Chapter Text
Mickey’s no stranger to the icy creep of someone’s eyes zeroing in on him from across the bar.
It’s how most of his broken fingers start. How the bruises come to purple under his shirt and around his eyes. It’s the lead up. The foreplay that he’d rather just skip so they can get straight to the good shit - the glasses flying and the fists flying and the blood flying until they’re either blacking out or getting hauled into the street and onto their asses.
Mickey knows it all and way too well.
So when he feels it tonight, the gaze settling onto him from the end of the bar top, he can tell within a single millisecond that this is not that.
This is different.
This is quiet - big green eyes swimming - the usual intent to knock his teeth out of his fucking skull replaced with guarded curiosity.
When Mickey meets them, they flick away. On a dime. Caught looking and falling instead to the bar top and then into his drink and then up to whatever the older man next to him is saying. Like it never even happened.
Mickey sniffs, turning back to gulp down his beer.
Fucking fine with him. He can pretend it never happened too, especially if he won’t get any good hits out of it.
Not from a look like that. No glaring - no death threats - no nothing. Talk about a goddamn snooze-fest.
Mickey takes another gulp, the bottle sweating in his hand and condensation dripping onto the finished wood in front of him. Fuck, is it getting toasty in here.
The clink of his beer settling is in perfect time with the prickle over his skin - the nag in his brain as he feels eyes settle over him again. The same ones. Dark and green and cautious but also so fucking curious as they work down Mickey’s face to where his hand is still gripping the bottle.
And okay, fucking seriously with this?
Mickey snaps to meet it head-on, his eyebrows raising high in just as much irritation as instigation as he holds the gaze because good god. What the fuck does this kid want?
It breaks off almost instantly, Mickey’s call-out not exactly subtle but definitely getting his point across.
Because he’s not looking at him anymore. The guy. The redhead, his hair catching the green lighting above them as he turns to listen to whatever the guy next to him is saying. Still. Still talking without noting that this kid keeps eyeing up some stranger across the bar before coming back to chuckle at something he says.
It’s fake. Mickey can’t hear what they’re talking about, but he can recognize a fake-ass pity laugh when he sees one and fuck, that guy’s gotta be what - twenty - thirty years older than the redhead? That’s kinda fucked, is it not?
Because he’s definitely buying him drinks. Fuckin’ geriatric, gold-watch-wearing f—
“‘Nother beer?”
The bartender’s suggestion pulls Mickey back into his own business.
He waves her off.
He’s gotta get outta here anyway. It’s getting way too stuffy for his liking. Too many people. The glint of gold passing behind him in the bar’s mirror as the out of place old-timer makes his way to the back for a piss or something.
Mickey leans his elbows onto the bar and clears his throat, his eyes rolling shut as he rubs the side of his thumb over the scar below his brow because there it is. There’s the feeling again. Just like he fucking knew it’d come.
“Listen, Red - I’m about to start chargin’ a goddamn viewing fee here.”
It pulls the attention of the people between them, but only momentarily. Only long enough for the redhead’s lightning quick perk-up at being caught alone in the cross-hairs, his posture straightening and expression flattening almost perfectly under the attention.
But Mickey isn’t letting up. Enough is fucking enough. And if that means he’s gotta have a good ol’ fashioned staredown with some Raggedy-Ann-lookin’ motherfucker then so be it. It’s not exactly the bar fight he was looking for, but it’ll have to do.
Except Red isn’t looking away. Well - he is - he’s thinking, fingers tapping lightly - flicking those big stupid eyes of his toward the back of the bar and then settling them back onto Mickey - onto where he’s gripping his beer - something clearly spinning in his brain as he sits there and Christ, that can’t be good.
It happens in a flash. A quick decision, Red’s stool screeching against the floor as he stands, the rush of his approach getting Mickey’s body to square up on autopilot because okay, maybe this is gonna end in a few broken fingers - who’da fuckin’ thought.
Except the punch doesn’t come.
