Work Text:
Ian watches Mickey do up the button on his jeans, the way he puts on his t-shirt. Ian is laying back against the headboard, watching Mickey’s chest and stomach before the shirt finds itself back on.
It’s a pity. Ian had only taken it off a half hour ago.
“You can stay,” Ian says. Mickey pauses and stares at him, his t-shirt slightly riding up, before turning away. “I mean, you don’t always have to go.”
Mickey gathers up the rest of his things, and it feels as though every piece of clothing he picks up breaks Ian’s heart further. The socks go on Mickey’s feet and Ian’s heart stops. The shoes are slipped on and a crack appears. Mickey picks up his jacket and his bag, and there: Ian’s heart shatters further.
Mickey turns and opens the door, and then he stops. He turns his head to Ian and says quietly, “It’s dangerous.”
He leaves. Ian doesn't stop him.
--
“I have your drink,” Karen says, sitting down next to Mandy and handing Mandy her coffee. Mandy smiles at her and sips it gratefully.
“Where the fuck are our drinks?” Mickey asks, looking at Karen.
“Who is my girlfriend at this table?” Karen asks, and Mandy smirks behind her latte when Mickey rolls his eyes.
Ian fishes out some money out of his pocket and says, “I got us. Same as usual, Mick?” Mickey nods and Ian goes to get their coffee at the counter.
When Ian comes back, Mickey is packing up his stuff. “Going somewhere?” Ian asks, handing the coffee to Mickey. Their fingers brush as Mickey takes the coffee cup, and it’s just enough to set Ian’s body on edge. Fuck, he’s so gone.
“My study group leader just texted about a meeting and apparently she can’t fucking let us know, oh, I don’t know, last fucking night,” Mickey says, throwing his backpack over his shoulder. Before he goes, he says, “Oh, fuck,” and then digs around in his backpack’s front pocket. “Ian, this belongs to you,” Mickey says, and he hands Ian one of his pills, one of the aluminum square clippings pulled off from the rest of the group. “I know you didn't take it.” He tosses the aluminum square at Ian, and Ian catches it. Mickey smiles at him gently for a moment before leaving, and Ian can’t help but watch him the entire time, touched.
Both Karen and Mandy are looking at him when he tears his eyes away from Mickey’s figure, and he says defensively, “What?”
“You need to be careful, Ian,” Mandy says softly.
“About what?” Ian asks, but his heart is pounding and he knows what’s coming when Mandy and Karen look at each other.
“We know you guys are sleeping together,” Karen starts.
“So?” There’s a heavy weight in his stomach. Ian can feel a flush rising on his chest.
Mandy sighs. “Just be careful, Ian. You and Mickey are good friends, and if things fell apart . . .” She shrugs. “Well, even this would become awkward.” She motions to her, Karen, and Ian.
“Everything is good,” Ian says, making his voice as firm as possible. “It’s just sex. Mickey and I know what we’re doing.” Karen and Mandy chime in that they’re happy that everything is fine but just be careful.
Ian doesn't already tell them that it’s already too late.
--
They don’t talk about it. Mickey and Ian had just—fallen together one night in something that had just been too good to not continue. And it hadn't ruined the two years of friendship they’d already had.
Karen and Mandy mean well, he’s sure. He and Mickey don’t really talk about why they continue doing this and where they’re going after because it’s not—anything. It’s just fucking. Mickey and Ian are allowed to fuck other people, they’re not exclusive, and if they fall into each other’s beds every once in a while—well.
Only Ian doesn't fuck other people. And Ian has been in love with Mickey far longer than they've ever been sleeping together, so. They don’t need to worry. Otherwise they’d have to have been worrying the entire time.
(They don’t talk about it).
--
They met because of Mandy. Mandy had been drunk at a frat party, and some guy had been trying to feel her up and she’d been feebly pushing him away. Ian had walked up to the guy and told him to back the fuck off, and he took a drunk Mandy to his dorm room so that she wouldn't be preyed on again.
Except Mandy’s fucking brother heard that some dude had tried to feel up his sister at a party while she was drunk and that then he’d taken her home, so while Ian was walking to his first class on Monday (with a slight headache), he certainly didn't expect for some dude to punch Ian in the fucking face.
Or kick him in the stomach. Or grab a fistful of his hair and whisper harshly in his ear, “Don’t you ever fucking touch my sister again, you hear me?”
