Work Text:
“Remember that one time you asked me to do that thing for you, and I never asked any questions, and you didn’t explain a fucking thing, but I did it anyway?”
Mickey instantly doesn’t like where this conversation is going. That was months ago, and Ian hasn’t once brought the fucking thing up. Mickey had hoped it was in his past.
Apparently not.
“…yeah,” Mickey agrees, feeling both hesitant and suspicious.
“Do you remember what you said?” Ian’s eyebrows raise, expectantly, and Mickey makes his best how the fuck should I know? face. “That you owed me?” Ian is fidgeting, bouncing from foot to foot, and Mickey frowns, wondering if he’s off his meds again. “Big time?”
“Yeah, yeah, what about it?” Mickey snaps, feeling distracted. Ian’s been so good with his schedule lately, and Mickey has been watching him. Did he fuck up? Was he not paying attention? He’s the fucking safety net for those times when Ian thinks he doesn’t need the pills anymore.
(They both know that’s not true. That it will never be true. But they don’t talk about it.)
“I’m calling in that favor,” Ian finally spit outs, and Mickey starts to see the jittery energy in his limbs as just what it is—nerves. Ian’s not off his meds. He’s fucking nervous. But Mickey looks at Ian and can’t imagine any sort of favor he’d say no to.
They’re best friends. Mickey’s got his fucking back.
“What sort of favor?” Mickey asks, eyebrows furrowing, and Ian is crossing and uncrossing his arms, throwing his looks all around the room as if he can somehow distract himself from the conversation. Which is fucking dumb, considering he’s the one who started it in the first place.
Ian starts pacing and won’t look Mickey in the eye—never a good sign.
“So there’s this guy at work and he’s kind of been… Harassing me? Pursuing me? Whatever you want to call it, for awhile now. Sort of since I started there.” Ian’s playing with his fingers, while Mickey’s own are digging into the arm of the couch. Some guy has been harassing Ian for months and he’s just bringing it up now? What the fuck? Mickey would have made the message very clear to him that Ian wasn’t interested.
“It got really annoying, so I just told him I had a boyfriend, so he’d back off.” Ian laughs, forced and fake, and Mickey raises an eyebrow. Ian catches the motion, shakes his head. “I know, stupid, right? And I thought that would be enough, but then he kept… Asking all these questions. Like he was trying to catch me in my own lie, and like fuck I was going to let him win like that, so I just… Lied. And kept lying. And it became this thing. Suddenly everyone in the office knew I had a boyfriend.”
“Are you getting to a point any time soon?” Mickey prompts, knowing that when Ian starts rambling it takes him awhile to stop.
“There’s a work party next weekend.” Ian finally stops wearing a path in their shitty carpet and looks at him. “I told all of them that my non-existent boyfriend would be there.”
“…why the fuck would you do that?” Mickey groans, overwhelmed by Ian’s stupidity in that moment.
“I don’t know! I panicked! I was being attacked from all sides, it was very disorienting.” Ian presses his hands over his face, muffling his words as he scrubs at his eyes.
“So what? You want me to go and find some tool to play your boyfriend for a night?” Mickey doesn’t really get how he plays into all of this, reaching for the beer he’d been neglecting since Ian had twitched into the room and gotten his attention.
“I told them it was you,” Ian blurts, and Mickey freezes, arm outstretched, raising his eyes slowly to meet Ian’s.
“You did what now?”
“They wanted a name, and it’s not like telling people your boyfriend’s name is a big deal, so I just… Yours came out!”
“You couldn’t make up a fucking name? Are you fucking retarded, Ian?”
Ian doesn’t say anything—makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and throws his hands up in the air, like he’s seconds from having a full on freak-out, and Mickey needs to calm him down.
“All right, no, it’s okay. This isn’t some fucking romcom, we can figure this out. We can just get some guy, like an actor, or like one of your old school friends, and just give him my name or some shit,” Mickey explains, easily. They can figure this out. When they put their heads together, they’re surprisingly good at problem solving.
