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“Mick.”
Nothing.
“Psst. Mick,” Ian tries again, kicking his foot against the prison-issued mattress above Mickey’s bunk, shaking the entire wall. “Know you can hear me. Come on. I’m bored.”
A goddamn summer storm has had them trapped inside all day, and Ian’s starting to go stir crazy.
He’s not used to this. The quiet. The monotony. Somehow he already misses the chaos and the drama and the neediness of the Gallagher household. Who could have guessed he’d ever say that?
And he’s only barely a month into this. Even less considering he’s spent the first couple weeks fairly out of it while the docs in the infirmary fucked around with his meds, Mickey cursing them out every time they changed up the regimen once again. Plus another week of nearly non-stop fucking once he’d felt like himself again, finally revelling in the reunion they deserved.
But now things have settled out. They’re finding their new normal, their new routine. And it’s a fucking mind-numbing one.
Ian doesn’t understand how Mickey is so content with it. The man could seemingly lay in his bunk and read his pile of books for hours and hours, days and days on end. Maybe grab his sketchpad for a bit when he feels like shaking it up. Though Ian has to admit he has loved watching him draw. That’s a hobby he wouldn’t mind sticking around.
Guess all that time in juvie plus the time he served before Mexico plus — as Ian’s recently learned — his mostly solitary days in Mexico all prepared him well for this. He’s well practiced at keeping himself busy. Not relying on anyone else.
Ian, not so much. He doesn’t do well alone.
“Told you, go out there.” Ian hears Mickey shuffle in the bunk beneath him. The sound of him creasing the corner of a page. The closing of his book. “Plenty’a people to entertain your ass.”
“Hmm,” Ian hums, hopping down and taking a seat at the end of Mickey’s mattress between his feet, his back hunched awkwardly against the wall to squeeze into the tight space. “Thought I was the one entertaining asses in here.”
He slips his fingers into the ankle of Mickey’s yellow jumpsuit and he trails them up his calf. Attempts to distract him. Again.
Mickey’s brought it up a dozen times now. Encouraging him to leave their room. Go socialize. Make some friends.
And yeah, normally Ian’s been the outgoing one between the two of them. The one dragging Mickey along to the parties. Pushing him out of his comfort zone.
In his short stay before Geneva had bailed him out prior to his trial, Ian had made a ton of friends. Knew everyone. Fully integrated himself into the social fabric in a matter of days. But he had the help of a touch of mental illness back then.
This time it’s harder. A lot harder.
He’s not here for a few weeks. He’s going to be sticking around a while. These relationships matter. First impressions matter. And he’s probably already known as the guy who couldn’t get out of bed for days. The guy who’s cellmate — boyfriend? Do any of them even know about his and Mickey’s history? — had to bring him all his meals and force him to shower when Ian refused any help from the doctors or the guards.
But he knows Mickey’s right. Knows that even if it’s painful, he’s going to have to interact with these people sooner or later or he’s going to lose his goddamn mind before he ever sees the outside world again.
“Fine.” He smacks Mickey in the leg. Gives it a little squeeze. “But if I gotta go out there, so do you.”
Fairness? Perhaps. Suffer together and all that. But also, a crutch. A security blanket. He’s always had an easier time being himself with Mickey around. Makes it hard to be anything else.
“I ain’t the one whining ‘bout being bored,” Mickey gripes, picking back up his book. “Perfectly fine spending the next however many months just me and my books and your dick.”
“Please?” Ian gives him the pleading eyes, the puppy dog ones Mickey hasn’t been able to resist since he was sixteen. “Promise my dick will reward you later.” If the eyes ever fail, sex bribes always work.
“Fuckin’ better,” Mickey grumbles, but he climbs out of the tiny bed. His jumpsuit was folded down to his waist and he pulls it back up, slipping his arms in the sleeves and starting to work on the buttons.
Ian peeks his head through the open doorway of their cell. Through the railing on the hall balcony, he can see down into the rec room.
A group of big, bald, white dudes with nazi ink are huddled around the TV playing decades-old MMA fights. Not quite Ian’s scene.
Another group of buff dudes, topless and sweaty, running through some sort of strength training routine. Not wildly outside of Ian’s interests — been a while since his JROTC training days, but he did always enjoy it — but not so much Mickey’s jam.
Then he spots them, the pair playing a quiet game of dominos. They’re older but less intimidating. And hopefully wiser. A lifetime full of knowledge, of experience, that should make them more accepting, right? A little sympathetic to the crazy guy? Jaded to the people that roll through these types of places at least.