Mandy eventually settled the whole thing, telling Mickey what actually happened and making Mickey apologize to Ian. Mickey had sucked at the apologizing part, shrugging his shoulders and looking like he didn't care, but Ian found out that night at the bar Mickey had taken them to that not only could Mickey give a fucking great right hook, but that he had a killer sense of humor and a sharp wit and the bluest eyes Ian had ever seen and a mouth that was absolutely wicked.
Ian supposes he fell for Mickey then.
--
Mickey calls Ian at two a.m.
“Mickey, what the fuck?”
“Come outside.”
“What the fuck.”
“Come outside, Gallagher, fuck.”
“It’s fucking 2 a.m., Mickey!”
“Get your ass out here before I drag you by your tongue.”
Ian goes outside, shivering slightly in his sweatpants and jacket, and Mickey is standing outside his dorm doors, leaning against the brick wall. “Alright, what?”
Mickey holds out a cigarette. “Want a smoke?” Ian stares at him, mourning the sleep he wouldn't be getting, and then takes the cigarette from Mickey’s fingers.
The smoke burns in his throat, but it makes him feel warmer. He sits down on the first step and Mickey follows. Their shoulders brush slightly as Mickey moves, and when he plucks the cigarette from Ian’s mouth, his arm brushes across Ian’s chest. Ian thinks that he could catalogue every touch they've ever had, every movement Mickey’s ever made near Ian.
Ian watches as the cigarette enters Mickey’s mouth, and Ian licks his lips before turning away. There’s an indescribable ache in his chest, one that he gets from the simplest things: the shape of Mickey’s mouth, the way he eyelashes start out dark and then turn blonde on the end, the way his tongue barely touches the corner of his mouth as he licks his lips. Ian just aches.
“Couldn't sleep again?” Ian whispers.
Mickey shoots him a look, one that is warning Ian. Ian just raises his eyebrows. Mickey allows a curt, “Yes,” blowing smoke out of his nose. Ian knows not to ask anymore, so instead he says, “If you’d stayed earlier, you wouldn't have had to make the trip back over.” I would have held you while the nightmares faded, Ian doesn't say. I would have kissed the worry away. I would have made everything better.
Mickey offers the cigarette to Ian again, so Ian takes it, their fingers brushing again. It’s so unfair, Ian thinks, that just by touching Mickey’s fingertips, it hurts this much. He’s touched Mickey everywhere that’s humanly possible, and yet Ian doesn't think Mickey knows how reverently he’d done it, how his breath had caught in his throat. He wonders how many silent, unnoticeable fingerprints he’s left on Mickey’s skin.
Mickey watches Ian blow smoke out of his mouth. “Shotgun,” he says suddenly, and Ian wants to shake his head. Don’t do this to me, he wants to say. Don’t make the ache bigger, don’t make the ache more bitter. Don’t offer me a kiss that doesn't mean anything except for the smoke expanding your lungs.
Of course, it isn't Mickey: it’s Ian. It’s Ian that does it to himself. He takes a lungful of the smoke and closes his mouth over Mickey’s. He imagines the smoke filling Mickey’s mouth as something that doesn't burn as much, that isn't so addictive. Smoking had never felt this much like love.
Mickey tilts his face up a bit higher, licks the taste of the smoke out of Ian’s mouth. Ian exhales shakily, fingers clenching on the cigarette in his right hand and Mickey’s shirt in his left.
When they pull away—and they always pull away, Mickey always pulls away—Mickey looks Ian over. There’s something in his expression that Ian’s never seen before, that makes his stomach flutter nervously. “What?” he asks, voice breaking slightly.
“It was about you,” Mickey whispers. Their faces are so close that Ian almost can’t see Mickey’s mouth move. Ian is vaguely aware of the fact that it’s 2 a.m. and they’re sitting under the moonlight and clutching at each other’s clothes. “My nightmare—it was about losing you.”
--
He hears some people talking about him in the library. It’s a guy and a girl, and they must have seen him walk by and don’t know that he’s in the literal aisle one over, but they keep arguing about whether or not he’s gay. “He plays for my team, trust me,” the guy says, and Ian would totally interrupt them right there and settle it but then the guy says, “Besides, he’s dating that Milkovich guy.”
Ian’s breath stops. Is that what people are thinking about them? Does everybody fucking know they’re sleeping together?