Ian’s hands are over his mouth, and Mickey is waiting for him to cover his ears and complete the three wise monkeys, when he rushes out with, “I showed them pictures,” and then slaps his hands back over his mouth, instantly.
Mickey drops his forehead into his hand, rubbing at it.
“So you basically fucking screwed yourself over,” Mickey says dryly, not even looking at Ian. “You are something else, Gallagher.” He backed them into a corner. Literally the only thing that can be done is for Mickey to go to this fucking boring ass work party and pretend to be Ian’s boyfriend.
Ian is completely still for the first time in this entire conversation as he waits for Mickey’s answer without ever posing the question. He doesn’t have to. Mickey already knows it.
“You owe me, remember,” Ian points out, like Mickey had somehow forgot.
It’s not like Mickey hasn’t thought about those things before—not so much being boyfriends, and dating, because he’s shit at relationships and avoids them at all costs. But he thinks about running his tongue over the long column of Ian’s neck, or running his hands over the long lines of his torso, or getting fucked ruthlessly over the arm of the very couch he’s currently sitting on by his frustratingly attractive roommate.
They’ve been friends for years, and Mickey’s still surprised that the sexual frustration hasn’t torn him in half.
But they got a good thing, and nothing fucks a good thing up like, well, fucking. Ian’s too into all that feelings bullshit. It would get very messy, very quickly.
“So…?” Ian prompts after Mickey’s been silent too long, like he thinks Mickey has any choice in his answer. Like Mickey has ever fucking let him down before.
“Don’t have much of a choice, right?”
And Ian’s entire body sags with relief, and it makes Mickey feel a little less anxious in return.
What could be so hard about pretending to be someone’s fucking boyfriend anyway?
*
The worst part of the stupid pretending-to-be-Ian’s-boyfriend thing is definitely the party. Mickey isn’t a fan of parties, especially the ones that happen in swanky apartments where they have like wine and shit. There’s always too many people, and way too much small talk, and people asking him about inconsequential things none of them actually care about, like how his job is going or how his family is or is his favorite sports team doing well this season? Mickey fucking hates it.
On top of the fact that they have to go to this thing in the first place, Mickey has to actually dress nice. Granted, he’s not some Chicago street rat anymore, but it’s not like he walks around in fucking slacks and dress shoes.
At least Ian doesn’t make him wear a tie. There are fucking lines that do not need to be crossed.
The night of the actual party, Ian seems surprisingly calm. Then again, Ian is good at pretending to be calm even when he’s not.
“So what?” Mickey finally asks as they sit in the cab on the way to the fucking ritzy ass hotel this party is taking place at. Like it’s just a fucking necessity.
“Hmm?” Ian looks over at him, and he’s playing with his fingers—the first sign that he’s actually anxious about what’s about to happen.
“I dunno, figured that me pretending to be your boyfriend involved me knowing shit.” In fact, Mickey had kind of expected it. But Ian never told him any of the fake stories he made up for his coworkers. Isn’t that the kind of shit he should know? What if they ask him questions? Mickey is not going through all this shit just for Ian to get fucked over anyways.
“Uh… How we met is the same.” Ian doesn’t look at Mickey as he speaks. “They’ve asked about our first date and shit, but I never answer those questions. Just play it off, act coy, whatever. So make up whatever you want, just keep the story consistent, and I’ll roll with it.” He shrugs, and then leans back against the seat, hands pressed to his knees as he looks at Mickey. “But you know me, Mick. I don’t think you’re going to have trouble answering anything anyone asks you.”
Mickey looks out the cab window, watching the city pass by, and tugs on his collar. Because he fucking hates collars, and because he feels a little warm. Not for any other fucking reason.
*
It should be hard.
It should be fucking hard to pretend to be Ian’s boyfriend, at least a little bit, but the thing is is that it’s not hard at all. It is so fucking easy that it actually freaks Mickey out a little bit.
