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Mickey’s having a fucking amazing dream.
Large warm hands are spreading his ass cheeks. Hot breath fans over his hole. The hands knead his ass. Soft, fleeting flicks of the tongue tease around the tight muscle. Mickey moans and grinds down into the mattress. It’s not until he hears to soft laugh that he realizes that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t dreaming.
He cracks one eye open and looks over his shoulder. Ian is lying between Mickey’s legs, hands holding Mickey open. Mickey very specifically does not do certain things and he’s pretty sure this is one of them. At least until Ian licks across his hole, the flat of his tongue sliding and then the tip, pointed and hard as it catches the rim of his opening.
“Holy fuck.”
Ian laughs again, soft and hot and fuck. It fucking rumbles against Mickey’s skin and his whole body vibrates with it. He’s vaguely wondering what alternate universe he’s slipped into where some redheaded fucking go-go dancer has decided to make a meal out of Mickey’s ass. With his tongue. Pushing and thrusting and slick and sliding in and flicking and pressing and his mouth and his lips and Mickey keeps wondering what he must taste like because Ian’s making noises that are fucking obscene.
Mickey knows he should do something. Say something. Encourage Ian to never fucking stop, but he can’t breathe much less think or speak or remember his own fucking name. Ian slides his hands down the back of Mickey’s thighs and then up to his ass again, spreading him wider. Mickey’s never had a tongue in his ass, much less this far up his ass, and he can feel the tip of Ian’s nose brushing the cleft of his ass and then his mouth just seals itself around Mickey’s hole and Ian sucks and licks like he’s suddenly found his purpose for life in Mickey’s asshole.
Mickey makes a noise that’s something between a groan and a gasp and a death knell and then he’s coming, his entire body shaking like it’s going to fly apart. But Ian doesn’t stop. Mickey’s begging, maybe sobbing, and Ian’s humming and laughing and licking the small of Mickey’s back, up his spine to his shoulders. He fits his body over Mickey’s and presses a kiss to the back of his neck.
“Gonna fuck you now if that’s okay.”
Mickey thinks he nods. He knows he whimpers. Ian just laughs again and pulls Mickey’s hips up. Mickey sways on his knees and buries his face in the pillow. His brain can parse the sounds – condom wrapper, condom, lube, bed shifting – but everything is hazy and unconnected until he feels Ian’s dick against him, pushing inside Mickey like he has no intention of every pulling out.
**
Ian can’t believe how good the sex is. It shouldn’t be this good. They don’t know each other, they haven’t spent days and weeks and months figuring each other out. They should be fumbling and frustrated and desperate, but instead he’s eating Mickey out and then fucking him within an inch of his life. Literally if Mickey doesn’t take his head out of the pillow.
Ian shifts his weight back slightly and reaches up, grabbing Mickey’s hair and pulling his head back. The low groan that shakes through Mickey rumbles around Ian’s dick like a moan and he tightens his other hand on Mickey’s hip so he can thrust harder, deeper. Sweat shines on Mickey’s skin in the faint sunshine coming in through the slats of the blinds and Ian bends forward, licking Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey responds like Ian’s found every nerve he has and keeps touching them, jolting him like a live wire. Ian feels the electricity too, burning along his veins, sparking in his blood.
He pounds into Mickey’s ass pushing as deep as he can. Mickey makes another sound at the back of his throat, and Ian actually has to reach down and wrap his hand around the base of his dick to hold off his orgasm. Fuck. Fuck.
“Jesus Christ, Mickey. You’re just...Fuck.”
Mickey makes the noise again, like he’s taken all of Ian that he can but he wants more. Ian risks losing control and grabs Mickey’s hips with both hands, pulling him back against him as Ian sinks back on his heels. Mickey slumps back, head on Ian’s shoulders as he rides down on him. Ian slides his hands to Mickey’s thighs, feeling the heat and the burn as he moves. His ass is so fucking tight around Ian, like Ian hadn’t fucked him the night before – just hours before – and licked him open. He’s like a vice, squeezing Ian like he doesn’t want him to pull back, just wants him to thrust deeper.
Ian tries. Fuck, he tries. He needs to be buried in Mickey. He wants to be so deep it’s going to take Indiana Jones and a major archeological dig for anyone to unearth him from inside him. He turns his head and sucks on Mickey’s throat, feeling the heavy blood pulse under his tongue. His breath huffs on Mickey’s skin and he can see the goosebumps form, rippling out down Mickey’s arms, across his chest.
Ian’s hands fan out on Mickey’s thighs, over his hips, sliding up Mickey’s chest. Ian flicks Mickey’s nipples with his thumbs and bites at the swollen tender flesh he’s already feasted on.
“I-Ian...” If he weren’t so close, Ian doesn’t think he would have heard Mickey, but he is and he does and he rolls his hips up harder, pressing his hands to Mickey’s chest to keep him from moving. Ian makes him take every thrust and Mickey’s groaning and gasping again and then keening as Ian moves just right. “Fuck. Fuck.”
He thrusts every time Mickey pants until Mickey’s not making any more sounds, too out of breath and out of his head. Ian can tell by the way Mickey shudders that he’s hitting him perfectly, that Mickey doesn’t have any control, is Ian’s to do whatever he wants to. It’s heady as fuck, and Ian almost wishes he had a sadistic streak just so he could see how much he could make Mickey beg.
Ian wraps a hand around Mickey’s throat, tilting his head further, his palm against Mickey’s Adam’s apple. Mickey manages a sound then, and Ian has no idea how to describe it. It’s throaty and raw and unbidden, like it’s drawn out of Mickey entirely against his will. He swallows against Ian’s hand like he’s afraid of choking, like he wants Ian to press harder.