The blood doesn’t fly.
The adrenaline spikes and stays spiked because Red is close but he’s-... He’s pulling out the stool next to Mickey. He’s stuffing himself down into it, facing the bar and not once making eye contact now that he’s here and-...
And how can someone look so determined and so fucking chickenshit at the same time?
Mickey blinks. Floored by the choices that’ve just been made in front of him. “Tell me exactly what part’a that made you think I want you over here…”
The answer he gets is small, but unmissable, the kid’s lips pressing together like he’s steeling himself for something. The more Mickey waits, the more he sees - the little flare of his nostrils as he breathes in - the swirl of determination when he finally turns in his stool, those green eyes locking onto him as he opens his mouth, the words ready but stuck.
And jesus, this guy can’t be much older or younger than Mickey, now that he’s facing him. Up close. Gaze dropping one more time to where Mickey’s fingers curl into fists, ready for action.
Because holy shit, what’s with the dramatic fucking build-up?
“Fuck, spit it out already, would you?” He’s about to just get up - just walk away from this shitshow entirely. But he gives him one more chance, making no effort to hide how his frown deepens, his brow knitting tighter and tighter because what the fuck—
“I need your hands.”
Mickey blanks.
Processes.
Gives this kid one good up-down before pulling his hands into safety and standing from his stool with a decided: “...ffffuuucking Christ…”
But Red is kicking it into high gear, words chasing after things quickly now with a: “Wait - not in, like, a serial killer way.” He stands too - reaches over to grab Mickey’s arm to swing his attention back around as he tries to leave and fuck he’s tall. “I mean in a sex way.”
Oh! In a sex way!
Mickey pulls free, ignoring the stilted: “Shit, hang on. Would you just—” to head straight to the door. Where he should’ve been heading way before this, he now realizes. Just goes to show ya about giving away free chances.
His steps are decided, but he can hear Red swearing under his breath again. Which means he’s following him through the crowd of people and out the front of the bar.
It’s not part of Mickey’s plan. Any of it.
This kid obviously knows he fucked up - whatever the hell he was trying to do back there, that is - but frankly, Mickey doesn’t have the patience for anyone’s backpedaling tonight, good jawline or not. So on he goes.
The city air is chilly.
Streets are busy as usual.
Mickey sniffs, pulling the collar of his jacket snugger to his neck to the tune of single-lane road rage and the voice calling after him a few feet behind.
“You don’t even show your face. Just me.”
Holy shit, he’s still talking?
Mickey chances a wild-eyed look back, just long enough to note Red, following after him down the sidewalk like some stubborn little puppy trying to convince his owner he hasn’t gotten fed yet. “No face at all - no one’d know it was you - it’s strictly POV.”
Mickey’s head rears at the babbling but he doesn’t turn around to look at him again, keeping his pace even as he barrels through a group of girls walking the opposite direction. “The fuck are you talkin’ about.” It’s not a question and he doesn’t want an answer.
He gets an answer anyway. “POV. Point of view. It’s hot on Pornhub right now, so—” There’s a break in his explanation. Clearly a self-imposed silence as he weaves around the group of girls finally passing by him too. He only speaks when it’s clear. “I just need your hands.”
Jesus. Again, with this. “Yeah alright, Bundy.”
“Already said it wasn’t a serial killer thing.”
He can hear him jog up a little closer behind him - boots gripping the uneven slabs of sidewalk. They’re a few buildings away from the bar Mickey intends to completely wipe this memory at, and that’s gonna be way harder to do with a stubborn puppy yappin’ his ear off.
He can feel the prickle of aggravation beneath his skin sharpening. Heightening, with each chased-after step. Just how far is this prick about to follow him?
“Your hands. Fully attached to your body—”
“—goddamn right they are—”
“—touching me like we’re hooking up - you know, grabbin’ me and shit - maybe I blow you a little bit—”
It’s the final straw - his breaking point - the heat detonating and adrenaline skyrocketing in Mickey’s body as he turns on his heels and stalks forward - fucking grabs Red and his big fucking mouth and shoves him up against the bricks because how’s that for ‘touching’?