Mickey doesn’t do parties, and Ian knows that. He sticks close as often as he can, herding Mickey around from group to group as he mingles—except he does it with a hand on Mickey’s lower back, a touch that makes him jolt the first time it happens. When Ian does wander off (because he’s Ian, and it’s what he does), Mickey hangs back and watches him flit about the room, and doesn’t really talk to anyone. And when Ian finally joins him again, it’s right at the time whatever drink Mickey has been nursing is just about done, and Ian always has a replacement for him.
A lot of people do the, “Oh, so you’re Mickey! I’ve heard so much about you!” and Mickey wonders how fucking long this whole lie has been going on. He wonders how much information was forced out of Ian, and how much he willingly gave. Ian has a tendency to dig the holes he gets stuck in deeper.
It isn’t until about an hour into the thing (a fucking hour, and Mickey feels ready to shoot himself in the head), they finally come across the guy. At least, Mickey thinks it’s the fucking guy. The way that his eyes rake over Ian and Ian’s face goes tight in that polite, cold way it does is enough to convince Mickey.
It also makes him want to punch the guy in the fucking stomach, but there’s a time and a place.
“Carter,” Ian greets, and the fake, overly-happy sound of it grates on Mickey’s ears. “See you finally made it. This is my boyfriend, Mickey.”
And Ian has said that sentence so many times tonight that the sound of it doesn’t startle Mickey anymore, but it seems more important this time. This is the guy that won’t get a clue and leave Ian the fuck alone. Mickey’s tempted to crack his knuckles, to appear just as dangerous and threatening as he fucking is—so what if this guy is taller than him, and more built, Mickey’s dealt with worse.
But instead he just pulls himself taller, drawing his shoulders back, and Ian throws him an amused glance. Mickey quirks an eyebrow in return—what does Ian expect him to do here?
Carter eyes him up and down, and seems surprised.
“In the flesh,” Carter says, sounding impressed. “And you look just like you do in your pictures.”
The fuck is that supposed to mean?
“Generally that’s how it fucking works, yeah,” Mickey responds, dryly, and Ian turns his head away, but not before Mickey catches the way his lips are pressed together—like he’s holding in a laugh.
“Right…” Carter at least sounds a little embarrassed about his own dumb ass comment. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to take it this far.” This is directed at Ian, who’s amusement immediately disappears.
“Excuse me?”
“Come on.” Carter places a hand on Ian’s arm, and Mickey’s gut reaction is to break the guy’s fucking wrist—he restrains himself, gritting his teeth. Ian’s not a child, and he can take care of himself. He’ll just do all that passive-aggressive angry shit if Mickey interferes when Ian doesn’t want him to. “You can’t expect me to believe that someone like you would date…” Carter glances at Mickey, and the look in his eyes is a mixture of disgust and pity. “That.”
Ian shakes out of Carter’s grasp, leveling him with a cold glare, but Mickey’s patience—including the extra supply he’s drawing on for the sake of Ian—is about to run dry.
“That?” Mickey folds his lips together, and has hardly moved an inch forward when the back of Ian’s hand touches his chest. It’s not a force, not something immovable, but it stops Mickey in his tracks all the same.
“I get that I’ve been a little forward, but seriously? Dragging some guy in off the street to play your so-called boyfriend? How dumb do you think I am?” He seems completely amused at what he believes to be Ian’s stupidity, and it doesn’t even fucking matter that he’s close to right. Mickey wants to punch that smug smile off his stupid ass face—maybe get some teeth in there, too. Especially with the way Ian is just radiating fury beside him, hands clenched tightly at his sides, and seriously, fuck this guy.
“You really think we’re not a couple, huh?” Mickey finally asks, and his voice draws Ian’s attention, like he’s not all that sure where Mickey plans on going with this. Fuck, Mickey doesn’t even know, but if he can’t punch the guy, he needs to make him look like an idiot somehow.
Ian apparently doesn’t believe Mickey can restrain himself, and mutters a quiet, warning, “Mickey…”
“No, no. This guy doesn’t think we’re boyfriends, and since me being here ain’t enough for him, we just gotta fucking prove it to him another way, right?”