The girl scoffs. “Not true. They’re best friends, remember? And Mickey slept with Dave Anderson, like, three days ago.”
The guy mentions something about open relationships and Ian decides to go. He feels like he’s going to throw up anyways.
He knows that Mickey sleeps with other guys every once in a while. But there’s a difference knowing that Mickey does it and knowing who Mickey does it with. Ian shouldn't be feeling this breathless right now, this betrayed. They have an agreement—one that was never really decided but it somehow there—and Ian has no right to feel this jealous. He shoves the feelings away.
Fuck, he came into the library to get books to help write his essay in English, not to hear about who Mickey sleeps with. He clenches his jaw and continues down the aisle.
--
The worst part about loving Mickey wasn't the fact that Mickey (might have) slept with other guys or the fact that Mickey doesn't love him back or that Mickey and Ian will only ever be fuckbuddies. No, the worst thing are the moments where Ian thinks it will be more.
Like when Mickey says that he had a nightmare about losing Ian. Ian just—he just can’t stop thinking about it. It’s 3 a.m., and the moonlight shines through the blinds onto the floor in straight, parallel lines and Ian can count the amount of times he’s kissed Mickey on one hand and he’s never stopped being in love with Mickey since Mickey said, “Look, my sister wants me to apologize, so . . . Can we at least have a beer over this?”
It’s 3 a.m and Mickey has nightmares about losing Ian. Ian’s nightmares aren't like that—Ian has nightmares about how perfectly their fingers slot together when they fuck, about how “I don’t love you” might be formed by Mickey’s mouth, that Ian will recognize Mickey’s kiss as goodbye someday.
They are two entirely different people, Ian thinks. Complementary, but different. They love in different ways. Ian is not sure if he’d recognize what Mickey’s love looks like.
--
There’s only one problem.
(There’s this:
Mickey touching his elbow softly, holding up one of the aluminum squares that holds Ian’s medications, and watching as Ian washes it down his throat with sink water.
“You’re braver than I could ever be,” Mickey says quietly, and Ian laughs, it’s so ridiculous. Mickey gets angry at that, pushes Ian up against the sink, and says fiercely, “You are, you fucking idiot, you’re the bravest person I've ever met. You don’t even know—you, you don’t even fucking know what you do to me—” and then Mickey his kissing him, hard, pushing him up against the sink and wrapping his arms around Ian’s waist so that they’re pressed together. He mutters Ian along Ian’s jawline, sighs fuck into Ian’s mouth, his hands sliding up Ian’s chest and into Ian’s hair. Ian can barely get a breath in between kisses, and he tries to say something—he’s not sure what he would say given the chance—but Mickey murmurs, “Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up,” and Ian realizes that they’re fucking kissing and pushes Mickey up against the wall instead, pinning him with his hips, and Mickey says, “Oh, fuck, Ian—”)
(and this:
Mickey’s mouth, wicked, cruel on Ian’s neck, sucking viciously on Ian’s collarbone. His hands grip Ian’s arms—tightly, so tightly there must be fingerprints on Ian’s biceps—and he sinks down on Ian’s cock slowly. Ian hardly has time to think straight, to figure out how the fuck he’s ever supposed to be without this, but then Mickey fucks himself on Ian’s cock at a relentless pace, hips moving up and down sharply, and Ian runs his fingers up Mickey’s thighs. Ian’s hands fit perfectly at Mickey’s hips and he suddenly fucking knows: Mickey can’t. Mickey can’t have this with anybody else, there’s no way—there’s no way someone else has this connection, there’s no way Mickey can be this open and free with someone else, there’s no way that Ian isn’t the only person that can make Mickey feel like this. Mickey is his, and Ian knows it. So Ian grips Mickey’s hips tighter, imagining his fingerprint permanently imbedded in Mickey’s skin, and thrusts up into Mickey’s ass, hard. Mickey cries out, moaning deep in his throat. “Again—do that, do that—” and his voice breaks off into another moan as Ian pounds into him, ruthless.
Mickey stares at Ian after they both come, chest heaving and flushed. His mouth is open and he’s staring at Ian, eyes skittering over his mouth and his chest before tipping his head back and exhaling, the line of neck so tempting. Ian knows. This is theirs—Mickey is his—)
(and this:
Lying down one night in Ian’s bed, pressed together because the dorm beds are small as fuck, and they’re both more than a little drunk but it doesn’t matter. Ian traces Mickey’s jawline and his lips, running his finger down the slope of Mickey’s nose, and Mickey lets him, jaw clenching sometimes and exhaling on others. And Mickey is so beautiful it makes Ian’s chest hurt, makes something expand in his breath until he isn’t living on air but on something that is made of Mickey, and Ian wants everything, every piece of Mickey. He can’t believe how much he fucking loves Mickey.