“There.” Ian points through the door frame at his mark. “Those guys. One game and then back to your book.”
Mickey cranes his neck and spots the table.
“Actually, you know, think I’m good.” He rubs his hands on his jumpsuit and shuffles back toward the bed. “You go ahead. Was just getting to a good part.” He thumps his tattooed knuckles against his paperback. “Fucker was about to find out who done it, so…”
“Oh no you don’t.” Ian sidesteps him, snatching the book from his hand and blocking his bed that’s probably already started to form to his body. “This was your fuckin’ idea.”
“That you go make some friends. I’m just fine.” He grabs for the book. Ian holds it above his head. Mickey sighs knowing his short reach doesn't stand a chance at stealing it back. “Plus,” he adds, huffing as he shoves Ian aside to settle back into the bunk, “looks like they only got room for one more anyways, so…” He waves his hand and ushers Ian away with two clicks of his tongue.
Except Ian doesn’t budge.
“Only two of ‘em. Four can play,” Ian corrects. Stubborn. Mickey’s not getting out of this one.
“Whatever.” Mickey brushes him off, but Ian doesn’t miss the way his eyes fixate on the threadbare sheet. The hunch of his back. “Just— Pick somethin’ else.”
Ian sets down the book, takes a seat beside Mickey, and puts a hand on his shoulder. It’s tense. Something’s up.
“What, you know those guys or somethin’? They fuck with you or—”
“No,” Mickey cuts him off. “It’s just— It’s stupid. Just…don’t know how to fuckin’ play or whatever,” he mumbles, gaze still trained on the stray string he wraps around his finger until it turns white.
“Really?” Ian’s honestly surprised. “How? It’s like, a classic.”
“Yeah, well, not like we had a whole lotta fuckin’ family game nights growin’ up so…” He slinks away from Ian’s touch, twisting himself until his back is against the far wall, knees pulled up in front of him.
And fuck. Ian hadn’t even realized. He forgets sometimes. Not so much forgets just, fails to remember. To remember that even though they grew up in the same place, his childhood and Mickey’s childhood were very different. To remember before. The kid covered in dirt that hid the bruises. The kid dressed in the puffy coat that hid his famished frame.
Mickey didn’t have a closet full of Aunt Ginger’s old games. He didn’t have a group of siblings competing for the coveted easy chores. He didn’t have little hands tugging on his shirt begging to be taught the big kid’s games.
“Hey.” Ian lays a reassuring hand on Mickey’s knee. Pulls himself closer until his leg is pressed against Mickey’s ankles. “That’s fine. It’s easy. I’ll teach you. Or we can pick something else.”
He gives Mickey a small smile. Just enough to let him know Ian gets it. Gets how sometimes it’s the stupid little shit that hits the hardest. But also gets not wanting to dissect it all.
Something about it must be enough because snarky Mickey answers back, “Not a fucking child. I can figure it out. Just, like, give me the basics or whatever.”
Yeah, okay. Ian can do that. He might not be able to fix an entire childhood's worth of trauma and neglect, but in two minutes, he can rectify one missing piece of it.
So Ian does his best to rattle off the basic rules while Mickey nods along. Eventually, Mickey cuts him off, “Yeah, yeah. Alright. I got it, I got it. Easy enough. Let’s get this fuckin’ over with. Better not make me late for my four o’clock blowjob,” he grumbles as they leave their cell.
Ian eyes the table as they make their way across the floating metal hallway and down the stairs. The two men appear to be clearing their last game and Ian hurries Mickey along. Not going to let him use having to wait for a new game as an excuse to bail.
He pastes on his social smile as they approach the table. He can practically feel Mickey scowling behind him, but he does what he can.
“Got room for two more?” he asks the pair.
The two men look up from the table where they’ve been flipping and shuffling dominos, both of them oblivious to Ian and Mickey until now.
Up close, they’re even older than Ian thought. Skin thin and weathered. Lifers, no doubt. Every tattoo and scar a story of a long, hard life. But still, Ian spots the deep smile lines etched into their cheeks. In the corner of their eyes. Not unlike the faint ones forming around Mickey’s eyes that Ian’s noticed in the hours he’s spent relearning the man’s body.
“‘Course,” one of them answers, clearing room at the table for them both. He has a few wispy gray hairs combed across his shiny skull and a half-faded, crudely inked image of a young, voluptuous woman on his bicep.
Silently, Mickey takes the closest seat. Ian walks around the table to sit across from him.
“New here?” the other man asks. Ian tries not to get too distracted by the mess of crooked, aging teeth in his otherwise welcoming smile.
