he'd given enough and it didn't seem like it was getting him anywhere. He was sick of putting in effort to have it thrown in his face, sick of his own spite and idiotic tendencies, sick of never getting anywhere with anything or anyone. It hurt Ian, to realise this, making his way towards the benches to have his number pinned to his back and on his thigh. He was more than ready for it, and he'd give everything he had for the scouts present, no matter if he failed, he'd go out knowing he did his best. For once, he felt like that'd be enough.
“You're on the vault first, then the floor,” Hugh rambled off as Ian set his bag own and took off his jacket. “I think you have the bars, then rings and the horse last. Pity you don't use the trampoline, you know, added bonus kid,” he smiled and Ian huffed a little laugh.
“Legs don't like it. Knees are babies.”
“Yes, they are,” Hugh agreed and Ian chuckled at his amused and yet unimpressed stare at the limbs in question. He took out the sheets of paper and turned to pin 1955 to Ian's back and then down his leg; normally he'd have one on his belly but the pins itched Ian's skin when he swung his legs in rotations. “All done kid. Shouldn't be long before-”
“Contestant Ian Clayton Gallagher, number one nine five five, move to your first event please.”
“-They call you. OK, s'move out,” Hugh shook his head and picked up Ian's bag, following behind him as Ian weaved his way through towards the vault, taking the seat pointed out to him. “Just do your best Ian, that's all you need to do,” Hugh babbled, clearly unnerved by Ian's silence and drawn face. He gave his coach a small smile and nodded. “Shame Mickey isn't here. I know he puts some kinda fire in you and his presence sets you straight. Try to put that trust in Kevin, he's a good spotter,” Ian sighed and nodded again as Hugh chattered on, trying so hard to ignore the pull in his belly as his body remembered just how it felt under Mickey's watchful safety. He could swear until he was dying of suffocation but there was no denying Mickey brought the best out of him and that was, maybe, why Ian felt so lacklustre today, knowing he'd basically fired the guy and had to rely on someone else to protect him and give him motivation where he needed it.
“I'll be fine, Hugh,” Ian mumbled, standing when motioned to. He took off his socks and trousers and readjusted the shorts he had on underneath, made sure his leotard sat correctly and he hoped it didn't ride up his ass when he ran like last time. He'd opted for the short-leg variety as a last minute effort to help his attention stay ahead and not on his behind. He really didn't like wearing leotards but they didn't ride up his belly and his trousers stuck to the lycra nice and high up around his waist.
“Good luck kid!” Hugh called as Ian took to the runway and powdered up his hands and dusted his feet, mindful that there were eyes everywhere and Kevin was feet from him on the side line, ready to run along with him and catch him if he looked to be in any danger of missing the crash mat.
The arena was chilly, the AC units on full, and Ian's neck and bare shoulders prickled from it while he swung his arms and stretched his neck out. Waiting for the buzz to signal that he could run, Ian felt his back prickle under a stare and bit the inside of his cheek to focus on the vault ahead of him, desperate to shake off the feeling. His name was spoken out and his put his arm up to show he heard them and clapped his hands a little as the audience welcomed him. The buzzer sounded and Ian launched himself as fast as he could, brought his arms up as he neared the board and jumped, hit it hard with his feet, quickly planting his hands on the horse to push as much as he could into his arms and get the height he needed to carry out his routine, tucking in tight to keep his rotations sure. He landed with a thump, well within the lines and just off centre, and held, a slight step back but apart from that, he'd nailed it. He put his arms up and left, heading towards Hugh who held out his hand for a wonky high-five with Ian's bottle in the other.
After the fourth rotation of vaulters, Ian was heading for the floor and he took out his frustrations on it again, hitting it hard and loud and treating it like a punch bag every time he put his hands down for a handstand or a flip. He was slacking and he knew it; he hated the floor.
“High bar,” Hugh said after he'd finished his rotation and Ian hummed, guzzling his water and draping his trousers over his shoulder while following his coach, Kevin at his heels. “You bring your new wraps?” Hugh asked as he sat down and Ian twitched his nose.