“Prove it?” Ian and Carter say at the same time—Ian’s voice soft and confused, while Carter’s is still smug as fuck and skeptical.
Short of fucking, there’s not a whole lot they can do to prove it, so Mickey does the only thing he can think to do and does it while the ball is still rolling—before he can think too much about what he’s about to fucking do.
Mickey turns to Ian, raises his eyebrows in a hope to convey, Hey, you’re the one who wanted me to be your fake boyfriend, I’m doing what I have to do here, and then grabs Ian behind the neck and kisses him.
Kissing is not really something Mickey thinks about, let alone does. When he finds himself staring at Ian, it’s never at his mouth—well, sometimes it is, but never because he’s imagining kissing him. But now that he’s actually doing it, Mickey wonders why the fuck it never occurred to him.
It’s weird at first, as Ian reels with the shock of Mickey fucking kissing him. In public. Like, around people. And Mickey needs to stop thinking about that, because he doesn’t do this shit, and he’s fucking doing it, and the last thing he needs to do right now is freak the fuck out. They’ve got something to prove, after all. And Mickey nearly freaks out, nearly pulls back and let’s this douche be right, when Ian’s fingers thread through his hair and he kisses back.
And seriously, fuck, why did Mickey never even consider this?
Ian takes control of the kiss in seconds—which is probably for the best, Mickey doesn’t exactly have all that much experience, he’s strictly a fuck only sort of guy—pinning his body close to Mickey’s, keeping Mickey pressed close with a hand splayed on his lower back. Mickey has no idea what the fuck to do with the hand that isn’t currently grasping tightly at Ian’s own hair, so he settles it on Ian’s hip and figures that’s as good a place as any.
(The urge to grab Ian’s ass is pretty hard to deny, but Mickey may have just fucked everything up, he doesn’t want to push his luck any further.)
And then kissing (like pretty heavy kissing as it is, and fuck, Gallagher has a talented mouth) turns into making out, just with the simple swipe of Ian’s tongue, and Mickey doesn’t even think about it. He just gives in. Fuck, he might even need it in some way he’s not entirely too clear on. But he just needs this to keep going, as long as Ian is willing to give him.
By the time Carter clears his throat, Mickey has entirely forgotten where they are and why they’re making out in the first place. He’s half hard in his pants and whatever had been keeping this sexual tension thing between him and Ian at bay the last several years has suddenly snapped, the pieces so broken there’s no way of reconstructing it.
Mickey stares at Ian, and Ian stares back at him, and they’re still so close that they’re basically panting into each other’s mouths, and Mickey sees the idea flicker through Ian’s eyes, sees the tip of his chin as he decides he wants to move in for more.
“You’re both either very dedicated to this whole thing,” Carter starts, and it snaps whatever trance had been pulling Mickey and Ian back into each other. Mickey isn’t sure when he started gripping Ian’s arm, but he is now, and he has the urge to pull back—jump back, like he’s on fire—but that would kind of offset what they had just been trying to prove.
Because that’s what that had been.
Proof. Fake proof of a fake relationship.
“Or I just need to swallow my own words and accept when I’ve been proven wrong.” Carter tips his chin up and regards Ian down his nose. “I can take a hint.”
And then he walks off, and Ian and Mickey are still too close, still clutching each other, watching him go.
“So…” Ian turns back to look at Mickey, and Mickey glances around the room. A few people are looking at them, but for the most part, they’re being largely ignored, but shit. Mickey just fucking kissed Ian in front of a room full of strangers. And he can’t even just play it off as part of the act. Maybe if it had just been some quick thing, something he’d done before Ian could even react.
But that isn’t what it was. It was so much fucking more than that, and Mickey is totally freaking out.
He releases his hold on Ian slowly, trying not to draw attention to it, and Ian follows suit.
“That happened,” Ian continues. Because this is what Ian does. He turns everything into a fucking conversation.
“I have to piss,” Mickey announces, and then abruptly walks way, even if he has no idea where the fucking bathroom is.
