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Ian watches Mickey from the corner of his eye. Watches as he sits in silence against the headboard, broad, pale shoulders on display, sheet pulled up just past his waist. Mickey’s smoking, taking long drags and holding the smoke in his lungs like he’s taking a hit of something a little stronger. He won’t talk to him, and though Ian understands, it doesn’t mean he won’t try to break the awkward silence.
“Mickey,” he tries for what must be the tenth time, but he’s only met with the quiet little puff of air Mickey breathes out through his nose.
“Come on, you gonna ignore me all night?”
Again, nothing. Mickey doesn’t even have it in him to raise his eyebrows as a threat, and that’s probably the worst of it all.
“It’s not even a big deal. It’s actually pretty funny,” Ian shrugs, and it garners him a glare. “It’s not like I’m expecting you to say it all the time or anything. Not unless you want to...”
“Shut up, Gallagher,” Mickey warns lowly, voice raspy and used and tainted with smoke. And hey, it’s not ideal, but at least he’s talking. So Ian pushes more because that’s what he’s best at.
“It was pretty hot. Can’t say I didn’t like it,” he teases and nudges Mickey’s arm with his own.
“Not talking about this,” Mickey snaps a little more forcefully.
“Oh, come on. We can talk about it. It’s fine.”
Mickey takes one last long drag, burning the paper down to the brown and white speckled filter, and reaches over Ian to stub out his cigarette in the bedside ashtray. Ian notices how careful Mickey is not to touch him as he moves, and honestly, it hurts a little. He’s not the one that caused this. Didn’t ask for it one little bit.
“You can’t just never talk to me again.”
Mickey gives him a look, one with wide eyes and a hard set jaw, and pointedly turns his back and faces the wall. In any other setting, it would look as though he’s laying down for sleep, but Ian knows better. Mickey probably won’t sleep at all tonight; he’s going to be replaying his own words on a loop over and over, agonizing and wishing it never even come out of his mouth.
And the thing about it is, it’s not even that big of a deal. People say it all of the time. It would have been a non factor, one that Ian wouldn’t have been thought twice about if Mickey hadn’t immediately frozen up and gone stiff and looked at Ian like his whole world was crumbling down around him in acidic little shards.
He’s dramatic, is the thing. Mickey’s always been fucking dramatic. From his coming out to the way he stormed off when Ian decided it was a little too early to get married. And okay, admittedly, both of those things might have been Ian’s fault. But it doesn’t change the fact that Mickey does everything big or he goes the fuck home. And here he is still, months after being married, making a mountain out of a mole hill.
And maybe Ian’s a little petulant. A little too pent up since he didn’t get to finish because as soon as Mickey said it he was being pushed up and out, and yeah, of course Mickey has that right. He can say no or stop whenever he wants and Ian won’t say shit about it. Doesn’t mean he won’t be petty when Mickey got to finish but Ian didn’t. So, maybe he’ll poke this sleeping bear until he gets a reaction. If they can’t fuck maybe they’ll fight a little bit (it’s all just play, no ones thrown an actual punch in months). And judging from Mickey’s behavior of the last ten minutes, there’s really only one way he can think to get him riled back up.
“Mickey,” Ian sighs heavily for show, heart racing as he braces himself for the inevitable tackle he’s about to get, “Come on, talk to daddy.”
He grins as he says it, hears the giddiness in his voice. His muscles tense up as he readies himself
to wrestle, because he knows Mickey won’t take this laying down- literally laying down. And he doesn’t.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Mickey spits as he turns and sits up in one fluid motion, getting to his knees with practiced ease.
“What?” Ian asks with his forced innocent face. It’s the face he uses when he knows he’s being a shit head, one he knows gets under Mickey’s skin.
“You ever heard of a Colombian neck tie? You ever say that shit to me again, you’re gonna get a first hand lesson in how to give one.”
“Mm,” Ian grumbles and shakes his head. “That’s no way to talk to daddy, now is it?”
“Swear to god,” Mickey growls and curls his lip, exposing his sharp canines in a way that would probably intimidate any one that didn’t just have their dick in his ass minutes before.
“You’re being a bad boy, Mikhai-”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. He didn’t expect to. He’s ready for it when Mickey flings his muscular little body at him and pins his hands above his head. He’s ready for it when Mickey gives him a pointed knee to his lower belly. Like he said, if he can’t fuck, he might as well fight.
So fight he does. Mickey’s strong, but Ian’s got more weight on him. So he uses that to flip their positions, laughing as Mickey lets out a grunt when his back hits the mattress.
“S’amatter, baby?” He presses his luck. Really presses it. Mickey fucking hates pet names, which makes his little slip even better.
“Get off me!” Mickey barks and presses his feet down to try and buck Ian off. Ian wobbles, but holds steady and tightens his thighs around Mickey’s.
“I’d rather get off in you,” Ian says back salaciously, and cackles again when Mickey tries to dislodge him.
“You’re never gonna do it again if you don’t move your overgrown leprechaun ass away from me right the fuck now.”
It’s an empty threat, and Ian knows it. If it ever came down to a battle of will, Ian would win, he thinks.
“Aw, come on. Be daddy’s good boy,” he smiles, but finally relents and splats himself down on his back next to Mickey, both trying to catch their breath.
“You gotta fucking drop it, bitch. I fucking mean it,” Mickey pants, but his words are pleading and Ian takes a little mercy on him.
“I will if you tell me where the fuck that came from.”
Mickey heaves a sigh and sits back up to reach across Ian again and grab another smoke. This time, however, he’s gracious enough to gently put one between Ian’s lips and light it as well.
“Look, I tell you this shit and we never fucking talk about it again, got me?”
“Yeah, Mick, I got you,” he tells him sincerely as he takes a pull from his cigarette.
Mickey sighs and sags against the headboard once more. He plays with the cigarette burning between his fingers, watching the smoke rise and dance around in the air.
“Watched a porno,” he says finally. “It was... good. Whatever. It was normal at first. None of that weird role play shit. Then right as I was about to blow my load, the dude said, well he said what I said. Fuck me daddy,” he cringes as he says it like the words are filthy on his tongue. “And I don’t know. It just like popped in my head. I didn’t mean to fucking say it. And I won’t ever fucking say it again.”
Ian laughs, and Mickey scowls.
“Well, never say never,” Ian says and raises his eyebrows, but this time, thankfully, he gets a smile and a punch to the arm in return.
“You’re a fucking dick,” Mickey says, and it’s obvious that he’s trying to hold back a laugh of his own.
“Yeah, well you married me. So, what’s that make you?”
“Stupid,” Mickey shrugs.
“Hey! Don’t talk about daddy’s boy that way!”
He’s ready for it when Mickey pounces on him again.