“Oh fuck,” Ian gasps and comes, not actually in control of his own movements anymore. It’s pure instinct guiding his hips and his hands. He presses his fingers against Mickey’s throat, wondering what he’d look like if Ian’s fingers dug in hard enough to leave fingertip shaped bruises on Mickey’s pale skin. Ian buries a shuddering breath against Mickey’s jaw and wraps his other hand around Mickey’s waist. He holds tight, holding them together with nothing but sweat between them.
Mickey kind of slumps there, his eyes closed, lashes fluttering on his cheeks. His chest is rising and falling roughly, matching the heavy beat of Ian’s heart. Mickey turns his head and licks a beat of sweat off Ian’s throat and Ian moans, the sound breaking when his voice gives out.
“Thought I was dreaming,” Mickey murmurs.
Ian’s chest moves on a barely there laugh. “Think I’m dead.”
“You fuck extremely well for a dead person.” Mickey’s voice is breathy and low, and Ian feels a twinge in his cock. The thought of fucking Mickey’s mouth so his voice is that wrecked is now lodged in Ian’s head.
“You’ve got some pretty explicit fucking dreams.”
Mickey laughs softly and eases away from Ian. “Gotta piss. Gonna use your shower, okay?”
“Not to piss in.” Ian watches him go, watches his ass as he walks naked to the bathroom. Mickey flips Ian off over his shoulder and shuts the door behind him. Ian feels the cool slide of come and grabs the condom before he loses it completely, disposing of it and sitting on the edge of the bed. He just fucked his neighbor.
A lot.
Huh.
**
Mickey stares at himself in the mirror. His skin looks pale like it always does when he doesn’t get enough sleep, his eyes shadowed. He doesn’t notice any of that as much as he does the blotchy patch of a bruise on his throat, on his shoulder. He can see bite marks around the edges of them and he traces them. Ian’s a mouthy fucker in more ways than one.
He rubs his face and turns on the shower, barely stifling a yawn. The hot water feels good, waking him up and warming him up as the cooling sweat washes away. He scrubs himself with his hands, feeling the ghost of Ian’s touch.
He is so fucked.
He gets out of the shower and grabs one of the towels hanging off the hooks on the back of the door and dries himself off. He probably just should have borrowed Ian’s shower last night and forgone the fucking, given that now he’s...well, he’s not sure what he is. But he is sure this is going to be the most humiliating walk of shame ever, even if he’s only going about five feet down the hall.
He wraps the towel around his waist and looks at himself in the mirror again. His hair is spiked up into ridiculous tufts and he combs them down with his fingers, vaguely styling it even though he knows as soon as it dries it will do whatever the fuck it wants.
Walking out of the bathroom, he breathes a sigh of relief when Ian isn’t on the bed. Or in the bedroom at all. Mickey heads back into the main room of the apartment and grabs his boxers, sliding them on under the towel before heading into the kitchen. They boxers are stiff and scratchy, especially against Mickey’s thighs and ass which are a hell of a lot more sensitive than they’ve been in a long time.
Ian’s at the coffee pot, pouring grounds into the hopper while he’s talking on the phone. “Yeah. No. Yeah, Fi. It’s fine. Yes. Yes. No. It’s not like that. Fiona. Fiona.” He turns around and starts a little when he sees Mickey. His features settle into a smile and he rolls his eyes when he points at the phone. Mickey nods like he has any idea what the fuck Ian’s talking about, steals a banana off the counter, and goes back into the living room. He picks up Ian’s laptop and opens it, barely glancing at the background.
Now that he’s seen Ian’s dick this one looks sad in comparison. He logs into his email and skims through them, half-listening to Ian’s conversation. It’s amazing what people say when they don’t think anyone’s paying attention.
“Look, I’m careful. Yes. No. You don’t have any room to talk.” His voice drops and Mickey can’t hear him for a few minutes, which amuses the hell out of him. Ian’s like a kid who thinks that if he can’t see you, you can’t see him. “Jesus, Fi.”
Mickey can almost hear Ian’s blush. Whatever this Fiona said must have been a doozy. He snickers to himself and emails his boss at the club to let him know he might not make it in since he’s locked out of his apartment. He tries not to think about how much money he’s losing today. He has sick time, but using it is the hardest thing for him, because he never knows when he’s going to need it. Just because he hasn’t needed it yet doesn’t mean he never will.
“Sorry about that.”
Mickey looks up. There’s a gorgeous flush staining Ian’s cheeks and throat. Mickey can see the bruises he left on Ian’s skin. Nice to know he gave as good as he got. “The super call at all?”
“Left a message. Said he’d be by around twelve.”
“Sweet.” Mickey sends another email, saying to disregard the first. Losing a day of pay on one job is better than losing it on two. “Though you could just loan me your screwdriver and I could take care of it right now.”
“It’s eight in the morning. People are leaving for work. You want to walk out of my apartment in your boxers and then over to yours? Have you ever met Mrs. Findlay?”
“7A?”
“Yeah.”
Mickey shivers. “Yeah.”
“Trust me, stay for coffee. Around nine or so we can do some B&E.”
“I don’t think it counts when it’s my apartment.” He actually knows it doesn’t, though it’s still possible to get arrested for breaking into your own place. He has the rap sheet to prove it, but Ian doesn’t need to know that. Mickey’s not sure he wants Ian to know anything.
“Well, that’s probably true. But if I’m with you...”
“Why would you be with me?”
“It’s my screwdriver.”
“I’ll return it. It’s not like I’m eloping with it or something. I’m going to use it to break my doorknob off.”
“Or you could wait for the super and not have to buy a new doorknob. Which, if you break your current one off, means you won’t be able to lock your apartment when you go to the hardware store and someone might break in and steal your shit.”
“You mean you’ll go next door and snoop around?”
Ian has the decency to blush. “Hey, I showed you mine.”
Mickey laughs and shakes his head. “Pretty sure you saw mine up close and personal, dude.”