*
After wandering around the party for a good fifteen minutes, Mickey finally makes his way back to Ian, who has nestled himself in a group of people and is listening to one of them intently. Mickey stands back for a few minutes, and just sort of… Watches him. Watches how engaged he looks. Watches those little fucking nods he does to show people he’s listening and he’s interested. Watches the way his lips form around his polite smiles and laughs, the ones he only uses in public because for some reason he doesn’t like to use his real ones.
Mickey watches him fucking itch his nose, and shift his weight, and run his fingertips through the cropped-short hairs at the side of his head. The hair in the back, the ones Mickey had been gripping like they were his only tether, are still sticking up.
But the point is that Mickey just stands there and stares, and it’s not boring. Watching Ian is never fucking boring. And shouldn’t it be? Isn’t it fucking supposed to be?
Ian turns his head then, and catches Mickey’s eyes, surprise popping onto his face before it melts into something softer. He gives a small tilt of his head, and invitation for Mickey to come over, and Mickey’s heart feels like it’s throbbing in his feet with every step that he takes. Which can’t be fucking good.
Either can the way it flies from his feet and into his throat when he finally joins Ian’s little group, and Ian presses an unassuming kiss to Mickey’s cheek.
Like what the fuck?
*
“Do you want to go home?” Ian asks not much longer, because Mickey is practically crawling out of his skin with how fucking weird he’s feeling. Ian is too close and Mickey just wants to jump away from him, but doesn’t.
“…that cool with you?” Mickey knows how much Ian likes these fucking things, but if they’re there as a fake couple, they kind of have to leave as a fake couple.
Ian just smiles, and then his hand is between Mickey’s shoulder blades and he’s leaning too close and nearly whispering, “I’ll get our coats,” and it feels way too fucking intimate.
Mickey watches Ian walk away, and he thinks maybe it’ll make him feel less wound up, but it fucking gets worse. He shakes out his arms and mutters fuck a few dozen times. Maybe he just needs a good fuck. It’s been awhile.
His mind flashes to Ian.
Fuck. No, but not—fuck!
His eyes roam listlessly around the room, and he sees the guy again—that Carter prick. He’s leaning against a wall not far away, and when Mickey follows his eye line, the guy is still staring at Ian. Fucking seriously? Does this guy have a death wish?
And Mickey figures, they’re about to leave anyway. He rolls his shoulders and waits until Ian has left the room before making his way over to Carter.
“Well if it isn’t Mickey,” Carter greets, voice dripping with sugary-sweet disdain.
“Yeah, look, whatever. You stay the fuck away from Ian.” Mickey levels him with a glare.
“Or what?” Carter steps closer to him. “Afraid of a little competition? Not that I consider you competition.” Carter leans closer to him. “Because I could smash you with the heel of my boot any day. Guys like Ian do not date guys like you. It’s only a matter of time before he realizes that. Before he comes falling into my waiting arms,” Carter sneers.
The words sting. The words sting a lot fucking more than Mickey could have ever expected them to. He’s right, though—Ian deserves more than Mickey. Which is why they’re not fucking actually dating.
Wait, no, there are other reasons. He just can’t fucking think of them right now because this creep is fucking in his face.
Mickey presses his lips together and nods slowly, before grabbing Carter by the shoulders and kneeing him in the gut.
“Stay the fuck away from my boyfriend,” Mickey hisses, low and deadly. “Or I’ll fuck up that face of yours so bad, your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.” Mickey let’s him go, well aware of the way he’s being stared out, and walks away. Walks straight out of the party to where Ian is just receiving their coats from the check, and he looks surprised to see Mickey approaching.
“You could have waited for me—“
“Yeah, whatever, let’s go.”
Before someone calls security on him. Chances are Mickey won’t be invited back to one of these fucking parties again.
It’s weird that he’s not as relieved as he should be.
*
The cab ride back is uncomfortably silent.