“Yah,” Ian grunted, digging said wraps out of his bag. Kevin took them as Ian powdered his hands lightly and put them out, on edge as Kevin wrapped his skin up nice and snug and not at all like he liked, like how Mickey did it. The feeling of the wrappings was annoying Ian like nothing ever had by the time it was his turn to go on the bar, grinding his teeth as he stood and introduced himself with a wave and readied for Kevin to haul him up in the air and ghost him; now he was scared because Mickey knew all of his movements, when to step close and when to step back, but Kevin knew nothing really, just basic signs and if Ian over swung and missed a grip, he'd fling himself off and hit the deck and would Kevin even know until it was too late? Would he see the unbalanced strength in Ian and the bar if he couldn't adapt quick enough? Mickey would. Fuck Mickey.
“On three,” Kevin said clearly, coming to stand behind Ian to place his large hands on Ian's hips. He counted off and lifted and Ian jumped, hanging for a moment as he got used to the pull in his arms and back and allowed Kevin to situate himself close enough to the apparatus without being in the way. Then he swung to gain momentum, switching hands, twirling, letting go to switch position, swinging extra hard to perform throws and flips as and when the routine asked for them, Hugh praising him constantly from the side while Kevin followed every movement carefully. Ian swung hard and let go, turning in the air to switch position again before throwing himself into the hard rotation to dismount cleanly. Given the cheer, he'd nailed it, but Ian couldn't do more than smile and bow, heading off as soon as he could to hide in his seat and wish Kevin would leave. His presence unsettled Ian more than anything and in order to get through the high bar second rotation, he needed to pretend the guy wasn't there. Pretend he was Mickey or that he was back in the home arena and not being watched or judged. He had nearly missed the bar and his heart was still rabbiting in his chest from the shock of fear that he had been so close to falling and Kevin hadn't come close, like he hadn't noticed.
He didn't fare much better on the parallel bars either, nearly upending himself a fair few times and yet, Kevin didn't fucking see. Ian knew, by the time he was sitting on the seat near the rings, waiting for his turn, he needed Mickey to do this, especially the pommel horse, just his presence would be enough to ground Ian, regardless of if he spotted him or not, he needed the guy in the arena otherwise he was going to fail spectacularly. Giving the effort he was, Ian wanted to finish, at least, with a score that wasn't embarrassing due to failed dismounts or slips and falls. God, he did not want to fall from the rings. He couldn't recover quick enough to finish and it always left him shaking like a leaf. His arms were aching and his ribs were tight and he was, for the first time in a long while, scared of his mastered apparatus.
“You're up, kid. Level head, forget where you are,” Hugh muttered, squeezing Ian's nape before he stood up and made sure his trousers sat correctly. He went and announced himself with a wave again, powdering the hell out of his hands and clapping them as he went to stand directly underneath the daunting rings, looking up with a heavy sigh. He put his arms up and barely contained the jump in his body when hands fell on his waist and held tight. Those hands were too small, the hum too unprofessional-
“You were right. We got this,” Mickey said quickly and pushed, forcing Ian to jump up when all he wanted to do was turn and kiss the bastard for showing up, punch him for everything and thank him for not giving up despite what Ian had said. Mickey ran his hands down Ian's legs to straighten them out and moved back; Ian's entire being calmed and settled and he felt empowered, throwing himself into his routine with an efficiency he hadn't brought out because he hadn't wanted to, but now Mickey had his back, Ian was determined to show him that his time hadn't been for nothing, that Ian had listened to him, appreciated him and shone under his eye. The rings were used to show the strength of the gymnast, how they held and looped and Ian hit every move with precise power, keeping is toes pointed and his legs straight. His dismount was quick and he landed hard, knees bent and not a hair out of place, no tremble and no wobble and Hugh roared with praise, the crowd following. Mickey was stood off to the side, clapping lightly and smiling warmly and that's all Ian could see, bright azure in a sea of colour, proud and sorry and pleased and fond.
“Well done, Ian! That was flawless!” Hugh clapped Ian's back hard and Ian found his face cracking into a genuine smile, taking a seat as the rotation started up again. “The fuck didn't you tell me your leg was acting up? Could have given a guy warning, asshole!” Hugh laughed as Mickey sauntered over, the guy looking sheepish for a second. He winced and went with the lie, giving Ian a fleeting glare. He looked harried in his black tracksuit, the jacket unzipped to show a strip of light blue, Nike's on his feet for once.