“I was talking about my apartment.” Ian tries to sound offended, but he smiles in the middle of it, and fails miserably. Mickey tries not to notice how fucking cute Ian’s smile is. He also tries to remind himself that he’s a grown man and needs to never think the phrase ‘fucking cute’ for the rest of his life. “You want coffee?”
“Like a drug.”
“Get the IVs out of the linen closet, and I’ll hook you up.” Mickey follows Ian back toward the kitchen, straddling one of the stools in front of the counter. “How do you like it?”
“Pretty sure you know that already too.”
“Asshole.”
“And that too.”
Ian laughs, and it’s the stupidest, most ridiculous laugh Mickey’s ever heard. “Your coffee.”
Mickey hides his smile behind his hand and shrugs. “Black’s fine.” Ian pours out two mugs and stands on the opposite side of the counter from Mickey, pushing one across to him. “So who’s Fiona?”
Ian smiles like Mickey’s done something, though Mickey has no idea what. “My sister. Big sister. She heard about the whole thing on the news and wanted to make sure I was okay.”
“Nice.” Ian looks at him like he’s searching for signs that Mickey’s making fun of him. “What?”
“You have siblings?”
“Older brothers. Younger sister. We’re not what you’d call close.” Mickey drinks some of the coffee, closing his eyes and sighing. “Fuck, I’m fucking exhausted.”
“Hopefully you won’t get sick from standing out in the rain all night.”
“Hopefully I can get some sleep before I have to work tonight.” He rubs the back of his neck and takes another sip, looking at Ian over the rim of his mug. “Thanks, by the way.”
“For...?”
“Giving me a place to crash.”
“I might have had an ulterior motive.”
Mickey shrugs. “Did you plan on kicking me out if I didn’t fuck around with you?”
“No!”
Ian’s indignation makes Mickey smile. “Then thanks.”
**
Ian’s not sure what to do with Mickey’s thank you. It feels kind of...wrong in the wake of what happened. Like he took advantage of something, though he’s pretty sure Mickey’s trying to prove he didn’t. “You know you could have said no, right?”
“I also could have broken your neck and dislocated your balls if I didn’t want to. But I didn’t do either of those things, so let’s assume I absolutely did not want to say no.”
Ian opens his mouth then closes it and nods. “Fair enough.” He inhales steam as he takes a drink. Watching Mickey is warming him up a hell of a lot more than the coffee is. Which is something Ian needs to stop thinking about. Ian has the amazing talent of getting caught up in things that aren’t what he thinks they are. He has a tendency to...get attached. Lip tells him he’s like a homeless puppy trying to find someone to love him.
Lip also ended up with a split lip and a dislocated jaw for that comment, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. Doesn’t mean that Ian doesn’t know it’s true.
“Why not?”
“Why did I not want to say no?” Mickey raises an eyebrow so high it almost disappears into his hairline. “Are you fishing for compliments?”
“No. I mean...no! You just didn’t seem to like me much.”
“You’re a mouthy, pushy, obnoxious, smart-ass punk. Why would I like you?” Mickey keeps a straight face for a long time then grins. “You’re also hot and seem nice. And you have an amazing cock.”
“You didn’t know that at first.”
“Ian, your pants were glued so tight to your skin in the rain, I could tell if you were fucking circumcised.”
Ian’s eyes widen and then his face splits into a grin. He starts to say something when there’s a knock on his door. He frowns and puts down his coffee, going over to see who it is. He looks out the peep hole and sighs. “Super’s here.”
“Yeah?” Mickey hops off his stool and starts for the door. “Oh, uh. You got a shirt I could borrow?”
Ian picks the shirt he’d been wearing the previous night off the floor and tosses it to Mickey. It’s still a little damp and it smells like something that’s been left in the washer too long. Mickey’s nose wrinkles as he catches a whiff, but he pulls it on over his head as Ian opens the door.
“Milkovich here?”
Ian blinks at him. “Milk...oh! Oh, Mickey. Yeah. Mickey’s here.”
“Great. You want to tell him to get his ass out here so I can open his fucking apartment.”
“Keep your fucking shirt on,” Mickey mutters as he brushes past Ian and follows the super next door. Ian stands in his doorway watching. It doesn’t take long before the door opens and Mickey slaps the super on the back. He shuts the door behind him without saying thank you and the super turns and looks at Ian.
“And people ask me why I do this job.”
**
Mickey leans against his door as soon as it’s shut and breathes. He scrubs at his eyes with the balls of his hands and heads into his bedroom, stripping off his clothes. Ian’s clothes. Fuck. He grabs his glasses off his nightstand and puts them on, knowing it’s too late to ward off the headache that’s starting in the base of his skull.
He could go into work, but now that he’s had part of the morning off, the thought of taking a sick day doesn’t seem so bad. He tugs on the pair of jeans he’d been wearing the previous night as well as a clean t-shirt. His bed takes up way less space in his room than Ian’s does in his, but the fact that Ian even had condoms means he uses his bed a hell of a lot more than Mickey does. Probably even for sleeping.
Fuck. He slept with his fucking neighbor. He is such a fucking idiot.
He puts on his socks and work boots and grabs a jacket and a baseball cap as well as his keys and his wallet, hunching his shoulders as he ducks out of the apartment, looking both ways to make sure that Ian’s not lurking. He gets downstairs and leans against the wall, lighting a cigarette. He’s almost giving up smoking, for a really loose definition of almost. He holds the smoke in his lungs until everything burns and then exhales roughly. Digging his phone out of his pocket, he calls Mandy.
“Don’t tell me you got fired.”
“Fuck you. You got a minute?”
“Well, when you ask so nicely, it’s hard to resist. What’s up.”
“I slept with my neighbor.”
“Dude. Dad is dead. Quit fucking girls for appearances.”
“Mandy!” Mickey interrupts her before she can go on. “I slept with my neighbor.”
“Who...isn’t a chick?”
Mickey rubs his forehead with his fingers, cigarette between them. “Jesus Christ, Mands.”
