Archive of Our Own

It’s a heat that sets the marrow simmering in his bones, thick and syrupy as molasses. Sweat trickles in a perpetual stream down his back, plastering the damp fabric of his shirts to his body until the idea of taking the L down to swim in the river—dirty, murky, probably filled with bloated corpses and drugs—is more appealing than ever. Days of freedom stretch out ahead of him like a wide, open road; there’s work, yes, but there’s also sneaking away from the house to throw beer bottles at abandoned televisions with Lip, watching glass spray everywhere in a violent, addicting crash.

And there’s Mickey. Ian can’t remember the last day that drifted past without a fleeting thought of him, the last time he caught sight of him around the neighborhood and his heart thudded in fear rather than excitementdesirewant.

There’s something building, bubbles rolling across frothing water, heat and sound and thick steam curling like an impenetrable wall of humidity over the city. Each time Mickey comes into the store, gives him that predatory look, the rope of tension between them tightens—a tension they can’t fuck out.

At times, it feels like the tantalizing possibility of more. He senses Mickey watching him with that intense stare, when Ian’s counting coins in the store with limp, unwashed hair or after they’ve both gotten off and pulled their pants up with nothing more to take from each other. When he glances up to meet that gaze, Mickey jolts away like he’d pressed his hand on a hot stove. Sometimes the tension’s so thick he can barely breathe, but he doesn’t know whether slicing through it will open the floodgates or spark an explosion that’ll push Mickey away from him for good. 

For someone so stubborn, he’s about as flighty as a deer. The slightest threat of a kiss, even Ian looking at his lips for a second too long, always has Mickey bolting.

Still, Ian thinks about it a lot. He’s imagined licking into Mickey's mouth, hot and messy and desperate while they fuck sloppy against the wall, and a chaste peck on a lazy morning. It’s a burning brand behind his eyelids when he’s jerking off beneath his covers at night, eyes squeezed shut and fist working furiously as he tries to visualize Mickey kissing him, letting himself be kissed. 

He wants it so fucking bad he considers taking the plunge, even if it means Mickey will cut his tongue out and stamp the surgery with a split lip.

Mickey's fucked girls, he knows. They've tolerated him, opened themselves to him out of boredom, but Ian's certain that no one has ever wanted Mickey Milkovich as badly as he does. Lay awake thinking of him, ached to kiss him all over, covered his hand protectively (affectionately) with their own while they were entwined tightly together. He wants Mickey so much he thinks it might kill him.

The door to the shop swings open and Mickey saunters in, chest puffed with a sort of boisterous pride. His knuckles are bloodied, a purpling bruise on the underside of his jaw, and his grimy hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat. 

"Gallagher," he says, a little amused, a little mocking, and god, Ian's hard. He's so fucking hot. Ian wants to tear off his clothes and fuck him into the floor right here in front of a trio of preteen girls and the man holding a sniffling baby. 

"You're late," he says, very grateful for the counter hiding his crossed legs. If Mickey found out he got a hard-on from the sight of him sweaty and bruised, he'd never hear the end of it.

"What, you the fucking manager 'round here now? I had an errand to do."

"An errand," he repeats. "Is that code for beating someone up?"

"None of your fuckin' business." He takes a quick glance around the room, scanning the onlookers, then looks back at Ian, the hint of a devilish glint in his eyes. "Got any Gatorade?"

He tries to hide the excitement in his voice. "In the back."

Mickey follows after him, past the disinterested girls and the fridge in plain sight stocked full of Gatorade.

As soon as the storage room's door slammed shut, they’re on each other, fumbling with zippers and buttons, huffed breaths clouding in the air between them. Ian's hands are slick with sweat, slipping on Mickey's smooth skin as he grabs his hips and squeezes them tight, palming greedily at the flesh exposed to his touch. He wants to bite marks into that pale skin, suck and lick every goddamn inch of Mickey's body, but Mickey’s already getting impatient.

"Hurry up and get on me, we don't have all day," he says, squirming out of his grip and turning around, bending over with his fists curled around the support beams of a metal rack. 

Ian moves up behind him, curling over the broad expanse of Mickey's back. He spits into his hand then reaches between them, clumsily smearing it over his opening. He’s half a finger in when Mickey lets out a grunt and bats it away. 

"Cut that out," he demands, twisting his head back to glare at him. "You gonna get inside me or what?" 

Once, just once, he wants to make Mickey beg, get him to admit he wants this, too, but there are too many people in the store for them to take their time so he just grits his teeth and pushes inside. 

All the breath in his lungs is knocked out in a swift punch, a choked moan trapped in the space between his ribs and his pounding heart. It’s like sinking into hot butter, spit and his own sticky arousal slicking up his halting thrusts as he pulls out and shoves back in, panting humid, staccato breaths onto the nape of Mickey’s neck.

“Faster.” Mickey’s hands tighten on the steel frame, his head bowing down as he rocks his hips insistently against Ian’s groin. “You need a fuckin’ energy bar? Do it harder.”

“Harder or faster?” 

“Both! I don’t care, just stop being such a pansy!”

Ian lets out a huff, blowing a stray strand of hair off his forehead. “This is pretty damn gay no matter how hard I do it.”

Mickey stiffens like the comment touched the swollen spot of a nerve, and Ian realizes a split-second before it happens that he’s going to pull away, blue balls be damned. Hurriedly, Ian grips Mickey’s hips tighter and fucks into him so hard that it rattles the entire frame of the rack, feeling a surge of satisfaction at the loud, involuntary moan the sudden force tears from Mickey's chest. For a breath, he stays there, both of them shuddering and panting, then he draws his hips back and slams forward.

It’s mindless bliss. There’s so much he overthinks—school, finances , his piece-of-shit father’s drunken binges—but when he’s inside Mickey, everything’s reduced to the heat of his body and the quiet, rough moans he bites his lip to muffle (Ian knows, he’s seen the teeth marks on his lip and yearned to kiss them away). It’s a quick, steady rhythm, hard strokes into Mickey’s body at the same time as he yanks Mickey’s hips against his to push himself deeper inside until there’s no space left between them.