“Yeah, I guess. Few weeks,” Ian answers. He joins in helping the men flip the tiles. Mickey sits on his hands.
You know, the crazy one folks have been undoubtedly whispering about?
“I’m Ian.” Both men nod an informal greeting. “And Mickey.” He tilts his head across the table. “Cellmates. And known each other for a long time before.”
He doesn’t know these men, so he leaves it at that, but he can still feel the smile fighting its way into his cheeks at any mention of Mickey.
“Victor,” the toothy one says.
“Antonio,” introduces the other. “Good to have a friend in here.” He winks.
Okay then.
“Teams or individuals?” Victor asks.
“Uh, teams I guess,” Ian answers, looking across at a still sulking Mickey. At least if they play as a team, he can help Mickey out on his first game.
“Fuck that.” At last, Mickey speaks. “Individuals. Gotta be able to kick your ass, tough guy.”
Well, at least he’s finally interacting.
“Got a live one on your hands there, don’t ya,” Antonio smirks.
Mickey glares at him.
Off to a great start.
They each draw a tile to determine who will go first. Victor lays down the starting piece. Everyone draws tiles into their hands. Ian watches Mickey grab his one by one, stopping when the rest of them stop.
Ian goes next, playing from his hand. Then Antonio lays one down.
On Mickey’s turn, he studies the squares lined up in front of him. Studies the three in the middle. Rubs a knuckle across his brow.
“Uh, pass,” he mumbles, thumbing at the corner of his mouth.
He stretches back in his stool. All eyes on him while everyone waits.
“Ya gotta…” Ian pointedly glances in the direction of the draw pile.
“Yeah, right.” Mickey slides a new tile into his hand, embarrassed fingers knocking two over when he tries to stand it up.
Round and round they go. At first, Ian tries to help Mickey out with — what he thought — were sly little reminders and tips. But three turns in, Mickey glares at him to knock it the fuck off, and well fine, let the man suffer on his own.
Ian runs out of tiles first and wins. “Good games” are exchanged all around as the other three players push their pieces back into the center. Ian eyes Mickey’s massive pile of remaining tiles and notices at least half of them he could have played multiple times.
“We good here?” Mickey’s already standing.
“Uh, sure,” Ian answers. “Thanks for this, guys. Was fun.” He raps his knuckles on the table and smiles at Victor and Antonio who nod back, grumbling something under their breath Ian’s probably glad he doesn’t quite catch. A massive success, he’s sure. Future besties no doubt.
Mickey doesn’t say anything on the way to their cell. Once back, he immediately grabs his book and falls into his bunk with a huff.
He’s always been a sore loser. Ian remembers the time he challenged him to a race through their homemade ROTC training course. How grouchy Mickey had been when Ian kicked his ass. Wasn’t able to knock him out of his funk until he’d soothed that sore ass the best way he knew how.
And well, it is nearly four o’clock.
Ian follows Mickey into the bed, crawling in between his legs, ready to lick his wounded ego real good.
————
“Hey.” Ian’s half asleep on Mickey’s chest, fingers carding through his hair slowly easing him into consciousness, when he hears Mickey’s whisper. Soft in the morning light.
It’s early. The cell block still quiet. Lockwood was on duty last night and for whatever reason he doesn’t seem to give a shit about them sharing a bed like some of the other guards do.
Makes for Ian’s favorite kind of mornings when he wakes up still shoved up against the wall of Mickey’s bunk. Much too small for two grown men, but what do they care? Not much different than when they were living at the Gallagher house in Ian’s old twin bed.
“Hmm?” Ian hums in acknowledgment, eyes closed.
“You still, uh… You still up for teaching me?” Ian feels Mickey’s heart race against his cheek. “The stupid game or whatever?”
“Huh? What? Yeah,” Ian answers, stretching and blinking and propping himself up on his elbow beside Mickey. Peeling off the last tentacles of sleep. “‘Course.”
“Just like, couple strategies or whatever the fuck.” Mickey bites at his lip. “For next time.”
“Next time?” Ian one hundred percent assumed they would never be attempting that again.
“Can’t let those smug bastards think they’re better than everybody else just ‘cause they know how to match up some funkin’ dots.”
“Smug bastards? Really?”
“You see the looks on their faces? Like we were a couple of idiots. You don’t look at a Milkovich like that and expect nothin’ to happen.” Mickey’s hands wave wildly above Ian’s head.
There were no looks. Paranoid Mickey is just a shitty loser.
Much as he might have tried to pretend he was fucked for life, Mickey’s always been one of the smartest guys in the room. One of the things Ian loves about him. And precisely why he and Lip butt heads all the fucking time. Too much brain power and too much ego for one room.