“Sorry boss, Ian said he would tell you?” Mickey shrugged and took a seat two over from Ian, ignoring Hugh's fond spluttering as he waltzed off to speak to some adjudicator. Ian took a pull from his water bottle and jumped slightly when Mickey's brushed his arm, having shifted over to sit next to him, “Thought about what you said. It wasn't fair of me and yeah, I knew what I was doin' but I didn't think it'd be such a big deal. Sorry I let you take the blame in first fuckin' place, too, 'cause it wasn't you. Don't let what I do fuck up your dream, OK? You're real good so, yeah, don't fuck it up 'cause I'm the one who... Don't let me wreck it. You don't want that.”
Ian nodded and let Mickey's low tones wash over him like a breeze, “You're a shit liar.”
“Not fuckin' lyin'! What the hell is there to fuckin' lie about here?” Mickey snapped and Ian held up a hand to stop his angry explosion, not even looking at him.
“You said it'd change nothing,” Ian said calmly, turning to pin Mickey with a hard look, “It changed everything.” Mickey's mouth had opened a little and his shook his head dumbly, waiting and Ian shrugged, looking back across the arena absently, “I don't know if it changed for the better or the worst. I feel safe with you, you know? I can't explain what you being around me does, how I feel and it's not surface deep either so fuck you for thinking that's all it was- is. But now? I can't be around you because I told you shit, you know, and I can't focus correctly even though I'm hyper-aware... it's a contraction, I know, but that's how it is.”
Mickey was silent for too long and it unsettled Ian a bit, not so much as sparing the guy a glance when he got up to do his second rotation on the rings, closing off as Kevin stepped in to replace Mickey. Whether he had left or hadn't moved, Ian didn't know, he didn't want to know either and put himself straight in order to complete the apparatus and move to the last one and go home, forget any and all of this. He was a man of actions and vicious words, not honesty that left him open to attack and disappointments and he'd opened himself like a flower and Mickey was the one wearing the boot to crush him.
“Final one, kid,” Hugh said as they sat down next to the pommel horse, Ian staring at it as if doing so, hard enough, would set it on fire. Mickey sat down next to him and Ian turned to give him a confused grin.
“Yeah, like I'm leavin' after all of this,” Mickey grumbled, shifting and motioning between them discreetly. “You get on that, you own it like I showed you and you show everyone in here who the next name they gotta watch out for is, right?” Mickey sniffed and Ian narrowed his eyes.
“Why are you being nice? Didn't know you possessed the ability, to be honest.”
“The fuck?” Mickey barked quietly, “You're a fuckin' asshole who got his panties in a twist. You think you know everythin' and yet, you know shit really. So, as I know my shit, you get on that fuckin' horse and you do as you've been told so I don't gotta regret comin' here-
“Didn't fucking ask you to!” Ian hissed back, trying to keep himself steady and not let on to Hugh they were about to brawl it out on the floor. Mickey silenced any further remarks with a raised eyebrow and a jabbing finger to Ian's bicep.
“-Why you gotta butt in all the damn time, Ian?” Mickey sighed and pinched his nose, rubbing his eyes as Ian clenched his jaw. “Look, I'm gonna quit as your spotter. Had a think and I reckon I could help a few others so I'm gonna ask Hugh if he's ever thought of takin' on an assistant coach. Thing is, I don't wanna be your spotter any more, I wanna be around you for other reasons, your reasons, and if I gotta take a higher position to stick around without doin' one-on-one shit that toys with your focus, then I'll do it.” Mickey sniffed and ducked his face close, muttering under his breath like some secret agent, “It's fuckin' hard, man, keepin' my hands to myself and being all professional. Thought I could lock it down and forget but you're right, it changed things, but I ain't complainin'.”
Ian frowned as Mickey stared at him, his eyes fucking shining as he visibly fought a smile, his jaw ticking and his nose scrunching. “You, uh, what,” again with his idiot vocabulary. Ian looked all over Mickey's face for a hint, anything that told him the guy was having him on, mocking him, but nothing stood out, only pleasant fondness and a teasing glint that held no malice. He went to ask again but was motioned to the horse.