“Holy shit.” She laughs. “I didn’t think you remembered how to fuck a dude.”
“Would you fucking focus? What do I do?”
“Well...was it good?”
Mickey blows out a breath and thumps his head back against the building. “Would I be calling you if it wasn’t?”
“Yes. To find a way to avoid him so he doesn’t try to do it again.”
“Why do you think I’m calling?”
“You said you just had good sex.”
“Great sex.”
“And you’re trying to avoid the guy? Are you completely jacked in the head?” He hears her thump her phone against something, probably pretending it’s his skull. “When you find a guy who makes your toes curl, you hold on with both hands and, like, tie him to the bed or something.”
“I didn’t say he made my toes curl. Jesus. I’m not a fucking chick.”
“Fine, made your dick hard.”
“Lots of guys make my...”
“Shut up. The less I know about your dick, the happier we’ll both be. So why do you want to avoid him?”
Mickey’s quiet for a minute. “He’s nice.”
“So?”
“I’m...well. Me.”
“So he’s jacked in the head.”
“You’re the worst sister in the fucking world.”
Mandy scoffs and Mickey can hear her take a drag on a cigarette. It reminds him of his and he takes another hit. “You work two jobs. You’re never home. It’ll be fine.”
“Right. Right. I could get a third job.”
“To afford the speed you’re going to need to keep yourself awake 24 hours a day?” She sighs. “Look, ignore him. Don’t make contact. Don’t engage. He’ll get the hint.”
Mickey can hear someone in the background talking to Mandy. “I’ll let you go.”
“How’d you hook up with him?”
“Bye, Mandy.”
**
“Do you know any strip clubs?” Ian has to talk loud over the noise of the bar. He’s on his break and hanging out in the back store room with two of the other guys. “Like...with girls?” Both of them raise their eyebrows at him and he rolls his eyes. “My neighbor works at one, and I was just wondering...”
“Is this hot-ass neighbor?”
Ian flushes and shrugs, looking away. Both of the guys start hooting and hollering at him, and Ian flips them both off. “Just for that, I’m not telling you anything.”
“Bullshit, Gallagher. You can’t keep a secret to save your life.”
“Just watch me.” Ian goes back out on the floor and does his best to put Mickey out of his mind. Because Mickey’s working – Ian heard him leave – so there’s no way any of the dark-haired guys in the club can be him. For a second, Ian wonders what he’d do if one of them was, how he’d dance for Mickey, and he ends up with a hundred dollar bill in his shorts for the effort. Apparently being distracted by thoughts of Mickey might be lucrative.
Which is good, because Ian’s pretty sure he’s not going to not think about Mickey for quite a while.
By the time his shift’s over, he’s made more money that he ever has and he stops at an all-night convenience store and buys a case of beer. He’ll leave it on Mickey’s doorstep as a thank you. Or an invitation. He also buys a pack of post-it notes and a pen so he can leave a note. Just in case Mickey doesn’t know who it’s from.
He jogs up the stairs to his apartment, stopping as he comes out of the stairwell. Something’s already in front of Mickey’s door. Or someone. Ian walks over to investigate and his eyes widen as he realizes it’s Mickey.
“Holy shit, are you okay?” Mickey’s head is pressed against the door, and he’s covered in sweat, his shirt clinging to him. His eyes are glazed when he manages to open them and look at Ian, and Ian’s not sure Mickey recognizes him. “Fever? You don’t get sick from being out in the rain. No one does that in real life.”
The key’s in the doorknob, so Ian twists it and opens the door, hefting Mickey onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and taking him inside. He locks the door behind them and feels for the switch. Mickey’s apartment has the exact same layout as Ian’s, but that’s pretty much where the similarities end.
Mickey’s got a couch covered with a threadbare sheet. There are four bookcases in the living room, all of them stuffed with books, overflowing with books. Ian carries Mickey over to the couch and eases him onto it. Mickey groans softly and shivers, so Ian tugs the sheet off the back of the couch and over him.
The couch is in worse condition than the sheet, and Ian suspects it’s older than Mickey is. Probably older than Mickey and Ian put together. And quite likely found on the side of the road for free. Shit. He goes into the kitchen and opens cupboards, finding two glasses just to the right of the sink next to the two plates and two bowls. He gets Mickey a glass of water then carries it back into the living room.
“You should drink this.” Ian kneels down beside the couch and helps Mickey sit up, pressing the glass to Mickey’s lips. He tilts the glass just enough to get Mickey’s mouth wet, for him to lick his lips so that he’ll open his mouth to drink. “Okay. So. Um. Let me get you to bed. I’ll go get your bed ready.”
He admits it’s curiosity more than anything that makes him go into Mickey’s bedroom. There’s a dresser and a full-size bed and a table lamp sitting on the floor beside the bed. Ian knows what it’s like to grow up poor. He wonders how the fuck Mickey grew up.
He pulls the sheets down the bed and fluffs up the pillows and does his best not to look around. He glances out into the living room and Mickey’s eyes are closed, his mouth slack. Ian stands in the doorway and just stares at him.
There’s something...innocent about Mickey which seems stupid, but Ian can see it in the way his face relaxes when he’s sleeping, in the laugh lines around his eyes. Awake, Mickey’s intimidating and powerful, like a threatening punch. But right now he looks small, alone. Ian gives up on snooping and walks to the bathroom, finding a washcloth and wetting it with cold water. He goes back into the living room and lifts Mickey slightly so he can sit down, settling Mickey’s head back on his thighs.
Mickey shivers when Ian lays the cloth on his forehead, so Ian smooths back Mickey’s bangs where they’re falling forward. His hair is sweaty-damp so it stays where Ian strokes it. He rests his hand on the top of Mickey’s head, thumb rubbing the edge of the cloth. He lays his other hand on Mickey’s chest through the sheet. He knows he should put Mickey in bed, so he’ll be warmer, but he looks comfortable and Ian is comfortable. And tired. And probably getting body glitter all over Mickey’s furniture.