‘Course Mickey wants to get back out there and prove he can hold his own.
“Fine,” Ian concedes because it is pretty adorable that Mickey asked for help and Ian doesn’t want to ruin it.
After one last stretch, Ian groans and climbs over Mickey out of the bed. He pulls Mickey’s storage trunk from under the bed and rummages through his haphazard stash of art supplies.
“The fuck you doin’? Mickey sits up, exposing his still naked torso.
Ian’s heart stutters when he catches sight of his name etched into Mickey’s chest. The purple mouth-shaped bruise fading on top of the black ink. He’s not sure he’ll ever really get over that one.
“Well—” Ian shakes his head trying to clear the memory of leaving that mark last night. Licks his lips trying to forget the taste “—figured you didn’t want me holding lessons out in the rec room. So gotta improvise.”
He rips a few blank sheets from Mickey’s notebook, ignoring the whining coming from behind him, and grabs a marker. He gets to work carefully folding and tearing out twenty-eight rectangles and methodically adding the right number of dots to each, using the lid of the chest as his makeshift table.
Mickey takes a piss in the metal toilet half a foot away while Ian works. There are some things he will never miss about this place.
“There,” Ian declares, sitting back to look at his work when they’re all finished. Not ideal, but they’ll do.
Mickey settles onto the hard stool beside him. He takes one look at their makeshift paper dominos and wrinkles his nose. Clearly unimpressed. Whatever. Mr. Suddenly-an-Artist can make his own damn set if he thinks he can do it better.
“Alright, teach. Do your thing,” Mickey says, like it’s some kind of challenge. Everything’s a challenge with this man.
But surprisingly, he turns out to be more receptive than Ian expected and they spend the next two hours sucked into their own world until Mickey’s able to win a game.
————
Those two hours turn into another hour that night. Another game in the morning. And before they know it, they’re spending nearly all their free time playing together. Laughing, shit-talking, making stupid bets.
Having fun.
More fun than Ian’s had in a long time. Just letting himself slow down and enjoy the simple things.
He finally feels at ease again. A thing he hasn’t felt in a long time. Still. Calm. The missing piece he hadn’t realized he’d been searching for, chasing, clicked back into place. Stabilizing the whole structure.
One night they find themselves playing a round in bed. It’s late, the lights already shut off, but neither one of them is tired. Maybe they shouldn’t have traded Mickey’s spare shiv for those after-dinner coffees. Apparently, their bodies have already forgotten how to handle the perks of the outside world.
Mickey’s book light clipped onto the slats under the upper bunk gives them just enough of a glow to see their homemade tiles — already on to their third set by now, durability proving to be a downfall of paper pieces.
It’s warm tonight — fuck, most nights, stingy assholes definitely cheap out on the air conditioning in this place — so they’re stripped down to nothing but their white prison-issued boxers.
Ian’s stretched out across the bed, propped up on his side. As they shuffle the papers, Ian catches the way Mickey’s eyes track across his arms, his chest, his stomach, his hips. All starting to firm up nicely from their new yard time exercise routine.
And well, Ian’s always loved to put on a good show.
He rolls onto his back, shoving Mickey aside to make room for his large frame across the tiny mattress.
“The fuck,” Mickey grumbles, bending down to pick up some of the paper dominos that fell to the floor.
When he sits back up, Ian’s got one piece laid face up on his stomach in the flat space just below his sternum. A devilish grin plastered across his face.
“The hell you doin’?” Mickey questions.
“New game.” Ian tries for his best seductive voice, but he’s never been very good at it with Mickey. Made a fucking living off talking dirty to strange old men, but somehow everything turns all soft when he’s around Mickey. “Make a chain that reaches the prize, and it’s all yours.” He glances down at his cock — already starting to stir at the idea — and winks.
“Oh, this I like.” Mickey immediately climbs over top of Ian, straddling his thighs. “Why the fuck ain’t we been playing like this the whole time?”
Draw by draw, Mickey lays the papers across Ian’s body, cursing every piece that doesn’t match. Ian’s never seen him play so fast. A real pro these days. Until finally the next tile reaches Ian’s waistband. Mickey lays that one down with his teeth, his tongue wandering astray.
And well, good thing they’ve become pros at making homemade dominos because this set ain’t surviving tonight.
————
The next morning after breakfast, Ian spots Victor and Antonio at the same table setting up for a new game. It’s funny, despite how obsessed Ian and Mickey seem to have become with this silly game, they’ve still only been playing with each other.