“Go on, Ian, you've got this!” Hugh cheered, shoving him up and out of the seat and he went with a jerk, turning and frowning at Mickey as he stood too and followed, grinning slyly but dropping it in favour of warning Kevin back with a glare that should have left him bleeding. Ian wasn't sure what the hell was going on because surely Mickey, corporal asshole, did not just hint at levelling up so they could date? So much for never again, not happening. Ian, powdering his hands, realised he thought he knew Mickey well enough but actually knew fuck all and, as he stepped to the horse and clocked his spotter ghosting him from the edge of the area, further away than he would be in practise and hating it by the itchy fingers and scowl on his face, Ian found he wanted to know him better than anyone ever had.
“That, is just a horse,” Mickey said loud enough for Ian to hear as he readied to launch onto the apparatus and do his routine quickly and efficiently, “You are Ian Gallagher. I've got your back but you ain't fallin' off and you ain't fuckin' up, you hear me?”
“Boss,” Ian dipped his head and grinned at Mickey, leaping up onto the horse and immediately began rotations of his hips, throwing in scissors and fast travelling while Mickey motivated him from the side quietly, a low murmur that Ian didn't need to hear the words of, just the sound was enough to keep him grounded and set. His flares pulled at the insides of his thighs, swinging his legs up high and wide like Mickey had taught him to, ignoring the pull, concentrating on keeping his back strong and his toes arrow tipped, making sure to keep them above the level of the horse if he could. By the time he was ready to dismount, Mickey was chanting c'mon Jack, you got this and nailin' it, nailin' it, you've done it! As he jogged to the side Ian would land and Hugh joined in cheering as Ian lifted his heavy legs up into a handstand and twirled along the beam and off into a slightly wobbled landing, but he didn't care; his wrists and palms were aching something fierce and his back hurt and his head was pounding and his ears were drinking in Mickey's lyrical laughter as he came close enough to haul him into a tight squeeze, fingers tight on Ian's clammy neck.
“That was amazin' and it was all you, all you,” Mickey praised and let go with a smile as Hugh yanked Ian down to where he was, pounding his shoulders and yelling. He'd done his best and maybe, maybe it was finally enough.
“Thank you, for coming,” Ian said later on when he was rewarded for his efforts with fourth place, smiling cheekily as he bumped Mickey's shoulder. Mickey just snorted and shoved him.
“You asked.” Fuck, he hated how Mickey could read him. He liked him so damn much and decided that grinning like he'd won the lottery would be the best way to announce this to Mickey, and he knew that Mickey would get it.
–
Ian had kept his place with Hugh, explaining that his attempt to leave had been after having a hellish day and he had been thinking he'd fail, that he wasn't really any good and Hugh had slugged him one in the shoulder and told him to get his lilly ass warmed up. Now, he was throwing his body over and over in flips across the floor, no longer feeling the need to smash the hell out of it. He didn't mind the floor much any more really, not now he could focus properly.
“You've gone all...” Harry rotated his wrist and pursed his mouth, “delicate.”
“Fuck am I delicate, asshole,” Ian chuckled as he tip-toed and twirled. Harry was his new spotter as Hugh had very nearly torn Mickey's arm off with his accepting handshake when the guy had asked about the assistant coach thing. Ian had been upset about losing his spotter but as he gained another coach and Mickey was going nowhere, like himself, he didn't really mind adapting too much.
“Says he who is prancing,” Harry chuckled and mocked hurt when Ian glared at him as he dropped into the splits. “Careful, don't tear anything.”
Ian narrowed his eyes and rolled out of the move, “Tear your lips off in a second, Jesus.”
“I only go by that title on Sunday's, starshine,” Harry winked and laughed where he stood at the edge of the floor, well out of smacking reach. Ian liked him; he wasn't Mickey, but he was capable and cheeky and Ian's scathing attitude rolled off him like he was a duck and Ian's words were rain. And he totally looked like Jesus, hair dark and tied in a messy bun, a beard that he kept trimmed and a set of deep brown eyes that shone like nobody's business 24/7 and burned brighter whenever he was sassing. They looked like torches right now and it irked Ian's inner petulance.