It’s quiet, except for their hushed grunts and the creaking of the storage rack. Ian never thought he’d use peaceful to describe fucking a shitbag like Mickey Milkovich in the backroom of a convenience store but it’s instinctual enough that he can just close his eyes and give himself over to the rhythm—in, out, a baseline accompanied by two ragged patterns of breathing, pleasure flooding his veins in a warm, strengthening rise. 

Mickey’s voice breaks the silence, a strangled thing. “C-close.”

He leans in to place a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses along Mickey’s neck, just beneath his ear. He smells so fucking good. Ian wants to get drunk on that smell, burrow closer to Mickey and breathe it in. “Yeah? Want me to make you come?” 

“Don’t give me those shitty porn lines. Just keep fucking me like that.”

Like that. Mickey likes it. He’s enjoying being fucked and that simple fact has Ian imagining juvie, a broken bone, an ambulance, anything to stave off a far-too-premature orgasm. A beating, prison, Mickey liking the feeling of Ian inside him, coming here just so they can fuck when he could fuck anyone else—damn it. He shakes his head like it could somehow get rid of his jumbled thoughts and focuses on the present, giving Mickey a particularly hard thrust to make up for his stalling.

Mickey’s grip on the shelf tightens, head tilting back onto Ian’s shoulder. “Shit, Gallagher. That’s more like it.”

Ian jumps on the opportunity to lavish kisses over the exposed skin of his neck, kissing up his jawline. The first time he kissed Mickey’s neck, he was elbowed so hard in the ribs that a green-purple bruise was there for days, but each time they fuck, Mickey’s more and more tolerant of it, even if bad days sometimes find him lashing out again.

Today, he’s practically asking for it, stifling moans and reaching an arm back to grab a fistful of Ian’s hair. Ian shifts his left hand to Mickey’s abdomen, wrapping it tight around him to keep his body in place as he fucks into him, harder and harder, burying his noises in the damp crook of Mickey’s neck. It’s so fucking good. He smells so good.

“Mickey,” he can’t help but pant. “You feel amazing.”

“Save the fuckin' poetry.”

He almost laughs, pressing his forehead against Mickey’s nape. It smells like him here too, and he’s fucking addicted. He mouths down Mickey’s spine, dragging his tongue over sweat-slicked skin to pick up as much of him as possible, and it’s better than alcohol, than any other sensation. He wants to be locked in a room with Mickey so they can fuck, eat food, then fuck some more until they’re too exhausted to do anything but fall asleep curled into each other. He wonders how far he’d have to reach to grab that dream.

He’s getting close, closer, and if he doesn’t get Mickey off, Mickey’ll have his fucking head. He picks up the pace, desperately visualizing a thousand things that should turn him off, but it’s stupid to even think that a thought could compare to the reality of Mickey wriggling his hips back onto him, groaning and tugging on Ian’s hair each time a sloppy thrust nails him in his sweet spot.

“You’re so hot,” slips out of Ian’s mouth, panted into the curve of Mickey’s shoulder. "Feel so good."

“Fuck you, Gallagher.”

And Ian’s gone. He’s too far past the point of return to do anything but grind his hips hard against Mickey’s ass, trying to bury himself even deeper as he unloads into Mickey, bliss coursing through his shaking nerves. At worst an orgasm is still better than most other feelings, but it’s never felt as good as it does with Mickey. Or, technically, inside him—another fact for which Mickey will definitely kill him.

Mickey turns back enough to fix an incredulous glower on him. “What the fuck, Ian?” 

He quickly pulls out and twists Mickey around to face him before dropping to his knees. He doesn’t give him a chance to start yelling before he wraps his arms around Mickey’s thighs and yanks his hips forward, taking him into his mouth.

He tastes how he smells; a bit muskier, maybe, more raw, hot and heavy on his tongue, against the ridge of his throat as he forces his breath through his nose and shoves it down against Mickey’s pubic bone. He’d try fingering him along with this but he’s not that good at multitasking, so he focuses all his attention into lavishing him with spit and tongue.

It's embarrassingly loud, all slurps and strangled chokes as he tries to take it all the way, but he doesn’t care and Mickey clearly doesn’t either, digging both hands into Ian’s hair and pressing his head down harder into his crotch, hips bucking roughly enough that the back of Ian’s throat is starting to feel sore. 

The only warning he gets is a muffled series of words, but he makes the connection just in time to pull back enough that he doesn’t choke on the load when Mickey hunches over him and comes into his mouth. It’s bitter, but he swallows it down like a prize. His throat’s already aching and he figures it’s only fair considering that Mickey must be feeling the effect of the spit fuck now.

Ian pulls back, breathing hard, and looks up.

Mickey’s face is scarlet, framed by grimy, sweaty hair and the darkening bruise under his jaw. He looks freshly fucked and it sends a thrill down Ian’s spine.

For a long, hard moment, they look at each other.

“If you left any marks, I’ll kill you,” Mickey says evenly. It’s less specific than his usual insults. Ian still hasn’t figured out whether that means he’s serious or not. 

He nods. “There won’t be any.”

Another pause, then Mickey reaches down and slowly swipes a thumb over the corner of Ian’s mouth. His heart’s thudding in his chest, rattling his ribs. Even if it seems like he’s approaching a kiss, almost, just almost, Mickey would sooner die than kiss him.

Mickey draws back and licks his thumb. Licks it. He’s actually going to kill Ian one of these days. “Can’t go out there with that shit on your face.”

“Oh.” He gives a lightheaded laugh. Dizzy. “Thanks.”

“Mm.”

He kicks the side of Ian’s thigh as he walks out of the storage room, pants crumpled and pulled back up to his hips. It’s then that Ian realizes they didn’t use a condom. Some part of him hopes Mickey can still feel him, the way Mickey is constantly lodged in Ian’s heart, nestled safely like a dagger within his ribs.