“Hey.” Ian nudges Mickey in the shoulder, grabbing his attention away from the newly updated commissary list he’s been studying. “Wanna play with the guys again?” Ian nods toward the table.
The whole point had been to make friends, right? And so far they’ve actually only spent more time holed up in their room together.
“Huh? Yeah, sure, whatever. But you seein’ this shit?” Mickey rants as he blindly follows Ian. “Twelve bucks for a fuckin’ sketchpad? Fifteen for a decent set’a pencils? And they say we’re the thieves.”
Mickey runs into Ian’s back when he stops at the table. He looks around confused for half a second before it dawns on him what he’d agreed to ten seconds ago. Too late to back out now, sucker.
“Up for another round?” Ian asks the two men, hopeful they weren’t too annoyed with them last time.
They look at each other, some kind of silent agreement, before they both nod. Ian slips into the nearest seat and Mickey grumbles something about being set up as he rounds the table to sit across from him.
“Teams today?” Victor suggests, a compassionate smile on his face, taking pity on Mickey and his spectacular loss last game.
“Nah, no. We’ve been—”
But Mickey cuts him off.
“Yeah. Teams is good.” He slides eight dominos from the center in front of him. “Put some stakes on it this time? Twelve commissary bucks?”
“It’s, uh, seven.” Antonio corrects, pointing toward the tiles in front of Mickey. “But, yeah, sure. Twelve bucks.” He grins across the table at his partner, presumably already counting his winnings in his head.
Ian catches the tiniest of grins sneak from the corner of Mickey’s mouth as he slides the extra tile back into the pile. Such a little shit.
Ian’s little shit.
He forces back a smile of his own.
They win. Of course they win.
“Well, well, well,” Victor says when Mickey plays the final piece. “Looks like you two got yourself a pretty good hustle goin’ here.”
And fuck. Did they just piss off the wrong people? Are they about to end up on the wrong side of a sharpened toothbrush?
“Respectable,” Antonio adds. He almost looks impressed. Ian lets out a sigh of relief. “But save that shit for the newcomers. They’re fair game, but anyone else? Playin’ a risky game.”
Ian nods, respectful. They’ve been given a pass by these two seasoned veterans. Along with some sage words of advice he plans to heed.
Mickey, however, doesn’t even try to wipe the smug look off his face.
“Pleasure doin’ business with you,” Mickey says, pulling a folded commissary order form from his pocket and pushing it across the table toward Antonio. “That one right there.” He points to a line on the form and Antonio sighs as he reluctantly scribbles his name on the sheet.
As soon as their prize has been signed over, Ian steers Mickey back up to their room before he can cause any more trouble.
Ian wants to be mad at him. He did get them into what could have been a dicey situation. But he’s gotta admit, it’s giving him a little bit of a buzz. Got his blood pumping. That old South Side energy of his youth flowing.
Reminds him of all the schemes they pulled when they were kids. How good they were at it.
And looking at Mickey right now — inflated ego, glowing smile, exuding confidence — Ian’s reminded of just how sexy he finds him like this.
His boyfriend’s a badass. Scrappy. Feisty. Bold. Utterly fuckable.
Their eyes lock across the cell. That sizzle, that spark heating up the tiny space in an instant. A devilish smile takes over Mickey’s face and Ian can feel his own mouth mirror it right back.
In one swift stride, Ian’s on him. One arm wrapped around his waist, the other cushioning the back of his head as he pushes him up against the hard wall, spinning them into the one corner that’s blocked from view even with the door open. Their corner.
“You’re a fucking menace,” Ian growls into Mickey’s mouth between sloppy, frantic kisses.
“Got a problem with that?” In one practiced pull, Mickey pops open the full row of buttons on his own jumpsuit. A sound that immediately gets Ian hard these days. A drooling dog.
“Not at all.”
“Didn’t think so.”
Firm hands grip his hair, pushing him down down down, but he’s already dropped to his knees, possibly more eager than Mickey to bury that cock down his throat.
The bad news about mid-day prison cell romps is they’ve gotta be quick. The good news is Ian knows just which buttons to push to make that happen.
————
The very next afternoon, a new guy rolls into the block. Clearly green. This is for sure his first rodeo. Victor and Antonio make eye contact with Ian and Mickey during lunch. There’s your next target.
And fuck, it was fun. Why not?
And that’s how it starts. How they become the infamous domino hustling duo. The welcoming crew so to speak, hazing the fresh meat out of whatever they have to barter with.
But lest Mickey has too much fun torturing the newbies, Ian makes sure he takes the real green ones under his wing. Helps them get settled. Teaches them how to avoid trouble, the harmless kind like his boyfriend but also the real shit. Much to Mickey’s annoyance who would rather take his winnings and bail.