Ian threw himself into a set of three back-flips, grunting when he landed, “Christ.”
“Hey, what I just tell you?” Harry shouted and Ian kicked his leg up and held it against his chest, both middle fingers out to burn. Harry waved him off and glanced around while Ian carried on with what he was doing. “Oh, the ass is coming!” Harry sounded like a child and Ian groaned.
“And what the fuck'd I tell you about callin' him that?”
“Hey, it's short for assistant, dumbass. He is an ass though,” Harry retorted and Ian declined to answer that because yeah, he totally was and the guy himself would say so first.
“Yo, the scout we met last month is here to speak to you,” Mickey said as he came to stand near Harry, ignoring his beaming face with a scowl. Mickey still wore his black and green set and wandered around barefoot all the time, only now he had a staff cord around his neck, holding an ID card with Assistant Coach in bold on it and he had a shiny blue whistle and a clipboard he hated lugging about. He still coached Ian on the pommel horse and would always agree to spot him on the rings and high bar because like fuck could Harry actually lift him high enough. Harry needed to work out more. Harry was a little bitch in Ian's opinion.
“Seriously?” Ian asked in genuine surprise as he wandered towards Mickey and his thunderous face.
“Do I lie?” Mickey opened his arms and held them out in a hello! Gesture. Ian hummed and flashed his brows up, pulling a disgusted face, “Eh, less of that mockery Sir Bitch-A-Lot. Get your ass in the office and go speak to him. Harry, go watch Sophie on the beam.”
Harry moaned and drooped, “Do I fucking have to? She's a whiny little shit, man, she pulls my hair when she falls.”
“Then don't let her fall,” Mickey laughed and pushed the guy towards the teenager in the far corner, “Get to it.”
“You're such an asshole,” Ian chuckled as he watched Harry wander off as if to the hangman's noose.
Mickey caught his elbow and hummed like he was looking at something delicious and Ian turned to see him smile gently, lopsided and flirtatious, “Yeah but that's part of the appeal, s'why you like me.”
“I don't fucking like you,” Ian rolled his eyes and took off towards the office, flipping off Mickey's taunting laughter as he took himself to the higher level to observe the trampolines.
“I was told I was requested?” Ian asked once he'd knocked and stepped inside the office, looking between Hugh and a younger man with combed back, thick blond hair and a friendly smile.
“Ian! You remember Ben Harrison?” Hugh waved him to a seat and Ian nodded with a smile, the excitement rolling off of Hugh seeping into his skin.
“Mr Gallagher-”
“Ian, please.”
Ben smiled, “Ian. As I mentioned the last time we spoke which was after the competition, we are very invested in bringing new and fresh talent into our team, athletes who can give and push every time they compete, people who can inspire and pull in great results that represent our country in the best light when it comes to our sports. You do this. I have observed you through footage Hugh has given me and I have had the time to look into your background and I have seen that you have fought for what you do, how much you must have put into yourself to get such skill. I have also had a young lady come and watch you twice a week since I saw you and she has nothing but great praise to report, you'll be pleased to note.”
Ian blushed a little under the attention and shifted, “I owe that to my assistant coach, well, spotter.”
Ben smiled and leant forward, “He was a phenomenal competitor and it was loss when he had no choice but to retire. To have had him guide you only adds to your allure. In saying that, he's only brought out what you held back really. Like I say, I have looked into you. Be that as it may, Ian, I've come today to offer you a place on our team and, after the first year and taking new competitions and placements into consideration, you'll be put forward for consideration for a place in the group we send into the Games. There are no guarantees that you'll get that place, but to have you on our team in general, having you represent our nation rather than state team in events would please us greatly.”
Ian stared and his mouth was open, he knew it, he could feel his tongue drying out as he panted in shock and his heart hammered, “But I uh, I finished fourth?” he said lamely.
Ben chuckled and Hugh twirled his pen through his fingers and pointed it at Ian, “Yeah, you did. You finished fourth, out of what? Forty something... fuck knows. Point is, kid, you're damn good at this and they want you. So you wobble from time to time, you're human, but since then, like he says, Ben's seen enough to know what he wants. And that's you, dumbass.”