Ian wants to say he has no delusions. That Mickey's a fun distraction from the tedious chore of working in the store day after day; someone around his own age without a wife and kids, nothing to worsen the festering pit of guilt in Ian's stomach that's torn scars into him like an ulcer. 

Mickey's got a nice face and he's short enough that he fits perfectly into Ian's arms when he's wrapped around him from behind. It's rare that he laughs but it's a beautiful sound, and his body feels good . Even if V called him the dirtiest white boy in America, when Ian's fucking him, it feels cleaner than touching Kash had ever been. He'd lick all the sweat and grime off Mickey without batting an eye because when it comes to him, nothing ever feels like enough—not nosing into his dirty hair nor swallowing him down in an abandoned alley beside the dumpsters.

He wants to say it's sexual compatibility or hormones or even the growing realization that in comparison to this, what he had with Kash was seriously fucked up. The alternative is too terrifying to admit to himself, let alone Mickey, who still acts like Ian planted a snake on him when he so much as tries to brush his fingertips along the inside of Mickey's elbow. He accepts more touches during sex than he used to, but the slightest hint of casual intimacy makes him flinch like his dad will appear out of nowhere with a gun and a homophobic vendetta.

He wishes he could say he doesn't give a shit about Mickey because that might make it feel more true, even though it really isn't at all. He likes Mickey, likes playing video games with him and idly chatting when they're in the Kash-and-Grab. Seeing Mickey always sets a slow fire burning in his gut, a flame licking at his fingertips and trembling through his nerves like tugging on electrical lines, holding on through fizzling, tearing electrocution.

This kind of attraction is entirely new to him. He'd felt a lukewarm sort of interest for Kash, arousal, a flicker of desire when he looked at shirtless men in stolen magazines. But this—this is different. Mickey makes his knees weak, wavering beneath him, sparks a heat in him that flows everywhere. Dizziness, sweaty palms, a fucking horde of hornets in his gut. With others, it was always the prospect of sex that drew him, so he'd never realized it was possible to obsess over the freckle on someone's hip, to be unable to tear his eyes away from the smear of dirt highlighting Mickey's cheekbone. A single glance from Mickey is enough to level him. Sometimes, it's more ruin than sex.

Today, they're walking under the train tracks, and Mickey's wearing a filthy jacket two sizes too big for him, his hair so full of grime that it stays in place when he pushes it back with his fingers. Ian wonders whether his house even has running water since Terry Milkovich obviously doesn't give the slightest whiff of a shit about his kids. He's considered inviting Mickey over for dinner, dropping a subtle hint that he can use his shower, but he'd probably get stabbed for that. Besides, Fiona wouldn't be pleased if he brings home an extra mouth to feed, and it's not like Mickey's a project to be fixed up. 

Mickey gestures at a spot ahead of them with the wrinkled paper bag he's been holding, where a broken chest of drawers is lying in the midst of a few rocks. "Let's sit. I wanna eat this shit already, I'm fuckin' hungry."

"You didn't have lunch?" he asks, sitting down on one of the boulders while Mickey sits on the drawers, legs spread comfortably.

"Nah, Colin was banging some chick in the kitchen. I wasn't in the mood to see a pair of ugly tits."

He laughs and holds out a hand for the paper bag, emblazoned with the logo for a chain coffee shop. Mickey had pointed at a few random donuts, then grabbed the goods from the cashier and sprinted away through the crowd before her indignant shout even reached their ears. It wasn't the most subtle method, but Ian hadn't had any other ideas and he sure as hell wasn't forking out two bucks a pop for some snacks. 

Mickey takes a chocolate glazed donut out of the bag before shoving it at Ian, who chooses the one at the top, a sugary ring covered with rainbow sprinkles.

"Figured you'd go with rainbow sprinkles, you fag," Mickey says around a mouthful of donut.

He rolls his eyes. "It's just a donut."

"Yeah, a gay donut."

"You're the donut. All—” He waves a hand. “Glazed.”

Mickey's eyebrows raise, incredulous. "Is that a fucking creampie joke?"

Forget playing with fire—he's plastering his palm to a sizzling saucepan. "So what if it is?" 

He scoffs, turning his face away just enough that Ian can make out the trace of a grin playing at his lips. "Means you're not getting this ass today, motherfucker."

"You don't mean that."

"Oh, I really fuckin' do. Get someone else to take your piece-of-shit dick."

"I think you like it," he teases, taking a large bite of his donut. Sugar bursts on his tongue, greasy and fulfilling. He takes another bite, chewing it, and continues with his mouth half-full. "I think you're thinking about it now."

"Thinkin' 'bout how I'm gonna snap it, maybe."

Ian laughs and dips his head, biting into his donut once more before licking the glaze off his fingers. He glances back to find Mickey's gaze glued to where tongue meets skin, and with a deep, raw spark in his gut, Ian makes a show of sucking the sugar off his fingers with a wet pop.

"That's fucking gross," Mickey says, like he wasn't doing the same thing a minute ago.

He doesn't break eye contact. "Yeah? Is that what you think?"

It's that moment of hot, loaded pause that Ian loves; where he's tossing a hook out and waiting for it to catch, sparking an ember and blowing it into flame. The delirious anticipation with their eyes are locked together until Mickey folds, scrambling to push his pants down while Ian lunges like a dying man to an oasis, tugging off his jacket and tossing it away to fuck knows where.

A corner of the pillars beneath the L isn't exactly a private place but no one's around and the drawers shield them from view, so Ian gets down to it, presses his forehead into Mickey's groin and inhales.

"The fuck are you doing?" Mickey says in disbelief, nudging the side of his head with a hard knee.

"Just give me a second." He turns his face, darting the tip of his tongue against hot, needy flesh to placate Mickey while he breathes the potent scent that's got him hard as a fucking rock in his jeans without Mickey laying a single finger on him.

When he finally takes Mickey into his mouth, Mickey sighs, setting a hand on the back of his head. "Yeah, fuck, take it."