They initiate every rookie inmate who walks through those doors. Every single one.
It’s their thing. What they’re known for. How they’ve integrated themselves into the social network of the unit. Made a name for themselves. Earned respect. Friends. Maybe not the way they’d intended, but it did work.
So when they hear through the rumor mill someone new was going through intake, Ian and Mickey are ready. Have their table set up and everything.
Until Ian sees him.
He’s just a fucking kid. He must be eighteen, but he certainly doesn’t look it. There are empty holes in his lip, nose, and eyebrow. His left earlobe droops where a rather large gauge must have been removed. Dark roots are already growing in beneath silver bleached hair. His baggy jumpsuit hangs off his skinny frame. When the arm of it slides up, Ian catches a glimpse of thin, pink scars.
And immediately, Ian hurts for the boy. He doesn’t know his story. But he knows he had one. A life outside of here, thrown away just like that. Tossed aside for a change he’d never imagined. Or maybe one he’d always expected.
He reminds Ian of every kid he fought for last year. Every kid struggling to find their place. Though his methods may have been a bit muddy, his motives were always pure.
He can’t hustle this kid. Can’t be another person in his life who fucks him over.
“Hey, new kid. Up for a game?” Mickey calls across the room, beckoning the newcomer over to their waiting table.
“Mick, no,” Ian blurts out in a harsh whisper, hands bolting out to rake in the prepared pieces.
But the boy’s already made his way over. “Uh, sure,” he says, voice shaky and anything but sure. Timid but trying to be brave.
And well fuck, now Ian will feel like even more of a jerk if he uninvites the guy.
So he sits, making sure to take the seat to the right of the stranger. He starts dealing out the tiles while Mickey goes into their routine, talking the prison-baby into a bet Mickey has no intention of losing. Ian doesn’t even pay attention to the agreed-upon stakes, too distracted by the heavy weight in the pit of his stomach telling him this is wrong.
Like always, they let the newbie go first. Then Mickey.
When it’s Ian’s turn, he hesitates. Draws from the pile instead of playing a perfectly valid piece.
Mickey’s gonna kill him.
Ian continues to tank his game. Even sets up moves he knows will help out the kid — Tyler, they learn — who is terrible at keeping his hand hidden.
Mickey’s no idiot. A few rounds in and he’s kicking Ian under the table and shooting him dirty looks. The fuck are you doing? Ian avoids making eye contact because it’s the only way he can bear disappointing him like this.
They lose — no shit — and Mickey stomps off to their cell without a word. Tyler looks terrified, probably convinced the angry man’s gone to find some sort of weapon, but Ian knows damn well Mickey’s more pissed with him than the innocent bystander.
He shakes Tyler’s hand, congratulates him on the good game — even if it was all a fake — and promises to catch up with him later. There really is something in his gut telling him he needs to take this kid in, but right now he’s got another troubled soul to deal with.
Ian pauses outside their cell door for a deep breath.
Inside, he can hear Mickey banging around, restless, rattling things around between heavy, frustrated sighs.
“The fuck was that?” he snaps as soon as Ian tiptoes into the room, still pacing the four steps from wall to wall like a caged animal.
“Mick. I’m sorry, I—”
But Mickey cuts him off with his continued ranting. “You know how that makes us look? Huh? Do you?”
Ian knows better than to actually answer.
“Letting some fresh meat waltz in and take our fucking money. Ours, Ian!” Mickey continues. “You even know what we do with all our winnings? Do you even realize— Fuck!” He scrubs the heels of his hands over his brows as he snarls.
“If it’s about the money or whatever, I’ll find a way—” Ian tries to lay a grounding hand on Mickey’s shoulder, but Mickey skirts his reach, bats him away, and cuts him off again.
“First gay guy that walks in here and suddenly Ian goes all soft.”
And okay, Ian had assumed, yeah, probably. The sort of sense that sparks his baby-gay savior complex. But Mickey is notoriously terrible at these things.
“What?” Mickey continues his diatribe. “Gotta make sure you’ve got a nice tight piece of ass lined up ‘case I get paroled first?” The bite trails off his words toward the end, replaced by barely held back shakiness. He quit his pacing, stopping at the desk, his back toward Ian, hands gripping the edge of the steel so tight his fingernails turn white.
And whoa, fuck, is that what this is really about? Mickey’s fucking jealous of this guy? The random stranger?