Mickey sighs softly and Ian smiles, rubbing Mickey’s chest as he closes his eyes.
**
There are three things wrong when Mickey wakes up. He’s covered in sweat, he’s not in his bed, and someone is bent over his bookcase. “You get those books out of order, and I’ll fucking shoot you.” His voice is a rasp, which doesn’t do much as far as being a threat. Mickey’s never needed to speak to threaten people though.
“There’s order? Because as far as I can tell, the only thing that vaguely groups these together is that they all have words in them. Not alphabetical by title or author, not color coded, not arranged by size. If you have a system, I’ll be fucked if I know what it is.”
“Ian? What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?” Mickey sits up and ends up on his hands and knees in front of the couch when he falls forward. “Shit.”
“Oh, yeah. Don’t sit up. You’re a little woozy.”
“No shit.” Mickey lowers himself to the floor, and is surprised how good it feels. The floor is nice and cool.
“No. No. No getting comfortable on the floor. It was bad enough the first two times I had to get you back up. I’m too old for this shit.”
“How old are you? Twelve?”
Ian raises an eyebrow and looks down at himself. “Do I look twelve?”
“You look like you got lost on your way home. What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I found you passed out in the hallway. And, as tempting as it was to leave you out there with your key still in the lock, I figured I’d be a good Samaritan. Get you inside. Lock the door. That was before I realized the only thing you have to steal is a hardcover copy of East of Eden.”
“That’s a fucking amazing book, asshole.”
Ian comes over and kneels down beside Mickey, turning him on his side and guiding Mickey’s arms around his neck. “I’ll take your word for it. We’re going to get up on two.”
“Don’t think I can get it up at all right now.” Mickey laughs to himself and presses his face against Ian’s shoulder. He feels warm and cold all at once, and Ian feels...nice. He smells nice. He also sparkles. “Are you...wearing glitter?”
“Seemed rude to use your shower, and I didn’t want to leave you alone here, just in case you decided to try to get up. Because you’re now the proud owner of some serious bruises from when you tried to go to the bathroom.”
“Shit. Did I...”
“No. You said you were going to take a shower because you were sweaty and wet and did I want to come and get blown.”
“Oh shit.” Ian settles Mickey on the couch and Mickey leans back against the cushions. His brain feels like jello and everything seems to jump to the right a few feet. “Did you?”
“Well, yes. But wanting to and actually letting you do it are two different things.” Ian brushes Mickey’s hair back. “You want me to put you into bed?”
“I want to take these clothes off.”
“I told you, you’re in no shape to come on to me.”
“God, you’re a pain in the ass.”
“I told you. You’re in no shape to come on to me.” Ian smiles and Mickey flips him off, trying hard not to smile back. “Come on. I’ll put you to bed.”
“Mm.” Mickey closes his eyes as Ian reaches for him, pulling him up and close to him. Ian smells good. Ian feels good. Goddamn it. “I can walk.”
“Not by yourself, you can’t.” Ian wraps his arm around Mickey’s waist. “This is what friends do, Mickey. Well, neighbors. I’m not sure if fucking once-”
“Three times.”
“Twice.”
“Dick. Tongue. Dick. Three times.”
Ian looks down at Mickey and smiles. “Keeping tally, huh?”
“You talk too much.”
Ian gets them into the bedroom and glances at the bathroom. “You want a shower? Or just bed?”
“Bed’s good.”
Ian nods. “Arms up.”
Mickey does as he’s told, but it’s only Ian’s hand on his waist that keeps him from swaying and falling over. Ian guides him down to sit on the edge of the bed and tugs Mickey’s shirt off. Mickey falls back on the bed as Ian goes for his pants, undoing the belt and fly before tugging the jeans down Mickey’s legs. “Really sucks that I’m not enjoying this.”
**
“Wow. There’s a blow to my ego.” Ian shoves Mickey’s clothes aside and stands up before he gives in to the urge to plant kisses on the inside of Mickey’s thighs, to hook Mickey’s leg over his shoulder and bite and suck and lick him until Mickey’s begging, sweating the fever out. He helps Mickey stand up and then gets him settled in the bed. He tucks the covers around Mickey, watching as his eyes close like it’s an effort to keep them open. “Get some sleep, Cinderella.”
“Wrong fucking fairy tale.” Mickey murmurs. “Better not wake up to any singing mice.”
“Your knowledge of Disney movies frightens me.” Ian leans over and brushes Mickey’s sweaty hair off his forehead. “You need anything?” He waits for a response, but doesn’t get one, since Mickey’s already asleep.
Ian takes Mickey’s key and runs to his apartment, taking a quick shower before gathering up a few things. He drops them at Mickey’s place – his laptop and a change of clothes – and then heads out to pick up some supplies. Something tells him that Pop-Tarts and chicken nuggets aren’t going to do much for Mickey’s recovery.
He buys four different kinds of soup, a loaf of bread, some peanut butter, some orange juice, Gatorade, some vitamin C, a bottle of Advil, and two boxes of NyQuil. He gets to the check out and stops, heading back to the toiletries section and grabbing two boxes of condoms and a bottle of lube. Not because he expects to use them any time soon. Just he and Mickey had depleted his supply, and it’s always good to be prepared.
He gets back to Mickey’s place and puts the food away, dropping the condoms and lube with his stuff. Mickey’s still asleep and Ian feels his forehead. It’s still hot and sweat is beading on Mickey’s throat. Ian reminds himself sternly that Mickey is sick and licking sweat off of him is not something he should be doing. Instead he gets up and starts looking around. Not snooping. Snooping involves looking in drawers and under beds. Ian’s just...glancing.
In drawers.
Mickey has an impressive collection of worn plaid boxers shorts and t-shirts with the sleeves torn off. There’s no computer that Ian can find, and no porn. It’s weird. It’s like Mickey doesn’t really live there, doesn’t exist.