He'd done it. No, he hadn't, Mickey had. No matter what anyone said, even the guy himself, Mickey had done this, he'd reigned in Ian's attitude and planted new seeds of confidence and self-appreciation that were growing more each day, he'd pushed Ian to own what he did and shit, he'd done it.
“Uh, I uh,” Ian coughed and ducked his face to hide the flush he could feel burning it's way to the surface. “When do I try out?”
“Oh, you needn't worry about that, Ian,” Ben said sweetly, bending to pull contracts out of briefcase hidden under his chair, “I've seen enough. The place is yours, if you want it.”
The guy pushed the papers across the desk and a pen and sat back, folding his hands in his lap as Ian took his copy and Hugh took his with a grin. “Jesus Christ,” Ian breathed, running his fingers over the embossed paper and the red, white and blue designs and rich calligraphy.
“As it's Wednesday, how about I give you until Friday evening to call me with your decision? There's clearly no pressure but this is a big step for you as you'll be training somewhere new, you'll have many events to prove yourself in, stricter ruling and you'll be required, sometimes, with very little warning. It's a big deal, all outlined in the paperwork, so you go away and you read it through before you sign it, or not, it's your choice. Call me Friday and don't hesitate to do so sooner if you have any questions. Sound good?” Ben asked as he produced a card with his details on and slipped it into Ian's open, lax hand.
“Perfect, Ben. He'll call you,” Hugh said when all Ian could do was make some tiny noise in his throat as his mouth failed to work, staring at Recruitment Contract of USA Gymnastics, sub division of the International Gymnastics Federation (FIG).
–
“So,” Ian panted, “That scout gave me a contract to sign. Recruiting one, for the USAG. Never really thought what, fuck, training to Olympic standards really included.”
Mickey snorted and huffed, “Didn't tell me this earlier.”
“You were busy and I'm telling you now. If I sign it, I can still train here but I gotta go to Colorado Springs on the regular 'cause the US Olympic Training Centre is there and I'll be like, a resident for however long they need, back and forth and stuff. Then there's the programs, the events, proving myself... it's a big thing- ah shit, stop, we gotta stop!” Ian pulled up and bent over, heaving in air. It was too hot to be running in the park but he'd already cried off on Mickey once this week.
“Shouldn't chatter when you're runnin',” Mickey breathed, taking the respite easily as he pulled his bottle from the pouch on his leg and guzzled it. “Ain't this what you wanted anyways? Dreams and shit?”
“Well, yeah,” Ian sat down on the floor and spread his legs, stretching out the cramps.
“So why haven't you signed it?”
Looking up at Mickey with the sun behind his black hair made him look way too malevolent even with his hair sticking up and his face glowing with sweat, “It's a huge fucking decision.”
“But you've always wanted it. It's what your end goal is, right? No sense in wastin' that shit 'cause you're scared of goin' places you don't know. I'd say hard work too, but you're pretty good as it is so I doubt you'll be pushed like a rookie. Sign the fuckin' contract man, don't wimp out on such an opportunity, especially one you've been waitin' for.”
“Yeah but it means... well, leaving for long periods of time and stuff,” Ian squinted and looked around, his voice small and pathetic to his own ears.
“You worried you're gonna get homesick or somethin'?” Mickey wondered, kicking Ian's foot lightly.
“Something like that,” Ian muttered, swigging from his water, knowing he was being subjected to a very curious stare but declined to acknowledge it, watching kids on the skate ramp in the lower end of the park.
“Well,” Mickey breathed after a long while of awkward silence filled in by birds and traffic, “Not like you'll get lonely so there's that.”
“I guess.”
Mickey snorted and crouched down, hand coming to rest on Ian's knee to catch his attention and when Ian looked, Mickey's eyes were soft and his face gentle, “No guessin'. We've been doin' this thing for a month now and I don't like the idea of you goin' away either but I'm just better at hidin' it. Look, this is a big deal for you, you've always wanted it and I told you before, don't let me wreck it for you. I know you don't wanna go 'cause it means you gotta leave certain things behind for a while, for unknown periods of time. I know, I went there a bit and it's fuckin' phenomenal but my time got cut short and I know yours won't, well, if you don't break yourself. My point is, you gotta go and do it, you'll regret it if you don't and not goin' 'cause of missin' home, or missin' people or whatever is stupid.”