It’s weird. It’s so fucking weird. Not the silence, because as much as Ian is a talker, Mickey is not, and sometimes Ian knows when to respect the silence between them. It’s there, but it’s natural. Normal. Not stifling, like this one is.
Mickey expects Ian to say something. To discuss how the night went. To talk shit about Carter. To bring up the kiss.
But Ian doesn’t say a god damn word.
Ian’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and Mickey looks out the cab window at the city lights, pressing his forehead to the cool glass and dreaming of the bottle of vodka in their freezer. He needs something harder than beer to get through tonight.
“You kneed Carter in the stomach?” Ian is suddenly saying, voice loud and surprised, and when Mickey slowly lifts his head up to look at him, Ian is gawking.
“Yeah, what of it?” Mickey asks. Ian knows him. Knows who he is, what he was, and what he always will be. He’s Mickey Milkovich, and he’ll always be the guy that gets his hands dirty. And Ian fucking knows that.
So if he wants to start the scolding shit now, Mickey will get out of the cab and walk home. When they became friends, Ian knew what the fuck he was signing up for.
And that’s what he expects. He expects Ian’s disappointed frown, and the furrow between his eyebrows, and the resigned tone of his voice.
He’s not expecting Ian to close the chasm of distance between them and plant a kiss hard on Mickey’s lips.
Mickey sputters back, eyes widening, staring at Ian like he’s never fucking seen him before. Because what the fuck? There’s no audience here. There’s no one they’re putting an act on before. The second they got in the cab, that whole fake boyfriend shit ended.
It’s over.
“The fuck Gallagher?!” Mickey looks at him, glances to the driver in the front seat, who doesn’t seem to notice that anything has changed behind him. Ian’s mouth parts slowly, and he blinks a few times. Mickey watches his eyelashes. And then Ian’s expression just crumbles.
“Was that—should I not have done that?” Ian sounds so unsure, and it makes Mickey’s heart lurch with the protectiveness he’s always felt for the redhead. Ian sits back, and his hands are shaking in a way that never means good things.
“I, shit, I don’t know?” Mickey runs his fingers through his hair. “Is that what we are now? Roommates who fucking make-out and shit?” They really shouldn’t be having this conversation here. They shouldn’t be having this conversation period. Ian and his fucking conversations.
“Is that what you want?” Ian asks, and his voice sounds so small as he stares at his hands, and it’s ridiculous. It’s fucking ridiculous how confident Ian can be, and how quickly it can all shatter and reveal the fucking child underneath it all.
“Don’t you fucking turn this on me, Ian, I swear to god,” Mickey groans, rubbing at his eyes. There’s silence then, because Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck to say. Is that what he wants? He doesn’t even fucking know.
“Did you know we’re basically dating?” Ian asks, voice quiet, and Mickey looks at him in alarm. Ian meets his gaze out of the corner of his eye, then looks away again. “I was thinking about it. About all the things we do together. About the way we act together. About the way I feel about you…” Ian shrugs. “Short of all the physical stuff, we’re basically dating. And isn’t the physical stuff the fun part?”
“So I’m your fucking fake boyfriend for one night, and suddenly that means I should be your real one?” Mickey asks incredulously.
“You didn’t realize that nothing had fucking changed?” Ian doesn’t back down, his voice rising as he turns all of his frustration on Mickey. “All night, we were the exact fucking same as we always are. The only difference was I stood a little closer, touched you a little bit more than I usually do. You’re the one who fucking kissed me, all right? I didn’t fucking ask you to do that.”
“What the fuck else was I supposed to do?!”
“We had nothing to prove, Mickey! Fuck Carter for making it sound like we did. We could have made him sound like a dumb ass. Me and you? We could have talked that dick in circles. Don’t even pretend like we couldn’t.”
And the second Ian says it, Mickey knows he’s right. Ian knows how to talk his way out of anything. Mickey could practically see the words on Ian’s lips before he’d opened his own stupid mouth, before he’d just went and kissed Ian like a fucking idiot. Why had he done that?