“What happened?” Ian asks softly.
“You looking through my stuff?” Mickey’s voice is rough, hoarse and raspy. “Nosy fucker.”
“Why do you live like this?” Ian knows the question is rude, but he’s honestly curious. “Like you’re just passing through.”
“I’ve got three bookcases crammed with books. Don’t have that if you’re just passing through. Books are a bitch to lug around.”
“I’m going to get you a drink.” Ian goes and opens a bottle of Gatorade and brings it back into the bedroom. Mickey’s still where Ian left him, his face pale, but with high flushed spots on his cheeks. He sits on the edge of the bed and helps Mickey sit up, holding the bottle for him. Mickey drinks slowly, small sips, but he makes it through about a quarter of the bottle. Ian eases him back onto the bed and doesn’t move, sitting on the edge and looking down at Mickey. “Don’t tell me this is all about working two jobs.”
“Ian.”
“No. Come on. You’re delirious with fever. This is likely the only time you’re going to be honest with me.” He opens the bottle of NyQuil and pours a healthy dose into the lid. “And you’re going to take this and then pass out for a day or two, so tell me. Please?”
“Fucking...” Mickey sighs. “Grew up poor. Family of criminals. Dad killed in prison. Brothers shot during a bank robbery gone wrong.”
“Shit.”
“Supposed to be there with them, but I was busy beating the shit out of the fuckhead that was hurting my sister. Saved her life. Saved mine. Didn’t save theirs.”
Ian frowns and helps Mickey drink the NyQuil, trying not to smile when Mickey makes a face. “So you’re punishing yourself?”
“No. Just...” He sighs and lays back down. “Try not to get too attached to things.”
“Like neighbors.” Ian reaches down and brushes Mickey’s hair back again. “Go to sleep. I’ll make you some soup when you wake up.”
“Don’t you have work?”
“I just gave you a dose and a half of NyQuil. You’re going to sleep through the night, angel.”
“Angel?” Mickey laughs. “You’ve got a fucked up idea of what an angel is.”
“Devil was an angel once.” Ian leans down and kisses Mickey’s forehead. “Sleep.”
He watches Mickey until he’s out and then exhales.
Shit. Shit Shit.
**
“Oh, my god. You really do wear those?” Ian starts and whirls around. Mickey still feels like he’s made of shit wrapped in cotton, but he’s pretty sure he’s not hallucinating. Ian is in his bedroom wearing gold fucking booty shorts. “I thought you were flipping me shit.”
Ian doesn’t move, staring at Mickey like a deer in headlights. After a few moments he tilts his head. “I was going to borrow your shower.”
“Glitter and gold booty shorts. Jesus Christ, if there were a competition for gay, you’d take home the rainbow fucking ribbon.” His voice sounds scratchy, but the thought of sitting up to get a drink makes him want to throw up. Or pass out. “C’mere.”
“What?”
“C’mere.”
Ian walks over cautiously like he thinks Mickey’s going to gut him or something. Mickey grabs Ian’s hand and tugs him down onto the edge of the bed. He lifts his hand and runs his fingers down Ian’s chest, brushing over his nipple. “The guys don’t get to touch the girls at my club other than to put money in their g-strings. They get too handsy, I break their knuckles, their wrists, and then their necks.”
Ian closes his eyes and inhales sharply. His nipple hardens under Mickey’s fingers so Mickey rubs it again, and then switches to his thumb, sliding it back and forth. Ian’s breath stutters and he licks his lips. “O-oh?”
“Do they get to touch you?”
“No. No. They...money in my waistband. I grind against them if they want a lap dance. Just...they have to keep their h-hands to themselves.” Ian bites his lower lip and his head falls back. Mickey slides his other hand up Ian’s back and pulls him forward, catching Ian’s nipple with his tongue between swipes of his thumb. “Shit.”
“What about me?”
“I...what?”
Mickey’s not sure what he’s doing. His head is foggy. Maybe he’s dreaming. “Would you let me touch you? Or would one of your bouncers try to break me?”
“You’re sick. I mean, not...you’re not up to this.” Mickey licks his nipple again and Ian moans. “Jesus, Mickey.”
“Feel up.” He takes Ian’s hand and guides it to his dick, hard beneath the thin sheet. He’d kicked off all the other covers, and that’s all that’s left other than his boxers. He smiles, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Ian’s chest. “You up for it?”
“Jesus.” Ian breathes and pulls away. He tugs Mickey up so he’s sitting and makes him drink some Gatorade. It’s the last thing Mickey wants in his mouth, but he swallows it down, glaring mutinously at Ian. After Mickey’s finished off the bottle, Ian lays him back down against his pillow. “This is the worst idea ever. You’re going to have an orgasm and pass out and how am I going to explain that if I have to take you to the hospital?”
“Talk too much.” Mickey’s smiling, and he feels dopey. The NyQuil is making his brain slow, his blood sluggish, but it’s not doing anything to his dick. “Do something else with your mouth.”
Ian laughs roughly and pushes the sheet off of Mickey. Mickey shivers at the sudden breeze, but then Ian’s there, close and warm. He tugs Mickey’s boxers off and tosses them somewhere and then moves between Mickey’s legs, guiding them over his shoulders so Ian can press in close. He pushes Mickey’s legs up slightly and Mickey feels open, exposed.
The first touch of Ian’s tongue is like a shock and it clears some of the fog from Mickey’s brain. It gets replaced almost immediately by a haze of lust as Ian starts licking him, his hole, his balls, his dick. Mickey moans throatily and Ian makes a noise in response, the sound vibrating against Mickey’s skin.