“You hard of fuckin’ hearing?” He spits it, face close and blood pumping at the immediate and surprising way Red squares his jaw but doesn’t flinch. “Huh? Don’t understand the word ‘no’ in that fuckin’ carrot-top-ass head of yours?”
It’s the first he’s seen this kid have a spine and he’ll be damned if it doesn’t set him off a little. In the best way. A way he wouldn’t mind seeing a little bit more of, but...
“Technically you haven’t said ‘no’ yet.”
Mickey’s eyes travel down to his mouth where he says it, his chin jutted out, the smirk that’s starting to creep across from the attention and the aggravating fact that yeah, actually, he’s right.
Mickey drags his attention back up to his eyes. Makes it real good and clear for him, “No.” and then uses his hold to shove him one last time - to punctuate - to prove his point - and then he’s pulling off, back on track to the dull sign hanging above the bar’s door.
“It’s two hundred a video. With potential to go higher.”
Mickey’s brain trips up at that.
Momentum trips up at that.
Steps trip up at that.
And when he turns, the redhead is where he left him, his hands in his pockets. Waiting. The traces of his smirk still ghosting across his mouth.
Two hundred? “That’s a fuckin’ lie.”
Red just shrugs, the material of his olive-green jacket straining over those broad shoulders.
Two hundred.
Fuck.
Mickey huffs out a sigh, gaze fanning out to the street as he rubs his thumb over the scar under his brow. Fuck. “You got a name, or what.”
There’s a beat of silence. Like Red didn’t actually expect to get this far. And then...
“Ian,” he says. “Gallagher.”
Mickey huffs again, his arms slinging back down so he can size him up with calculating eyes and both hands on his hips.
Ian Gallagher. Jesus, if that isn’t the most unassuming name on the planet. Way more on speed with those careful, shy glances he was tossing across the bar before all this bullshit - the hands and the cash and the fucking POV shit. Christ.
This is a mistake. Mickey can feel it in his bones. His intuition. His fucking everything.
But the siren song of two hundred bucks is a bitch. Only slightly more tempting than the images of possibility starting to trickle into his brain as he stares at the very siren himself, posted up in the middle of the sidewalk. His nice shoulders. Tall build. A baby-face that Mickey would write off as way too innocent to be any fun if he hadn’t seen how it hardened when he had him up against the wall.
Fuck, if Mickey’s never been one to fight off temptation, no matter how hot his blood has been boiled.
“Alright let’s go, Gallagher. You’re gettin’ me wasted.”
He turns, not waiting for whatever sort of processing Red must be doing behind him, the silence only a handful of seconds before his voice crops back up again, cautious but absolutely, unmistakably amused. “I am?”
“After the shit you just pulled, you bet your ass you are.”
Another group of people passes by, separating and moving around Mickey like they already know he’s not planning on being the one to move.
The last one brushes past, and then the space next to him is filled with olive green, shoulder to shoulder after what feels like a lifetime of being followed.
“That mean you’ll do it?”
“‘Go fuck yourself’ is what it means.” But Mickey glances over at him. Glaces up at him. Fuck him for being taller. “Gotta spin me your pitch before I commit to any crazy shit.” The devil is in the details, but he’d be stupid to let two hundred just fly off his radar like that.
Red’s eyes narrow in thought. “My pitch.”
“Your fucking—”
“—my business pitch.”
“Yeah.” Slow on the uptake, but he got there, Mickey guesses. “Right.” He tears his attention away, letting it settle on the beacon that is his dive of choice as it finally hangs above them.
He pushes through the door - no ID check - no cover - no prissy shit like that for a shithole like this. Part of him hopes that the new setting will scare Little Red off for good. Another part knows enough now that it probably won’t. And then there’s the smallest, most microscopic part of him that just fucking eats it up - same as when he was squaring his jaw at him against the brick - when he follows Mickey in without a hitch, his tone confident behind him.
