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He doesn’t know why it matters so much. It’s not like Ian is going to turn his head, push him off and start yelling at him for being a faggot. Although that might be better, to be honest, than what Ian would probably do: kiss him back, thread his fingers through Mickey’s like they belong there, push him back against a wall and slide his tongue in his mouth and whisper stupid fucking things like Please, and Mickey, God, Mickey—
Ian looks up at him from halfway under the covers, like he’s planning on how to drag Mickey down under them again. The house is empty, and will be probably, for a few more hours. He’s not worried about being caught right now—at least no more than usual (because part of him is always listening for the sound of Mandy’s footsteps on the floorboards, or his father’s grunting as he pushes the front door open with a case of beer in his hands).
They kiss when they’re having sex: Mickey couldn’t have avoided it if he’d even thought to try. He gets swept up in the moment, the sensation of Ian, slick skin sliding against him everywhere, closer than anybody else has ever been; has ever wanted to be. Ian’s everywhere at once when he’s fucking Mickey, because the guy likes to hold onto something—Mickey’s waist, Mickey’s chest, Mickey’s fucking hands, hair, ass. It’s like he can’t get enough, like he wants everything.
Mickey will close his eyes, bite his lip and try to keep quiet as he can—Mickey Milkovich doesn’t fucking moan, doesn’t beg his fuck buddies to go faster, harder, Jesus Christ, Ian. It’s undignified, like he’s asking for something, instead of just taking whatever the hell he wants.
Ian will bend over him anyway, cock pushing against Mickey’s ass, and he’ll slide a hand over Mickey’s mouth and breathe into his ear; whisper to be fucking quiet or laugh about getting caught (which isn’t a laughing matter, Jesus fuck). Mickey can’t even threaten bodily harm when Ian smiles into his neck, because if he opens his mouth, he’s honestly not sure he’ll be able to close it again.
Maybe that’s it, then.
He reaches up with one arm, grabbing at the stolen pack of cigarettes on his headboard, and the half-gone pack of matches next to them. Ian watches him as he lights one and slides it between his lips, breathing the bitter taste in. He’s probably addicted, by now, couldn’t quit if he tried.
Ian turns slightly, orange hair falling in his eyes. The comforter turns with him so that it bares his naked thigh to Mickey’s bedroom walls. He wants to reach down and cover Ian up, but his hand stops halfway there, sliding against the smooth skin instead, his thumb swiping back and forth.
Ian never says a word during moments like this. At first Mickey thought he was uncomfortable, and he’d swept his hand back as soon as he’d realized he was doing it. But he’s long since learned to recognize that little smile Ian has when he’s trying not to mess something up: hope, his face says, and Mickey’s figured out already that he, shit, loves that expression on Ian’s face.
It’s the dangerous one, the one that makes him want to punch Kash’s face in, and explain to his little sister that he likes guys, has since before he can remember. It’s the face that makes him want to lean down and kiss Ian for no other reason than he fucking wants to.
He pulls his hand back and coughs while offering out the pack of cigs. Ian grabs one and lets Mickey light it for him before they drop the pack down on the floor next to the bed.
“You hungry?” he asks after a few more moments, but he doesn’t particularly want to get up. His hip is pressing against Ian’s, warm and just enough that he can blame it on the size of the twin bed, not that he likes it.
Ian shrugs, and his hair brushes past his arm. Mickey reaches up to scratch the itch where it tickled, and then jumps and curses, “Fuck!” when Ian slides his arm around and intentionally slides his fingertips across Mickey’s left side.
He’s laughing his ass off already, breaking the silence that had gone over the bedroom since they’d both finished and fell down panting. Mickey snorts before he knocks Ian’s hand off, and then pushes back, even though Ian’s realized his mistake and is trying to run away already, grappling with the comforter where it’s holding him in place.
“Fuck, Mickey, stop, stop, oh my God,” he gasps out between peels of obnoxiously loud laughter, Mickey’s fingers digging hard into his sides and slithering up his back, rubbing against his spine.
He gives a particularly solid kick that catches Mickey in the stomach and they both fall off the bed—Ian still laughing and Mickey with a painful groan even as he rolls over to lie on the dirty carpet, an old pair of sweatpants stuffed awkwardly under his back. Ian rolls over and climbs on top of him, sitting on his waist in a way that’d get him hard if he hadn’t barley finished fifteen minutes earlier.
“I like it when we can be loud,” Ian says, and it hits Mickey that he does too. He has a flash to some small apartment: big screen TV with the game going, and them arguing about whose team’ll win, beer that disappears every time somebody comes to visit in the fridge, a leather couch Mickey can corner Ian on and kiss him stupid while dumbass cartoons play in the background, and a bed that doesn’t creak too much when Ian pushes him down on it and slides into him fast and hard.
It’s fucking stupid, never going to happen, and he doesn’t want it to. Ian’s that fucking kid in ROTC, with plans and skills that are getting him out of shitty Chicago. Mickey’s just a stop on the way—somebody he can fuck that isn’t his Grandfather’s age without anybody finding out. Mickey’s just a goddamn stop on a train track, so there’s no reason to even think about the future.
Mickey’s future is taking care of Mandy by meeting the right people at the right time, and finding the shitholes that try to skip their payment plans. His future is bloody fists and broken knuckles, bars and interrogation rooms, cheap beer and cheaper rolls of paper you burn to forget what the fuck you’re doing with your crap life.
Mickey’s future doesn’t have Ian, but that’s fucking perfect anyway, because he doesn’t want him. He doesn’t want a fucking redhead waiting up for him every night, doesn’t want worried hands cleaning up the blood, doesn’t want visits with disappearing smiles through fingerprint-covered glass, doesn’t fucking need it.
“Mickey?” Ian says, arching over him, looking at him with a crinkled grin and raised eyebrows.
Mickey doesn’t need him; doesn’t want him. If he thinks about it long enough, hard enough, he could probably make that be true. But he’s struggling to fucking breathe right now, can’t rip his eyes off the mouth hovering over his face, the freckles sprinkled over red-flushed cheeks and those bright baby blues staring back at him, like he’s the one who wants, like Ian’s the one who wants Mickey.
And that’s fucking ridiculous, isn’t it? But it makes his stomach curl, and he almost wants to throw up, and if he doesn’t fucking kiss Ian Gallagher right now, he feels like he’ll plunge into a pit of water and never come back up.
His hand circles around Ian’s head, his fingers pushing up and through greasy hair—“We’re out of shampoo,” Ian had said, earlier, running his hands through it like Mickey actually gave a fuck—until he tugs Ian’s head down, harsh and smashes their mouths together. Ian doesn’t hesitate, and presses down just as hard, licks at Mickey’s bottom lip and opens his mouth up until Mickey bites down on his lip and Ian makes a noise and pulls back, lifting a hand to his lip while saying, “Ouch, Mickey.”
“Sorry,” Mickey adds, before he can think about it, and they both freeze at the sound of the front door slamming open. They both scatter in different directions and Ian is tugging his jeans on while Mickey is pulling a dirty tank top over his head.
“I’ll see you later,” Ian says, and it comes out almost as a question. Mickey nods, not quite looking at him.
He raises his head when Ian grabs at his arm, and the words fuck off are on the tip of his tongue when Ian moves in, but doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move: lets Ian kiss him goodbye, and feels him smile into it before he pulls back with that same stupid hopeful look on his face, like he’s done something good, like he’s getting everything he could possibly want.
“Whatever,” Mickey adds and flips him off to boot. It’s after Ian slips out while Mickey distracts his mom by grabbing a beer she’d just bought and labeled off-limits that he thinks about the fact that he’s royally fucking screwed.