Half of Ian wants to scream at him. You really think all I care about is getting my dick wet wherever I can? The other half wants to squeeze him and kiss him senseless because it’s honestly adorable to watch him get all riled up over the thought.
And maybe even another part of him is ready to jump his bones, because, well, he’s a freak, and something about seeing his boyfriend all hot and bothered with jealousy gets him a little hot and bothered. But he pushes that bit aside. For now.
“Hey, Mick. Hey,” Ian soothes.
He steps up behind him. He rests his chin on Mickey’s shoulder, slides his hands down his arms, and loosens those tense fingers from the edge of the table, linking them with his own. This time Mickey doesn’t shrug away from his touch.
“You know that’s not what that was about, right? You know that? You’ve gotta know that by now.”
Ian can feel Mickey’s shoulders shrug weakly against his own chest.
He knows it’s his own fault. Knows he fucked it up real good in the past. Knows he’s bailed on Mickey more than once. The Army. After his diagnosis. The border.
And yet, by some miracle, Mickey came back. Here. Prison. Laid it all on the line for a second — fuck, hundredth — chance. Even though he still isn’t confident Ian won’t fuck it all to shit again.
Ian vows right then and there to do everything in his power to make sure Mickey knows, honestly, truly knows, that Ian isn’t going anywhere this time. That this is it for him. Mickey is it for him.
To let Mickey relax for once. To finally feel comfortable in his own life.
“Mickey Milkovich,” Ian says, so soft the words barely leave his lips at all. He spins Mickey around in his arms, the man moving like putty in his hands. “I love you. I have always loved you. I don’t want any other piece of ass. Or any other piece of anything.”
Mickey’s got his head tilted down, staring at the ground between them, and through his downturned eyelashes, Ian can see him worrying that lip between his teeth. Ian hooks a gentle finger under his chin and brings his gaze up to meet his own.
“I don’t want to screw that kid,” Ian continues. “I want to help him. To help all of them. If I can keep even one of them from going through the kind of shit we did, you did…” He lets the words trail off because their pasts aren’t something either of them care to revisit.
“What, disappear for a few years and suddenly you turn into Mother Teresa?” Mickey’s breath escapes through his nose in one long exhale, the faintest of smiles creeping into the corners of his mouth. Just enough to threaten to let the tears pooled in his lash line escape. But they don’t.
Okay. Okay. Ian lets out his own breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. This is going to be okay. They’re going to be okay.
“Somethin’ like that.” Ian smiles back, pressing their foreheads together, and he can feel Mickey’s muscles relax in his arms.
Their lips migrate together, slow and soft, the remaining tension washing away with their breath.
“I love you, Mickey,” Ian says when they eventually part. “And I’ll keep saying it until you can trust it.”
“Love you, too, Gallagher.” Mickey ruffles a hand through Ian’s hair that feels something like progress.
And thank god the next inmate to step up to their table is a dude with a portrait of his own face tattooed on his neck who absolutely deserves to get knocked down a peg.
————
They keep at it for months. The same thing day after day after day. Wash, rinse, repeat. Monotony to the extreme.
But it’s not all bad, really. After lives like they’ve had, they could use a little boring. A little time just to be together, safe from the drama of the real world. A little time to finally build that solid foundation they’ve always needed. To quit throwing ramshackle houses on top of a bed of straw and finally invest in creating something that will stand the test of time.
And honestly, what started as a silly little game trying to make some friends has definitely turned into one of Ian’s most anticipated parts of their week. Waiting for someone new to walk through those doors, knowing they’re about to have some fun together.
For Ian, it’s all been about the thrill. The rush. The togetherness of the con. He hardly even cares what they’re physically getting out of the hustle, half the time tuning Mickey’s negotiations out to run through their routine in his head. He lets Mickey be the keeper of the prizes. Jack off while he counts his money or whatever the fuck he does with it all.
It’s any other Tuesday. Fuck, he’s pretty sure it’s Tuesday. Again, time just blends together in here.
“Lights out!” He hears billowed over the loudspeaker. Lockwood’s garbled voice. Yep, definitely Tuesday. They know to keep track of the lenient guards’ shifts by now.
Their cell door closes and the lock clicks in place.
You’d think that should be the worst part of the day. When he should feel the most trapped. But truthfully, he’s come to love that mechanical sound of metal sliding into metal. The sound of privacy. The sound of the start of Ian and Mickey time. Time to let down their guards. Just them. The dark. The quiet. Alone. Free.
Ian gives it all of two seconds before he swings a leg over his top bunk, ready to climb down into Mickey’s. Theirs really.
“Hold up.” Mickey reaches up and shoves Ian’s leg back into his bed. “Stay there.”