It’s slow. Fuck, so slow. It feels like Ian spends hours licking him, tongue flicking against the ring of muscle, inside it. Licking and sucking Mickey’s balls. He licks Mickey’s dick like it’s a fucking ice cream cone, catching the drips of Mickey’s pre-come on his tongue. Mickey tries to watch him, because it’s fucking hot as fuck, but his head is heavy and his eyes aching and tired. As soon as Mickey closes them, Ian takes him in his mouth and sucks. It’s wet and noisy, slow and deliberate. Ian alternates taking Mickey deep and then sucking him in shallowly, never establishing a rhythm. It’s not being sick that’s making it impossible for Mickey to breathe, but Ian. Ian’s mouth. His hands cupping Mickey’s ass and holding him exactly where he wants him.
Mickey’s mouth is open and he’s trying desperately to get air, his throat dry as he tries to talk, to tell Ian to stop. To never stop. Mickey opens his eyes when Ian shifts, pushing Mickey’s legs up higher as he gets onto his knees. Mickey can tell from the noises Ian’s making around his dick, actually sucking now, that he’s jerking himself off.
Mickey can see the swell of Ian’s ass, covered in tight gold fabric over the curve of his back, and if he weren’t delusional, he’d probably swear undying devotion to Ian’s ass. And his mouth. He might actually be swearing it to Ian’s mouth because it’s hot and tight and wet and sucking and teasing and Mickey doesn’t even know he’s coming before he does.
His whole body shakes with it, and then shakes with the change in temperature as his skin starts to cool down. He can’t keep his eyes open, and he feels like he should make sure Ian came, but he’s too out of his head to remember what to say or how to say it.
“Night,” he breathes.
Ian kisses the inside of Mickey’s thigh and rests his head there. “Night.”
**
Ian doesn’t move until he hears the light, snuffling snore of Mickey sleeping. Even after that it takes him a while to ease away and get off the bed. He tucks the sheet back around Mickey and goes into the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror.
This was supposed to be fucking around with his hot neighbor.
That is most definitely not what this is.
Ian falls in love. He’s in love with being in love, and he’s made some mistakes thinking that it was the real thing. Lots of mistakes. And he’s only known Mickey for a week. The fire alarm was a week ago and he and Mickey have spent two days together. Ian is not in love.
Except he’s pretty sure he is.
Shit.
He turns on the shower as hot as it will go and strips out of his shorts, stepping under the spray. He hisses and shivers as his body adjusts to the heat and then he bows his head forward, letting it hit the back of his neck. He rolls his shoulders forward and back, tilting his head to each side to listen to it crack. He laces his fingers together and presses his palms out away from him, leaning into the stretch.
None of it does anything to alleviate the erection that he’d been sporting since he’d sucked Mickey off. Since before then when Mickey’d touched him. Ian wants to will it away, but the steam and the heat and the memory of Mickey coming deep in his throat means that isn’t happening. He wraps his hand around his dick and squeezes it and starts stroking himself. He presses one hand to the tile, still cool despite the hot water and jerks himself with the other. He closes his eyes and pictures Mickey the way he’d been picturing him since their first night together. Naked with Ian buried inside him. Sucking Ian’s cock. Bent over the back of Ian’s chair and getting fucked hard enough that it scraped across the floor. Knees pushed up to his shoulders as Ian fucked him face to face.
Ian’s knees give way slightly when he comes and he turns the water off, too lightheaded to actually do anything like get out of the shower. He needs a drink and a cigarette and the voice of reason. Drying himself off roughly, he tugs on a pair of sweats and heads into the living room. He stops at the door and stares at Mickey for a moment before pulling it shut and grabbing his phone.
“You’d better be dying.”
Ian flinches at Lip’s groan and glances at the time. Shit. “Shit. Sorry.”
“You’re not dying, are you? Goddamn it, Ian.” Ian can hear Lip shifting, sitting up, lighting a cigarette. “You’d better not be drunk dialing me or I’m going to come over there and beat the shit out of you.”
“I love you too.” Ian sighs and stretches out on the couch. It’s uncomfortable as fuck, especially for the second night in a row. “I need your help.”
“I’m done disposing of bodies.”
“I met someone.”
Lip groans again. “Ian. Don’t. Don’t do this, man.”
“He’s nice. He’s hot.”
“Too much information.”
“I didn’t even mention what he’s like in bed!” Ian chews on his lower lip for a moment. “But he’s really fucking amazing in bed.”
“I hate you so much right now.” Lip exhales. “How long have you known him?” When Ian doesn’t answer Lip mutters under his breath. Ian’s kind of glad he can’t understand the words. “Where’d you meet him?”
“He’s my next-door neighbor.”
“How old?”
Ian huffs a breath, but Lip doesn’t say anything else. “Couple years older than me.”
“And by a couple of years do you actually mean a couple of years or do you mean that he’s old enough to have kids our age?”
“He’s around our age.”
“How long have you been seeing him?”
Ian knows he can’t avoid the question this time. “Not long.”
“How long, Ian.”
“A week?” He says it quietly and braces himself for Lip’s rant. Lip just sighs and Ian immediately goes on the defensive. “We’ve been neighbors for a year.” He doesn’t offer up the information that they didn’t talk to each other or really know each other or, in Mickey’s case, seem to know Ian even existed. “He’s sick in bed.”
“Like sick-sick or sick-sick.”
“Like sick-sick. Chicken soup sick. I like him, Lip.”
“You fall in love at the drop of a hat. Or in this case, a pair of jeans.” He can hear Lip take another hit off the cigarette and then blow out. “He like you?”
“Think so?”
“Just fuck him, Ian. Don’t let feelings screw up a good thing. You don’t need complications in your life. You’re working and going to school. That’s enough, don’t you think?”
“Right. You’re right. I know you’re right.” Ian sighs and closes his eyes, resting his head on the arm of the couch. Lip is right. Ian doesn’t actually have time for a relationship any more than Mickey does. Fucking each other senseless is the best case scenario here. “Thanks, Lip.”
“Next time you need sense talked into you, can you please need it at a time that’s not three in the fucking morning?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“It’s cool.” Lip sighs and coughs. “Hey, Ian?”