The cab pulls to a stop, and Ian gets out without a word. Mickey sits there, hands balled into fists against his knees, and then follows him out of the cab—he’s already paying, and Mickey doesn’t bother fighting it. It was Ian’s fucking party after all. Mickey didn’t even want to go. He starts digging for his keys to the building when Ian’s hand catches him arm, stopping him.
“Why did you kiss me, Mickey?” Ian asks, voicing the question ringing around in Mickey’s own head. “Because I know you, I know how you operate. Kissing is not something you do. So why. Why did you do it?”
Mickey growls in frustration, pulling out of Ian’s grasp and tugging at his hair, hating the way Ian makes him look inside like this. Hates the way Ian makes him pull down walls and release locks, hates the way Ian lets things out that Mickey didn’t even know were there. Hates the way that Ian shines light into these dark, hidden places that Mickey didn’t even fucking know were there.
Mickey fucking hates him.
“Because I fucking wanted to, okay? You fucking happy?” Mickey bites at him, feels ready to punch Ian’s face to pieces with how aggravated he feels. “Doesn’t mean I want to fucking date you, okay?”
What even is dating? Mickey doesn’t know how to be anyone’s fucking boyfriend. He’s never had one, never been one. He goes out, he fucks, he comes home. It’s easier that way.
He doesn’t think about the fact that he never talks to Ian about those nights.
He doesn’t think about the fact that he never brings a one-night-fuck back to their apartment.
He doesn’t think about it.
Ian stares at Mickey, and he looks about as angry as Mickey feels. Mickey’s entire body feels charged, and even though he’s already hurt someone tonight, he gets the feeling he’s about to do it again.
It wouldn’t be the first time. South Side born and raised, the both of them. They end up punching the shit out of each other more than is probably socially acceptable (but when has Mickey, or anything about him, ever been socially acceptable?).
Mickey’s expecting a fist, but Ian seems to be operating on some alien frequency tonight. When he comes at Mickey, it’s lips first, crashing into Mickey’s hard and insistent as Ian pins him up against the apartment building. It’s vicious, and angry, and electric, and Mickey disappears into the rush of it—grips Ian tight, gasps into his mouth, bites and licks at his neck, and whines when Ian pulls back to get them off the street and into the walls of their apartment.
They fuck. Not over the couch like Mickey had always imagined, but in Ian’s bed—Mickey is too far gone by that point to even fucking notice. Doesn’t say a word as Ian peels him out of his clothes, doesn’t take the time to drink in every inch of Ian’s naked skin. He’s desperate for Ian, clawing at him, dragging him closer, saying, “Fucking hurry already, fuck.”
He whines around the feel of Ian’s fingers, groans around the pressure of his cock, and hides every sound in the curve of Ian’s neck or the hollow of his mouth, or even his own shoulder. Every kiss that Ian drops—on his jaw, his neck, his collarbone, his shoulder—makes him gasp. Every roll of his hips, every thrust, makes Mickey hold back the cries that build in the back of his throat. The only thing that passes his lips is breath, panting that matches Ian’s as he pounds into him.
Mickey realizes he’s never fucked someone face-to-face before, just as Ian’s hand wraps around his cock and strokes him to orgasm. As he stares up at Ian, hair disheveled, skin flushed, mouth slack as he cums, Mickey realizes why and all he can think is fuck as Ian collapses on top of him.
In every other hook-up, this is the part where Mickey would clean himself up, put his clothes back on, and leave.
This isn’t where he lays in bed, bones melted inside his body, as Ian cleans them up. This isn’t where Mickey doesn’t protest as Ian settles back into the bed (there are no lights to turn off, because they never bothered turning any on) and pulls Mickey close, wraps his arms around him and presses his lips to Mickey’s shoulder in a kiss that doesn’t seem to end. This isn’t the part where Mickey falls asleep in Ian’s arms and thinks, We’re going to have a conversation about this tomorrow. Fucking Ian and his conversations.
Except that it fucking is.
Mickey never knew the feel of someone’s chest rising and falling against your back could lull you to sleep.
Now he does.