He does, takes it all, everything because it's Mickey, Mickey making those reedy noises and flexing his hips up against his face, digging his nails into his scalp as Ian works him closer and closer to the edge. He can make Mickey lose control of himself like this, or—

He pulls off, and Mickey gives him a confused look through hazy, half-lidded eyes. The effect that touching him has on his expression is addicting to watch; a few minutes of Ian sucking his cock and red's splashed over his cheeks with a thin layer of sweat. Fucking hot.

Right now, Ian has an agenda. "When's the last time you showered?"

"The fuck does that have to do with anything?"

"I want to…" Gently, he trails his thumb behind Mickey's taint, noticing how it makes him shiver. "Use my mouth. Here."

"No fuckin' way," he says immediately, eyebrows knitted tightly, his entire body much more tense than it had been just a second ago. "That's way too gay."

"Me blowing you isn't gay?"

"No! That's just getting off." He pushes Ian away, reaching down to pull up his pants. "Good job, you killed it."

"Are you sure? I can get you off normally—"

"Forget it." He leans over and grabs Ian's shoulder, wrenching him upwards. "Come on. Sit up here." 

Careful not to knock over the precarious structure, Ian sits beside him. Mickey picks up the discarded bag of donuts and peers into it, selecting another chocolate glazed one, then gives it to Ian. Bills have been as tight this month as ever so they haven't had much food at home, let alone treats or snacks. After nothing but overcooked scrambled eggs for breakfast, it's a delicious kind of satisfaction to chew on bites of warm fried donuts with the taste of Mickey's arousal still staining the back of his throat.

"Thanks for getting these," Ian says, jerking his head at the bag.

He shrugs. "Was nothing. Those bastards have another thing coming if they think they can sell donuts for that stupid price down here."

"To be fair, it was a train station. I'm sure there's rich people passing through."

"Whatever. Still stupid." He licks a stray sprinkle off the corner of his mouth, and Ian can't stop staring at the glisten of spit over skin. "You're eatin' like a dog."

"My brother was fucking a girl in the kitchen, too," Ian says with a slight smile, and Mickey snorts, shaking his head. "Nah, you know how it is at my place. Lip and I chipped in all our extra cash for the gas bill and Carl ate the leftover pizza before we could get to it."

"Shit. Should have stolen some pizza then."

"This is good," he assures him, trying to ignore the flaring system of lights and sirens inside him declaring excitedly that Mickey is concerned he didn't eat today. "I wasn't that hungry, anyway."

Mickey's reply is cut off by the slow start of a rumble in the ground, a roaring rattle above them that grows louder and higher until the train comes screeching past, shaking the tracks and sending deep vibrations down the pillars into the earth around them, along with a deafening din.

It feels like the world is coming apart, tearing at the seams, tectonic plates crashing together and drifting away. Everything is loud and bright and brilliant, vibrations coursing through the shuddering pillars, drawers, the ground—and through it all, Mickey's arm pressed up against his, warm and solid. Life and blood and heat, soft flesh, skin. Perfect to hold.

Once everything has stopped shaking and the usual semi-silence of the area has settled around them, Mickey exhales, lips curved into something resembling amusement. "Shit's loud as fuck."

"You're just noticing now?"

"Fuck you."

He laughs and nudges Mickey's shoulder with his own. "We should take the L somewhere random. Just… get on and stay on until we reach a station that looks cool."

"That's dumb." He yawns, flexing his arms, then side-eyes him. "We could fuck in the bathroom."

The fact that Mickey's playing along floods him with joy, delight, a thousand emotions he never thought he'd associate with a Milkovich. "Or up against the window, if there's no one else there."

"Now that's romantic," he deadpans, and Ian laughs and squeezes his thigh, then Mickey's reaching for his zipper and he's wishing he could kiss him, wishing it on a passing train the way a kid would point at a star in the sky.

Blood explodes across the screen, accompanied by Kill Cam in large block letters. Ian swears, fingers loosening around his controller where they’d gone white. It’s the third time in a row Mandy beat him in a match and it’s starting to get embarrassing.

“Loser,” she teases, digging her heel a little harder against his crotch. He pinches her shin lightly in retaliation, making her let out a surprised shriek of laughter. “Don’t, that tickles.” 

“Wanna go again?” 

“So I can beat your ass for the fourth time? Yeah, sure.” She resets the match and settles back comfortably against the couch cushions, shifting her legs so they’re more solidly in Ian’s lap. “How’s it going with that guy?” 

“Huh?” 

“You know, a while ago you said you slept with someone other than Kash.” She grins, raising her eyebrows. “I’d say you made it up but you’ve been looking pretty damn happy.”

Ian can’t hold back his own smile. “It’s, uh, going.” 

"What's that supposed to mean?" She kicks him again, more insistent this time. "If you won't tell me his name, at least tell me what he's like." She smiles mischievously. "Is his dick big? Who sticks it in?"

He tries not to wince at the fact that she's unknowingly asking about her brother's sex life. Then again, knowing their family, her older brothers probably come home bragging about the girls they've fucked anyway. He wants to think Mickey doesn’t. "It's normal, I guess. Smaller than mine."

"And?" she prompts.

He sighs, defeated. "I stick it in."

"Nice," she says approvingly, stretching out the word until it's almost sing-song. "You've got it bad, Ian. You get all blushy when you talk about him." 

His face heats up, a flush that makes his skin tingle and his head go fuzzy with lightheadedness, nerves, a hint of fear. He's toeing along a tightrope with gushing about Mickey to his sister, but as delicious as it tastes to have the secret trapped underneath his tongue, a shimmering thing fluttering inside the ventricles of his heart, having someone acknowledge that he's falling hard is another kind of high. 

“You’re here again?” 

Ian snaps around to see Mickey standing in the doorway, cutting off the rectangle of sunlight. His hair’s even messier than usual, wild and spiky, a bundled-up jacket dripping clumps of mud tucked under his armpit. Despite the words, he doesn’t look surprised to find Ian in his house, eyebrows cocked in teasing disbelief.