“Have you ever been in love before?” Ian whispers, and it’s breaking some type of fragile truce in the space between Mickey’s lips and Ian’s. Mickey’s arms tighten from where they’re around Ian’s waist.
“Before?” Mickey repeats. “Before implies that I’m in love now.”
Ian stays quiet, running the pad of his thumb over Mickey’s lower lip, the air in his lungs getting caught in his chest. It aches so, so much.
“Yes,” Mickey whispers, voice hushed and careful, and Ian’s eyes snap to Mickey. Mickey meets his eyes, and Ian can only stare at him. “Yes, I’ve been in love before.”)
That. That is the problem.
--
“I think we should fuck other people,” Mickey says from where he’s sitting at Ian’s desk.
Ian raises his head from reading his textbook. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
“What?” Mickey asks, raising his eyebrows.
There’s no ache this time, only rage. Deep, deep rage, taking over any desire and love in his veins until he is only anger. “You’re fucking kidding me,” Ian repeats. “Fuck you, Mickey.” Mickey opens his mouth, looking hurt and angry, and then Ian fucking snaps. “Fuck you, Mickey! We’ve been allowed to fuck other people this entire fucking time, and you knew that! In fact, you’re the only person in this fucking relationship that’s been fucking other people!”
“Relationship?” Mickey snaps. “This isn't a fucking relationship!”
“Exactly!” Ian yells, standing from the bed. “We've been fucking! And while we've been fucking, you've been fucking other people! Except for me, but I guess—” Ian looks at Mickey’s face. “Oh, my god. Oh my fucking god. You've realized, haven’t you? You've finally fucking realized that I haven’t been fucking anybody but you, and that these past 3 months now, neither have you. And now that you've realized, you want to reset the boundaries because, of fucking course, I’m not allowed to mean anything to you.”
Mickey’s eyes widen, and he takes a step forward. “Ian, wait—”
“Fuck you, Mickey, just—fuck you, fuck you,” Ian says, and he doesn't realize that he’s crying until he licks his lips and tastes salt. His hands are shaking by his sides. “Who should I go fuck, huh?” he demands, and the rage coursing through his body makes him want to hurt Mickey more than punches ever could. “Maybe I should hit up Dave Anderson like you did, yeah? Was he a good fuck?” Mickey is breathing hard, starts shaking his head, but Ian won’t stop. “Maybe I’ll hit up some of my old fucks. You remember Ned, right?” At this, Mickey stops. He freezes completely, and he stares at Ian, mouth open, and if Ian isn't mistaken, there are tears in his eyes. “Of course you remember him, Mickey. I know you do. Well, it’s been a while since I've remembered him, so I’ll just go call him up, yeah? Because I can finally go fuck other people!”
Mickey looks like he’s just been punched in the gut, and he turns around, quickly gathering up his stuff and shoving it into his bag. Ian doesn't stop him, just watches him, breathing heavily while tears run down his face.
“You have no right to feel betrayed,” Ian says when Mickey reaches the door. Mickey freezes at that, hand on the doorknob. Ian’s voice wobbles as he speaks. “You have no right, because—because I didn't have the right, either. Before.”
Mickey leaves. Ian lets him.
--
They don’t speak.
Karen and Mandy give him knowing looks, and Ian can’t exactly tell them that it was his fault, that he broke them up. But then two weeks fall into three, and three weeks fall into four, and Ian hasn't seen Mickey in any of them. It’s so strange and Ian’s world is so empty.
He’d been Mickey’s best friend for two years and his best friend and fuckbuddy for another year. In all those years he’d hardly gone a day without seeing Mickey Milkovich, and in the later year, he’d gone every day with seeing Mickey, but he’d also known Mickey more intimately. Three years. Three years of being hopelessly in love with Mickey and spending the last year being able to touch and kiss and fuck but not love, not really.
(Ian had loved him anyways.)
Spending all these days without him is like carving a giant chunk of himself out. It's crazy how Ian hasn't seen him—and it isn't that they randomly see each other at the coffee shop and then have awkward eye contact. Ian doesn't see Mickey at all.