“Yeah?”
“Promise me he isn’t married, okay?”
“One married guy...”
“Two.”
“I hate you so much.”
“That I know of.”
“Fuck off, asshole.”
**
Mickey feels almost human when he wakes up. Well, it’s not completely true. He feels like shit still and his head feels about four sizes too big. He rubs his forehead and fumbles on the nightstand for his glasses, putting them on and blinking at the clock. It says seven, but he’s not sure if it’s the morning or evening. He’s definitely not sure what day it is.
He wonders if he still has a job.
Getting out of bed takes longer than it should, but he does manage to get to his feet. He’s cold, but putting on clothes seems like a monumental task, so he wraps the comforter around him and goes out into the living room.
Ian’s asleep on the couch, legs draped over the arm on one end and neck tilted at an angle that Mickey’s pretty sure means Ian’s going to be in some serious pain when he wakes up. His sweats are resting low on his hips, and Mickey can see the sharp cut of his hips. He ignores the part of him that suggests that he go over and lick the ridge of muscle, but instead he goes into the kitchen and pulls out the orange juice and opens the bottle of Advil. He pours two glasses of juice and then shakes four Advil into his palm before adding four more.
He moves out to the living room and sits down on the floor by the couch, looking at Ian. Mickey doesn’t think about things. He just does them. And he sure as fuck doesn’t sit around like a dopey idiot and stare at beautiful boys on his living room couch. One because he doesn’t ever have anyone on his living room couch. And two because the phrase ‘beautiful boy’ is not one that he ever has, will, or wants to use.
Except there’s no other way to describe Ian.
Mickey downs four of the Advil and clenches his fist to keep from reaching out and touching Ian. Tracing the sharp curve of his cheekbones or the swell of his lower lip. Shit. He’s turned into a fucking romance novel and that is so not okay. He needs to call Mandy and tell her and Sandra Bullock to go to fucking hell.
Ian turns slightly, shifting onto his side on the couch. His head hits an uncushioned spot and thunks against the wood beam in the arm. “Ow. Fuck.”
“Should have come to sleep in the bed.” Mickey holds out the glass of juice and Advil. “You’re going to need these.”
“Jesus, this couch is a fucking torture device.” Ian sits up and cracks his neck, taking the cup and pills from Mickey. “And not in a good way.”
“There are good kinds of torture?” It slips out before Mickey can stop it, and the look Ian gives him makes heat dance up Mickey’s spine. “Why do I have orange juice?”
“I bought some groceries.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, Ian.”
“No. Seriously. You’d do it for me, right? I mean, if you found me passed out in the hallway, practically dying, you’d save my life, wouldn’t you?”
“You should be an actor you’re so fucking dramatic.” Mickey closes his eyes and leans forward, forehead resting on Ian’s knee. “Did I say thank you, by the way? I suck at saying thank you, but since I was delirious, I thought I maybe did.”
“Don’t remember. You should say it again.” Ian smiles down at him, his grin widening when Mickey tilts his head enough to look up. He has to smile himself, because Ian’s grin is more infectious than whatever had laid Mickey up in bed.
Or maybe Ian should lay Mickey up in bed. Shit. He was so fucked.
“Thanks.”
“I was going to feed you soup.”
“You what?”
“If you didn’t get out of bed and eat something. I was going to feed you soup. I should still feed you soup. You haven’t eaten in a couple days. I called your work, by the way. Let them know you were sick.”
“You are so fucking gay.”
“You had my dick up your ass. Pretty sure the gay thing is mutual.”
“I don’t need a boyfriend.”
“Didn’t say I wanted to be your boyfriend. I’m being a concerned neighbor. A friend. Who happens to be a boy. Guy. Dude. Male person. Whatever.”
Mickey cracks a smile and slides his hand up Ian’s calf. His fingers press into the hollow beneath Ian’s knee and huffs out a breath when Ian’s reflexes kick in and his foot jerks out. “Ticklish?”
“Don’t even. You’re sick and weak and I’m not going to take advantage of you.”
Mickey straightens, still on his knees and kisses Ian, slow and warm and god, Ian tastes and feels good.
He is so, so fucked.
Halfway through the kiss, Ian pulls back and moves away, barely getting out of Mickey’s face before he sneezes. Mickey laughs, falling back onto the floor on his ass. “Dude. I think we both need soup.”
**
Ian doesn’t get sick. He just doesn’t. He has the constitution of a non-sick person. He has the sniffles. And a cough. And maybe he’s a little warm. But he’s not sick. He’s bundled up on his couch and shivering under the blanket when he hears a rattling at his door. He gets up to answer it, grabbing the baseball bat from the umbrella stand, when the inside knob falls off and the door swings open.
Ian drops the bat back onto his shoulder. “Jesus Christ, Mickey.”
“You didn’t answer the door.”
“I was on my way.”
“No. Yesterday. And last night.” He gets to work on replacing the doorknob, using his own screwdriver, since Ian never gave him his. “Figured you caught the crud.”
“Apparently sucking your dick was a bad idea.”
“Pretty sure my come is germ-free. Also, sucking my dick is never a bad idea.” Mickey grabs something from outside then shuts the door, twisting the deadbolt. “Always lock this, dipshit. Never know who’s going to break in otherwise.”
“Like my neighbor.”
“Shut up. I brought soup. And Gatorade.” Mickey sets the bag he’s carrying down in the kitchen along with the box. “And doughnuts.”
“How do you know I like doughnuts.”
“Because everyone likes doughnuts. Besides, maybe they’re not for you.” He comes over to where Ian’s sitting on the couch and straddles him, holding his weight so it’s on his knees rather than settled on Ian. He takes a bite of the maple bar in his hand, glaze sparkling on his upper lip. Ian licks his own lips and looks up at Mickey who leans in for a kiss. “Maybe I’ve got a sweet tooth.”