“We were doing our homework,” Mandy supplies. “Algebra. Not that you’d know about that, stupid.”

“I know algebra.” 

“Oh yeah? What is it?”

Mickey shrugs, waving a hand. “Number shit.” He drops his jacket by the door and moves in, shoving at Ian’s shoulder until he shuffles aside to make space for him on the sofa. 

Like clockwork, his heart starts up a pounding rhythm, his blood simmering in a rush through his veins to his cheeks, to his skin where the press of Mickey’s arm has set him alight. Every point of contact between their bodies is a sparking explosion. He aches to sling his arm around Mickey’s shoulders, but it would be too close for the pretense of reluctant tolerance they’re feigning, so he balls his right hand into a fist by his side to cull the urge.

“Where were you?” he asks instead, mustering a casual tone.

"Collecting from a bastard who owed me,” Mickey says the way one would say grocery shopping. 

“I left some extra pizza bagels in the kitchen,” Mandy tells him, eyes glued to the screen where she's firing shots at Ian's avatar, who's trying fruitlessly to avoid the attack by ducking behind a tree. 

"Give me that." Mickey snatches the controller from Ian and rushes out from behind the tree, firing straight at Mandy. When he's focused, he pokes his tongue out between his teeth like she does, carefree with a gorgeous grin lighting up his face. It makes Ian's heart swoop.

They trade the controller between rounds, Ian spraying bullets at every moving thing he encounters while Mickey yells insults into his ear and laughs triumphantly every time he dies. Ian gives back as good as he gets, elbowing Mickey hard in the ribs when he tries to grab the controller back before his turn and offering various bits of conflicting advice to distract him when he's facing up against Mandy. It's fun, uncomplicated in a way nothing else is. His life's a mess but right now, it's just the three of them, playing video games and pausing to eat pizza bagels intermittently in a house that smells like beer and cigarettes.

His phone buzzes, so Ian passes the controller back to Mickey while he fumbles in his pocket. In extracting it, he accidentally brushes the heel of his hand against Mickey's crotch. He freezes, eyes darting to Mickey's face, which has gone stoic, like he's trying not to show a reaction. Ian quickly draws his hand back and opens his phone.

[Lip] We're having dinner you coming home? 

Ian frowns at his phone. For a few blissful hours, the world had been perfect. The text brought him crashing back to real life, where his siblings would be yelling at each other, Fiona would be complaining about bills in the kitchen, and he'd curl up alone in bed thinking of Mickey as always.

"I should go," Ian says, looking at Mandy. He steals a glance at Mickey, whose expression hasn't changed. "This was nice, though."

"It was," she agrees cheerily. "I'll see you tomorrow then?"

"Yeah, sure." 

As Ian's standing up, he slowly, deliberately sets his hand on Mickey's inner thigh and squeezes before using it to push himself to his feet. Mickey's lips are half-apart, eyes frozen somewhere between surprise and something Ian's started to recognize as arousal. He can feel a tingle in his fingertips where they'd brushed Mickey's body over his clothes; the third law of physics, a reaction he wanted to evoke in Mickey backfiring onto himself. Action, reaction. As if the familiar, intimate touch could provoke Mickey into pulling him down to kiss him goodbye.

"See you later," Mickey speaks up, callous, like it's an afterthought.

Ian smiles.

When he steps outside into the night air, it's with the buzz of exhilaration humming alive in his veins.

That night, Lip talks into the darkness; past midnight, the glow of moonlight beyond the window illuminating his face where it's lifted up from the pillow. "Are you still hooking up with Mickey?"

Ian props himself up on his elbows. The question feels like a trap, even if he’s already told Lip about the two of them. "Yeah, why?" 

"Just asking." The blankets rustle as he turns onto his side, staring down at Ian like an owl. There's a morbid kind of curiosity in his expression, the way a child would poke at a motionless pigeon on the pavement. “What's it like?" 

He cracks a smile. "Why? You about to go all protective big bro on me?" 

"Nah, man. I just want to know. I mean, it's Mickey. He's a goddamn Milkovich—his family makes ours look like fucking royalty."

"He's not like his dad," he points out. At Lip's incredulous face, he amends, "They're racist, violent homophobes. Mickey is… just violent."

He snorts. "Real winner."

"He doesn't beat up people for who they are," he points out. "Only if they've done something to piss him off. And that's just how it is in the South Side."

"Yeah, whatever." He jumps down from the top bunker and clambers onto Ian's bed, crossing his legs and leaning in close. "Is he a good lay?"

Ian stifles a laugh, looking down. Talking about Mickey intimately feels like an invasion of privacy, but hell, he’s already keeping their entire dalliance a secret, so he has the right to spill some details to his brother. “Fucking fantastic.”

“Mm. He looks like the type to choke you during.”

He grins. “Actually, he prefers it the other way.”

“No shit,” Lip says in awe. “Never thought Mickey fucking Milkovich would like getting slapped around.” 

Ian shrugs and leans over to his bedside drawer, fishing out a pack of cigarettes. He lights one up for himself before extracting a second for Lip. “Well. Not always. He sure as hell doesn’t like it soft, though.”

“Kinda makes sense. He’s so fucking wound-up all the time, figures he needs it fucked out of him.”

Ian laughs. “Yeah, I guess.” 

It feels oddly callous to talk about Mickey like he’s just a decent fuck and not someone twisted so thoroughly into Ian’s heart that he can’t take a single breath without thinking of him. Still, Mickey isn’t waltzing around behind his back writing sonnets, and he clearly isn’t interested in anything beyond a few shared cigarettes and bending over a bench behind the baseball field.

There’s nothing tender and intimate between them. Nothing precious, so there’s no reason for Ian to feel like it’s something delicate to hold close to his chest. 

Maybe it’s a small, vindictive pang that makes Ian take another drag of the cigarette and say, “He doesn’t give head.”