“Not a problem. I got a great business pitch.”
He does not have a great business pitch.
This kid can’t pitch for shit, his train of thought switching between a piss-poor stutter and something obnoxiously free-flowing once he catches his stride.
But he does get Mickey liquored up - good on his promise (well, less of a promise and more of a demand from Mickey), so the inclination to hear him out is much easier to reach.
Turns out, it’s his knuckle tats.
That’s the big fucking deal - the catalyst to that whole serial killer song-and-dance in the other bar.
Apparently there’s a “look” being chased after in the industry lately - the juxtaposition of two polar opposites coming together. Filthy versus pristine. Mickey’s hands - rough and tatted with FUCK U-UP, and that no doubt perfect body of Red’s. Or-...fuck, Ian.
It does actually make some sort of sense, the more Mickey mulls it over. ‘Opposites attract’ and all that horseshit. And it definitely explains why Ian was so fucking obsessive about his hands at the bar. (Like seriously, has he just been showing up to seedy spots, scouting out potential porn-mates?)
And obviously, there’s still wiggle-room for this to turn out to be a serial killer thing - Mickey’s not some sorta bright-eyed, babe-in-the-woods. Just hopefully not. Because he wants that two hundred. And he wants whatever that “with potential to go higher” entailed. And if that means he’s gotta feel up on some puppy-eyed, cut-jaw ginger motherfucker, well shit - he’s definitely made less doing way worse.
It’s a kick to his ego - finally agreeing after digging his heels in on such a hard ‘no’ back on the sidewalk. But the little flash of victory in those big green eyes is entertaining, Ian’s smile too big for his face as he holds up his beer between them, waiting on a cheers.
Mickey rolls his eyes but plays ball, bringing his half-empty beer up too as Ian says it, bold and confident.
“All aboard the gravy train.”
Clink!
They don’t mention even once how Ian just completely flaked on his old-as-fuck date at the other bar.
If there’s one thing Mickey’s good at, it’s acting on impulse in the heat of the moment and then grumbling through the consequences of his actions when it comes time to answer them. He’s really fucking good at it.
So when he shows up to the spot Ian texts him a few days later - an unassuming one-story smashed into a row of a thousand other one-stories - he’s had plenty of time to stew. To boil, threatening to spill over the sides and make a mess.
Because maybe he actually doesn’t wanna do this.
Maybe this whole thing is just as batshit as he originally called while he was getting stalked down the sidewalk at 1 A.M.
Or maybe he should stop being such a pussy and just fucking get this thing started.
The front door shakes as Mickey slams the side of his fist against it in three solid knocks. It’s painted a dark green, the color peeling near the squared, beveled edges in the middle. If he had time, he’d note how the knocker is starting to rust at the hinges. But before he knows it, the door is flying open, one stock-still, frowning Ian Gallagher staring at him from the other side.
Mickey blinks. Doesn’t quite know how to assess the situation. Is about to reach for his phone to make sure he got the right night when Ian’s talking, his tone clipped.
“Hey.”
It’s like he’s stunned, one hand still on the doorknob, the other hanging at his side.
“Jesus Christ, what’s with the face, Red? Right day, right?”
Not a great start.
He’s quick to answer this one though, “Yeah,” literally shaking his head like he’s aiming to recalibrate. “Yeah, just-…” He’s in sweats. An old t-shirt. Barefoot. “...didn’t think you’d actually show.”
And alright, that checks out. If he was Ian, he probably wouldn’t expect Mickey to actually show up either. Especially after how big of a fuss he kicked up.
But.
Mickey holds his hands out to the sides, a showy ‘here I am, bitch’, as if he hasn’t been simmering and stewing like a goulash gone wrong for the past few days.
Because Ian doesn’t have to know that.
No one has to know that.
Mickey is an impenetrable nerve-center of confidence and that’s all there is to it.