“Okay…?”
He hears Mickey shuffling around beneath him. Hears him slide his storage trunk from under the bed. Rummage around. Throw a black drawstring backpack full of something onto Ian’s bed before hopping up.
“What’s all this?” Ian questions.
“Spoils of war.” Mickey pulls open the strings and dumps the contents on the mattress between them.
Ian surveys the pile. Mason jar of some prison wine. Tons of snacks, the name-brand shit you can’t get from the commissary. Little bag full of edibles which have never been Mickey’s favorite, but even he knows the smoke will get you caught every time. Some real lube. Thank fuck for a break from the mayo. Even a coveted lighter and a fucking candle, one of those tall ones with a painting of Jesus on it, but ambiance all the same.
“Been collecting all our winnings. Trading for the good shit. Saving it all up for a special occasion,” Mickey tells him.
“What’s the occasion?” He knows his grasp on the calendar is loose at best these days, but he’s certain it isn’t either of their birthdays.
“Well, know we’ve never really had a proper date for our anniversary—”
“Yeah, kinda never were the best at doing things the traditional way, were we?” Ian interrupts, twisting the lid off the jar and taking a hesitant sip. It’s awful. His eyes water and his nostrils burn. But he can feel it warming its way down his throat and knows it’ll do its job well.
“Will you shut up and let me finish?” Mickey gripes, snatching the wine from Ian. It’s impressive how he manages to school his expression when he takes a gulp.
“Sorry.” Ian pops the top off a tube of BBQ Pringles. “Continue.”
“Like I was fuckin’ sayin’...” He lights the candle while he talks, setting it on the ledge of the tiny window. “Ain’t ever had an anniversary to celebrate. But every year, even the shitty ones in prison or Mexico or whatever, always thought about that day at the Alibi. Telling everyone ‘bout…me. And can’t ever think about that day without thinkin’ about you. Us. Know it wasn’t really when we started shit or whatever, but…still kinda felt like a start, ya know? Start of somethin’ at least.”
Mickey shrugs. The shy little thing he always does whenever he says something absolutely soft and heartwarming. Like he can’t possibly take credit for being a giant ass sap sometimes.
“Mickey,” is all Ian can manage to squeak out in response. Hardly a whisper but audible in the quiet cell.
Ian thinks about that day a lot, too. Will never forget how brave Mickey was that night. How exhilarated he felt after. Can only imagine what it must have felt like for Mickey. But he never remembered the exact date.
He takes Mickey’s face in his hands and kisses his lips, soft and tender and with all the love he deserves. He tastes like fermented fruit juice but Ian would still savor his tongue forever.
They devour their late-night snacks. Get a little buzzed. A little high. Put the world’s most amazing lube to use. Snuggle up in Ian’s bunk in the glow of the candle, stargazing at the smallest strip of sky through the tiny window.
“It’s wild, isn’t it?” Ian says, breaking a long silence. “That we made it here.”“Don’t know, man. Kinda always assumed I’d end up behind bars. You were a bit of a surprise though, pyro.”
“Not here here, dumbass.” Ian lands a soft punch on Mickey’s still flushed chest. “Like this. Finally back together. For the long haul, I hope.”
“Threw my ass in prison for you. Better fuckin’ be for the long haul.” This time it’s Mickey to slap the back of his hand against Ian’s prison-hardened abs.
“The longest.” Ian buries his smile in Mickey’s hair, planting a kiss atop his head.
Forever, he wants to say. Gonna marry you the second you’ll let me. I’ve already named our two children. We’ll paint the walls of the nursery yellow.
But instead he says, “Thank you. For coming back. For giving me another chance.”
“You’re welcome,” Mickey teases and they laugh and Ian feels as light as cotton candy and it has nothing to do with his fading high. “Can’t wait to get outta here. Do it right. Real fuckin’ blanket. Booze that doesn’t taste like piss. View that ain’t blocked by steel fuckin’ bars.”
“Soon enough.” Ian lets his fingers trail along Mickey’s arm. “We’ll get there. Always do.”
Just like dominos falling in a chain reaction, doesn’t matter the path, they all fall in the end. Their chain might have had a few more twists and turns than most, but they all lead to the same place.
The candle finally flickers out, that last of months’ worth of winnings used up. But some silly little games aren't all Ian’s won here. He’s won it all. The only thing he’s ever really wanted. Needed. And finally he thinks he might just be worthy enough to hold onto it this time.
Mickey may have filled up a trunk full of their winnings, but Ian’s the keeper of the real prize in all this. And that prize is Mickey.