Lip’s eyebrows fly to his hairline. “Did you ask?” 

“Nah, man. He wouldn’t.”

He lowers his cigarette. “You could always hook up with someone else. It’s not like you’re dating, right?” 

“Right,” he says, not meaning it. 

His mind caves at the edges, folding into the blurry, half-remembered shape of the last time he saw Mickey. They’d smoked and drank beer until they were past the glorious threshold of tipsy into the state where his skin was electrified, his veins buzzing with delicious anticipation. He’d kicked aside discarded cans and pressed Mickey to the ground, kissing the nape of his neck as he fucked him slow and sweet, drunk on a tipsy, needy Mickey’s compliance. 

He thinks of the way Mickey looked at him just after, turning around with his chest still shoved into the ground, hair sweaty and mussed. His gaze had drifted down to Ian’s lips, just for a second, then he’d grinned and squeezed Ian’s bicep before pushing him off. 

A sudden surge of guilt courses through him. It’s sex, but it’s nothing like fucking a married man who never should have looked at him twice or getting a blowjob from a girl under a table. Even if the confessions are trapped behind bloody teeth and shoved down beneath miles of insults and fights, it’s raw and real. 

Ian almost wants to laugh. He’s in love with the guy and he’s complaining about not getting blowjobs from him. Like it fucking matters.

“Ian?” Lip prompts. “What is it?”

He sighs. “I really like him.”

“Shit. You gonna tell him, or…”

“Would you?”

“I wouldn’t fuck Mickey, for starters,” he jokes. “Not my type.”

Ian holds back a laugh. Carl’s still snoring a few feet away from them and this isn’t a conversation he wants him to overhear. “Alright. If he was a girl, or if you were me.”

“Want my real opinion?” His expression goes somber. “You always throw yourself in when it comes to this kind of stuff. Like, you were totally hung-up on Kash, and he was married, not to mention thirty fucking years older. If you like someone, you put your heart into it.”

“That’s kind of cheesy.”

Lip gives a shrug. “You asked. I’m not saying it’s hopeless, but… I don’t want to see you hurt. And I think Mickey isn’t someone who knows how to accept love or give it out.”

His throat tightens. He knows Lip’s right, but when he thinks of how Mickey looks at him right after they fuck, eyes open and honest, the way he reaches back to stroke Ian’s hips when he’s inside him… he can almost believe otherwise. He wants to. “Yeah. Okay.”

Lip claps him on the shoulder and stands up. “Then again, I never stuck my dick in the bastard.”

Amusement flashes through him. “How many times are you gonna bring that up?”

“Many, many times.” Before he climbs up to the top bunk, he pauses and turns back. “At least he’s better than Kash. And if he turns out to be a dick—Well, everyone does. You’ll have gotten a couple good months out of it.”

Ian smiles. “I guess so. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

The sky is a dark canopy above the baseball field, brittle stars dotting the expanse of inky black. Smoke permeates the air; pale, wispy, the thick scent of it saturating his senses as it weighs heavy in the back of his throat. Ian takes a drag of his cigarette and drops his hand back to his side, lifted slightly so the flaming end doesn’t brush the grass beneath them. The field could burst into flame and he can’t imagine it would feel any different than he feels now. 

Mickey’s lying beside him, arms raised comfortably above his head. His breaths come in a slow rise and fall, and all Ian can think about is how good it would feel to roll onto him and press the rhythm of those breaths against his own chest. The summer’s passing in a blur of fleeting touches and shoplifted chocolate bars and shitty weed, and each day the sense that he’s been swept up in a massive hurricane grows stronger.

Mickey had made fun of the idea of stargazing, but this is dangerously close to it. Just the two of them, a pile of beer cans dripping with condensation, and an army of stars struggling to show against the distant cover of city lights. A universe narrowed down to two boys on a baseball field, skin burning with each other’s lingering touch.

“It’s hot as fuck out here tonight,” Mickey says.

“Yeah.” He reaches up to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “We need to find somewhere cooler.”

“Where? My place doesn’t have A.C. and that piece of shit you and your army of siblings live in definitely doesn’t.”

He grins, kicking Mickey’s ankle. “At least my house doesn’t make visitors feel like they need a tetanus shot.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, kicking him back harder. “Fuck you.” 

“Fuck you.” Giving into the fierce surge of emotion that rises in his chest, Ian takes the bait, punching Mickey's arm too hard to keep up the pretense of playful touching, then Mickey’s tossing away his cigarette and pouncing, slamming a hard punch against his jaw. Pain jolts along his skull, and it fucking sucks but the searing brand of Mickey’s knuckles tingling along his skin is ecstatic.

Ian kicks his knee up into Mickey’s ribs, bone meeting bone, and they’re tearing into each other, wrestling and throwing punches at each other as their bodies tangle on the crushed grass of the field. His blood’s boiling in his veins, heart pumping frantically, a wild thing against his heaving ribs. All of Mickey’s attention is focused on him, eyes filled with wild glee, palms searching for Ian’s body even if it’s to land blow after blow.

Ian pushes up and flips them over, pressing Mickey to the ground and pinning his wrists above his head. They’re both breathing hard and his mouth tastes of steel.

“Not bad, Gallagher,” Mickey breathes, and Ian’s biting bloody marks into his bottom lip suppressing the urge to kiss the hell out of him. He’s sure Mickey wants it, thinks he can see it in the wild desperation blazing in his face, but when he’d refused a kiss after their first time, Ian had decided that he wouldn’t force it onto him until he made the first move and he isn’t breaking that vow.

Ian leans down, refusing to break eye contact, staring into shimmering blue and hoping, hoping, hoping Mickey will tilt up, accept his unspoken plea. “You like being pinned down, huh?” 

He spits and it feels like a kiss on Ian’s cheek. “Fuck you.”

“Trying to make me beat the shit out of you a second time?”

“I’ll break your fucking nose.”