The only good thing that comes out of it is that Ian becomes a devout follower of his medication. Before, he might have forgotten, once or twice, and there Mickey had to remind him and bring back up pills. Now, Mickey isn't there, and Ian is determined to not need him. He is heartbroken already, and the thought of being manic or depressed on top of it has Ian up at night. So he takes his fucking pills.
Mandy is quiet on their break up, thank god, and keeps giving Ian I told you so expressions, but something changes. Around week three, she bangs on Ian’s door and, upon Ian opening it, demands, “What the fuck happened between you and Mickey?” Ian wants to ask her why she cares now, but then he realizes she must care now because Mickey did something. Ian is paralyzed, scared by what Mickey might have done.
Karen understands him a little bit more. She calls him and asks if she can come over to his dorm. “I’m really not up to it,” Ian says, thinking that having Mandy and Karen over right now isn't entertaining at all.
As if Karen can read his mind, she says, “It’s just me, Ian. Can I come?”
Ian should know, though, that he can always rely on Karen. When she arrives, she holds up a bottle of vodka in the doorway. “You’re a lifesaver,” Ian breathes, and Karen beams at him, entering his dorm room and opening the top.
It burns on the way down, but Ian feels it, it makes the ache go away, and Karen is—surprisingly—a very good listener.
--
I think we should talk, Ian texts.
Mickey replies, I agree.
Ian can feel a small ache beginning, right in the middle of his chest.
--
Ian watches Mickey do up the button on his jeans, the way he bends his head to avoid looking over at Ian. Ian is laying back against the wall, covers thrown off his body, and watches as Mickey tries to find his clothes.
It makes him angry. No. No, Ian didn't call Mickey so they could fuck and return to what they used to be.
“You can stay,” Ian says. Mickey pauses and stares at him, pants dangling from his fingertips. “Stay,” Ian says, quietly, but a command. Mickey holds his gaze, and then, snorting softly, searches through the pocket of his pants. He pulls out a lighter and a cigarette and goes over to Ian’s window. Goosebumps rise on Ian’s skin when Mickey opens the window and lets the cold air in, but then the smoke is going out from Mickey’s nose and into the window.
Ian doesn't know what to say, feeling as if this moment is the one that decides everything. Strangely, he doesn't feel nervous. He watches the way the moonlight is cast on Mickey’s face, the shadows of his shoulder blades and the black and white contrast of his hair and skin, and feels secure.
“This is the thing,” Mickey says, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and staring at the orange tip. “I love you.”
Ian digs his fingernails into his palm so hard that he’s sure he’s drawn blood. There are bruises on Mickey’s hips, the circumference of Ian’s fingers, the length and width of Ian’s hand.
“But loving you,” Mickey continues, “is scarier than any nightmare I've ever had.”
Ian considers this, wondering if that sounds like a goodbye. He loves me, Ian thinks. Mickey puts the cigarette back in his mouth and looks at Ian, his gaze hard. He loves me not.
“I've been in love with you for three years,” Ian tells him, and Mickey's look at Ian changes to one of surprise. Ian lifts a shoulder, a small smile spreading on his lips. “I can tell you that it goes away, after a while. Or I can tell you that it never goes away.” Ian licks his lips. “Would you love me anyways?”
“I don’t think I've ever had a choice,” Mickey replies.
“Would you love me anyways?” Ian repeats.
Mickey looks at him, the cigarette in his hand leaving a trail of smoke in the air. He smiles. “Yes, I would.”
It hits Ian all at once: he’s here, and Mickey is staring at him and he loves him. Mickey loves him, and the ache is spreading throughout his body but it’s a happy one and Ian welcomes it. He extends his hand to Mickey, motions for him to sit down. Mickey snubs out the cigarette on the wall outside the window and returns to the bed, to Ian’s arms and body, to a kiss to Ian’s mouth, to Ian.
“It’s dangerous,” Mickey whispers, his mouth so, so close.
Ian has watched Mickey punch a kid, has been on the receiving ends of those punches. He’s watched Mickey fight nightmares and real life demons too, heard stories about his father and childhood. Ian has kissed the blood from Mickey’s split lips. “I like dangerous,” he whispers, tilting Mickey’s chin so that their mouths can meet again.
Mickey stays. Ian never lets him go.