Ian took a deep breath and frowned a bit, “You aren't just people.”
“Yeah, I know... still not a reason to not go,” Mickey answered quietly, thumbing the skin on Ian's knee and watching it move. Ian placed his hand over Mickey's and tipped his head in thought.
“Come with me then,” he said and Mickey looked up with a wide eyed stare, “I'm serious. You said once that you wanted to be around me for my reasons, and you're one of the reasons I'd not go, so come with me. Be my reason to go.” Ian knew he was being a manipulative little shit but, being away for months on end with nothing but a phone or Skype as the only source for contact made him feel a little selfish. Mickey was fast becoming his rock in life, let alone the gym and he wasn't about to leave him open for the taking. Fucking no.
Mickey was quiet for a while, chewing his lip and watching Ian's fingers stroke and dance along the back of his hand. He curled it up and caught their hands in fist, tugging Ian to his feet, “You gotta call that Ben dude then, got some questions to ask haven't you?”
“What?” now he was towering over Mickey a bit, he didn't look so menacing, more cute and adorable in the way he squinted up and dropped Ian's hand from his fist to curl their fingers together properly. “Are you holding my hand, Mickey?”
“Problem with that?” Mickey eyed him and Ian felt his mouth push into an amused smirk, “Call Ben and find out the rules on family and partners – yes, I know we aren't, but he doesn't and if you really want me there, we gotta cover our asses somehow or else I ain't comin'. I'll talk to Hugh once you know shit.”
“So...” Ian started and Mickey groaned, knowing his face and whatever cheeky glint was flashing in his eye, “You'd be OK with a change in title?”
“Bitch, just 'cause I ain't said it yet don't mean I don't already consider you my uh, boyfriend,” Mickey looked serious for a second and then snorted at Ian's smile. “Look, even if I can't stay close by or whatever, I'll come and stay somewhere close as much as I can. I do work here though so you're gonna have to suck up some time apart.”
“OK,” Ian whispered, nodding. Mickey squeezed his hand and pulled Ian closer, looking him right in the eye.
“Sign the contract.”
“OK,” Ian bent to kiss his cheek and got a lovely shock to his system when Mickey cupped his neck and caught his lips in a kiss, humming when Ian's free arm curled around his back.
“Ready to run again?”
Ian sighed, “Can I walk for a bit?”
“Why?”
“'Cause you're holding my hand and the sun's setting and I wanna walk in the glow with my boyfriend,” Ian said thickly, teasing and emotional and Mickey nudged him with his shoulder.
“Fuckin' dork. C'mon,” he smiled, nodding in the direction he wanted to go and not letting go of Ian's hand. Ian kissed his boyfriends neck and chirped about it, “God, I hate your ginger ass.”
“Fucking loathe yours too, Mick,” Ian said sweetly and pinched the soft mound, disentangling their fingers as fast as he could before Mickey clamped his tight to keep him there for a corkscrew to the shoulder and took off running.
“You better fuckin' run, asshole!”
Ian jogged backwards for a moment to see middle fingers and Mickey hunting him with a dirty smile. “Think you can catch an Olympic Athlete?” Ian wondered, putting a finger to his curling smile as he winked.
Mickey's dirty smile dropped into an incredulous scoff, “Trainee, Jack!”
That goddamn fucking nickname. “I hate you!”
Mickey chuckled and the sound twisted into something filthy, making Ian fancy stopping just to pin Mickey to a tree and lick into his mouth to stifle it, see if he couldn't draw out filthier noises. His step faltered and Mickey knew he'd had a desired effect, knowing as always, sing-songing “Feeling's mutual, Jack!” as he jogged along. Ian smiled and stopped, waiting until Mickey caught up to him and took his place by his side again. From time to time, Ian would link their pinky fingers or touch the base of Mickey's spine just because he wanted to feel him and Mickey would pull him out of the path of some dog walker or a tree or post by his elbow while Ian was busy off in his little world of wondering, keeping him safe and grounded like he had done from the second they'd met.