Mickey thrusts his hips up, trying to push him off, and Ian shoves harder against him, a huff of exertion slipping past his gritted teeth. It’s like keeping a wriggling eel pinned to the ground, and with most of his limbs trapped, Mickey throws his strength into his hips again and again, bucking roughly into Ian’s body in his attempts to break free. The hot, harsh grind, the sweat glistening on Mickey’s heated skin, the grunts he’s making; it’s all rushing north, pooling in a squirming fire in Ian’s gut.

He feels a hard pressure against his crotch at the same time as Mickey stills, clearly noticing. Mickey shoots him a wicked grin, then thrusts upward again, slower this time, purposefully dragging along the straining bulge in Ian’s jeans.

“Gonna let me go?” Mickey teases. “Or you wanna go home and jack off thinkin’ of me?”

“You really think I’d be thinking of you?” 

He rocks his hips up again and Ian can’t suppress his unsubtle hitch of breath at the jolt of sensation. “I don’t think it, I fuckin’ know.”

Ian is resolute in many things but he’s weak when it comes to Mickey. He’s been wanting it since they snuck out onto the field together, Mickey stained with moonlight and looking like fucking sin, and he’s not going to miss the opportunity when the sexiest guy he’s ever known is lying underneath him and grinning up at him like a devil from his dreams.

He scrambles backwards onto his heels so he can tear off his shirt while Mickey struggles upright, managing to yank off his own before Ian pushes him back down, entranced by the sight of him with his messy hair splayed against the grass and chest heaving with ragged breaths.

Mickey doesn’t hesitate, moving before Ian can react and flipping them over so Ian’s back crashes against the ground with a hard thud. “Think you got the upper hand?” 

“I don’t think, I know,” he repeats, and yanks hard at Mickey’s waist, catching him off-guard. The sudden weight of Mickey on his chest punches the air from his lungs but he doesn’t care when the roaring rhythm of Mickey’s heart jumps his own to life like an electric overload, his veins heating and melting under the surging current reducing his insides to trembling ash. He’s burning and he’s fucking addicted.

His palms roam downwards, tugging Mickey’s pants past the curve of his ass until they bunch up around his thighs. There’s dirt and torn blades of grass smeared over Mickey’s hips, purple bruising around the pale flesh of his ass like he’d been knocked down by someone, and the protectiveness that floods Ian almost has him choking on the taste of jealousy. He wants to be the only one to leave marks on Mickey’s body, kiss and suck bruises into his skin that sting of pleasure and not pain.

“Got lube?” he asks. 

Mickey fumbles in his pocket, the bone of his hip digging painfully into Ian’s stomach as he shifts, and pulls out a small case of vaseline. “Ran out. This shit’s all I could find.”

“Good enough.” The case is sticky, residue smeared thick over the sides, but he manages to slip off the cap and scoop out a clump of the gel. It's already melting as he reaches down, pressing it into the warm tightness of Mickey's hole. It twitches around his touch, tightening. Ian's lips fall open, breathing open-mouthed in his concentration as he slowly fucks a finger in and out of Mickey.

"Enough of that," Mickey says, voice strained. "Get in me." 

"I've barely opened you up at all."

"Who cares?"

"I do." He pushes in to the second knuckle, gut clenching tight at the soft squelches the vaseline makes with each rocking motion. It's dripping between Mickey's legs, pooling onto Ian's thighs, and the wet, sticky heat of it has him aching to feel it around him. 

He sucks in a sharp breath, gripping the muscle of Ian's shoulders. "Stop messing around and fuck me." 

Ian fucks another finger into him, gaze trained on the way Mickey's face contorts with pleasure, scarlet blossoming like burst blood vessels across his cheekbones, a deep red glow under the glossy sheen of sweat. His hair is plastered to his forehead with it, so wet that it makes his jet black hair look even darker, interspersed with strands of silver where it catches the moonlight. 

Then Mickey's palm presses against his crotch, and he jerks into it, delicious friction popping his nerves alight in sparks. He doesn't have a chance to grind against the touch before Mickey's impatiently yanking down his pants. Mickey spits in his hand and grabs his cock, rubbing a thumb over the leaking slit and smoothing it down over his hot, aching shaft.

"Put this in me before I break it," Mickey says, low and hungry, and Ian almost comes right there.

He swallows hard and lines himself up, pushing past wet, tight resistance all the way into him. The sweaty skin of Mickey's thighs is searing hot against his, his body shuddering and tensing at the intrusion. Ian's thighs slap against his ass with each thrust, chasing the inviting heat and the broken, gasped noises beside his ear. It’s so fucking good. He's already slipping into the haze of mindless pleasure, wrapping his arms around Mickey's waist and nuzzling into his neck while he fucks him.

"Fuck," Mickey forces out, nails scratching red marks into Ian's shoulders. Ian kisses at his pounding pulse, licks and sucks at his sweat-slicked skin until Mickey lets out a moan. "Fuck, keep doing that."

They've never fucked face-to-face before and it almost feels like a waste, missing Mickey's expressions all the other times he tore those noises from him, managed to make Mickey's body twist and squirm needily against his. Until now, Ian's never gotten to see the evidence of how much Mickey loves getting fucked painted across his features, unmistakable in the way his mouth hangs open for warm, panted breaths and his eyelids scrunch shut in ecstasy, but it's so hot he could come just watching him. 

"God, Mick. You're so fucking hot." He kisses a spot a little further up and sucks at it, tasting sweat and skin under his teeth. "You drive me crazy."

“You were always crazy.” His head is blocking the moon and it shines in a pale silhouette around his head like a halo, soft and shimmering. In the washed out colors of the night, the deep blush over his cheeks is still visible, the piercing blue of his eyes striking against the dark expanse of sky. “Can’t—shit— take credit for that.”

"Very funny." Ian slides a hand up the smooth plane of Mickey's back, into the damp hairs at his nape. Mickey shudders, tilting his head back to push Ian's palm further into his hair like an arching cat. Experimentally, Ian flattens his palm over the base of his skull, wounding his hair firmly between his fingers, and Mickey's teeth worry at his lip but it doesn't hold back the quiet groan slipping free.

Another time, he wants to revisit that realization, pull on Mickey's hair and see if he likes it as much as he's enjoying the possessive grip Ian has on him now, but he’s too captivated by how intimate it feels to hold Mickey's head like this, fingertips easily cupping his scalp, to do anything but press Mickey close and keep rocking into him. He’s sloppy with vaseline, all slick heat and wet noises, but he’s still so snug around him that it feels like they were made to fit together.

“Harder,” Mickey demands. He’s never satisfied unless it’s hard enough to hurt, has him shaking under the force of the thrusts rattling his body, but he always moans so loud and scrunches his face in pleasure when Ian fucks him hard that he plants his feet on the ground and gives it to him. It’s messy, but it’s rough and deep and that’s clearly what Mickey wants since he drops his forehead against Ian’s collarbone and gasps into his skin. “Oh, fuck, yes. ”

Ian hugs him tighter and turns his face into Mickey’s hair, breathing in his scent, that blissful mix of sweat and dirt and skin. It’s something he’s never found anywhere else even though more than half the people in his neighborhood smell like they’ve never taken a shower in their lives, so he can only conclude that it’s Mickey, the smell of his body that’s irresistible.

His hamstrings are starting to burn from the effort of fucking in this position, so he holds Mickey close and rolls them over, hovering above him. It feels even more intimate this way, faces inches apart and bodies entwined, but Mickey just kicks Ian’s ass with his heel and huffs, “Keep going.”

Ian quickly nods and obliges, watching Mickey’s expression shift back to satisfaction. He’s trying not to stare at Mickey’s face for too long—the last time he’d done that, Mickey snapped at him and kicked him off, leaving him with a merciless case of blue balls—but he can’t hold himself back. It’s him making Mickey’s mouth fall open like that, making him buck his hips and scratch angry trails down Ian’s back with chewed-down nails as his body’s shoved up the damp grass with each thrust.

Mickey’s head lolls back, eyes half-closed. “Fuck, that’s good. Harder, come on, I won’t break.”

“I am doing it hard,” he insists, punctuating his point by driving his hips forward as hard as he can. Mickey’s nails dig deeper into his back, dragging a delicious burn, and Ian’s pace stutters as he squeezes his hands under the undersides of Mickey’s shoulders, pulling their chests even closer together.

Mickey’s face is close, so close, the cobalt glint of his irises glinting through his lowered eyelids, and his mouth is right there. Ian can feel his breaths on his own lips, feel the harsh, jagged rhythm and the taste that would almost meet his tongue if Mickey would let him just lean down—

“Don’t,” Mickey says, his voice throaty, like he knows what Ian’s thinking. 

His own voice is rough. “Please.”

“No.” He turns his face to the side, and Ian takes what’s offered to him, kissing up the column of Mickey’s throat with a twisting knot in his gut. He drags tongue and teeth up the sheen of sweat, sucks at his pulse, bites at his collarbone, and it’s so much but it’s not enough. 

“Mickey.”

Mickey tangles a hand in his hair and yanks, sending a shock of pain along the sensitive nerve endings of his scalp, then takes the shell of Ian’s ear between his teeth. He’s never teased him before, never returned the favor whenever Ian kissed the nape of his neck, and the soft exhale of his breath over Ian’s ear is so incredible that a sudden surge of pleasure floods his body, sizzling through nerves and flesh and sinew. Mickey’s teeth brush against his earlobe and he moans, gripping Mickey’s shoulders so hard that his handprints will definitely be bruised there tomorrow.

MIckey’s voice speaks into his ear, soft and low and ripe with an edge of danger that has want curling in his gut. “You’re fuckin’ greedy.”

“M-Mickey.” It’s getting hard to speak, words forced out through pants and strangled groans. “Want you so bad.”

“Ian—"

“You feel so fucking good, I need you.” It comes crashing down on him like hail in the summer. "I need you."

I need you, I need you, I need you.  

That’s it. Ian’s done for.

“You’re fucking inside me,” Mickey fires back, and it feels like a promise; Ian’s in his body, under his skin, reaching deep beyond bone to somewhere Mickey will never admit he’s let him settle.

“Mickey, I’m gonna—ah, fuck, fuck—”

He shoves his face into Mickey’s neck and shakes, every muscle in his body tensing at once. Everything’s scorching, spots exploding behind his squeezed-shut eyelids, pleasure tearing through his body in waves that come again and again as he grinds himself as deep inside Mickey as he can, knees scrabbling and scraped raw against the grass beneath them. His nails claw crescents into Mickey’s body but the apology forming somewhere in the back of his throat dissolves as Mickey grunts and tightens around him, carving matching marks into Ian’s shoulder blades.

His ears are still ringing when they both still. Weariness settles in his bones, the good kind of tired. He feels good. Calm. 

Then Mickey pushes against his shoulders and Ian gingerly pulls out of him. Wrapped up in Mickey, he hadn’t noticed anything beyond the sounds he was making, the way he looked, but now the other sounds drift back into his perception; sirens in the distance, car alarms. Home.

“Give me a smoke,” Mickey says. His voice is oddly quiet.

Ian rummages around in the grass until he finds the crumpled packet. He lights a cigarette and passes it to him, and is about to light another for himself when Mickey stops him. 

Mickey takes a drag of the cigarette, then props himself up on an elbow. Not breaking eye contact, he plucks the cigarette from his lips and holds it out. Slowly, Ian opens his mouth, waiting, and Mickey leans over to set it between his lips. He closes his mouth around it and inhales, eyes fluttering shut. 

It doesn’t taste like him, but Ian can feel the burning traces of him like a fading bruise. Like the scratch marks embedded into his skin that’ll stay a secret between them, rare and bloody and precious.

With a rustle, Mickey lays back against the grass and stares at the sky.

The red bulb at the end of the cigarette glows in the dark, scarlet ember through shadow.