“Gonna let me in, or we ‘bout to do this thing on the porch.”
It snaps Ian into action, his brows lifting in more recalibration as he opens the door wider with one hand, the other busy rubbing at the bridge of his nose as Mickey steps past him and into the house.
It’s immediately plain. The house. Boring, in the way that it looks like a Sears catalog got copy-pasted into the living room, right down to the single, unnecessarily curvy giraffe knick-knack on the coffee table.
Mickey shrugs off his jacket with a frown, throwing it onto the back of the light grey loveseat while Ian moves around the kitchen in his peripherals. “You live in this joint?”
There’s more shuffling - more movement - and then Ian is at his side with a cold beer, pushing out a scoff through his nose and firmly saying, “No."
Mickey takes the bottle.
Watches him move toward the hallway.
Hears him call out, “be right back,” before disappearing entirely.
It leaves him to stand alone in the dimly lit room, taking in the all-at-once silent yet oppressive Martha Stuart hellscape that he finds himself in.
He takes a gulp of beer.
Burps and collapses onto the bigger couch, the cushions springier than he expected with how boxy they look.
He should probably take his shoes off, huh. With the number of alleys he cut through to get here, there’s no telling what kind of nasty concoction of piss and jizz he’s probably tracking all over this white rug.
It’d be the decent thing to do. Even if Ian doesn’t actually live here. Supposedly.
Mickey kicks off his shoes and chucks them far over the back of the loveseat and toward the door.
They make a racket big enough that he’s sure he’s gonna catch some grief, but nothing ever comes, Ian apparently too caught up in his own shit back there to give him any here.
Fine, whatever.
The headlights of a passing car send strips of light over the couch...the coffee table...the painting of an ocean on the opposite wall that’s so nondescript and tacky that Mickey wants to hang himself.
He takes a gulp of beer instead, eyeing the giraffe that’s staring back at him where it sits on the table...unblinking...judging, its hollow little eyes boring straight into his motherfucking soul—
The sudden movement at the mouth of the hallway saves him, but only just. Only enough to keep his soul intact before being harshly tugged in the other direction by a second, much more powerful force of nature.
Because Ian’s finally back, his attention focused on something in his head as he appears from the hall. And it’s not his sudden presence. It’s his costume change - the whiplash of it - his tee-shirt abandoned completely and his sweatpants swapped out for tight gold shorts that sparkle as he walks.
Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up on their own - the absolute shock of it taking a second to travel from his heart to his brain because christ.
He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this shit. Not tiny gold booty shorts. Not sparkles shimmering over Ian’s chest as he chugs water from a plastic bottle while he moves through the living room.
He’s a goddamn disco ball of a man and Mickey can’t help it, the way his eyebrows stay arched and ready for Ian when he finally notices just how dead center he is in Mickey’s judgey cross-hairs.
It has him slowing down, but only so he can motion vaguely to himself with both hands, as deadpan as his eyes when he says it. “Hot, right?”
It’s sarcastic. Self-aware. Completely comfortable in a way that is throwing Mickey for the biggest loop in his young life. “Some more glitter, how ‘bout.”
Ian keeps it moving, chugging the rest of his water with a crackle from the bottle scrunching up, a little breathless as he says it down to him through a smile. “They like the glitter.”
“Uh huh. Bet they do.” If his dick twitches in his pants a little, no it doesn’t.
Ian steps into the kitchen, the squeak and hiss of the faucet laying down some cover for Mickey to take a long, long drink.
Only once his throat starts burning uncontrollably from the carbonation does he pull off - thoughts racing - eyes falling shut to ground himself and then opening to fix the coffee table giraffe with a glare. A callout. A ‘why didn’t you warn me, you overpriced, demon-eyed, curvy-necked piece of shit?’
“Comin’?”
It’s Ian, his water bottle full again, dripping onto the carpet while he waits for him at the edge of the hallway.
Mickey knows it’s an out.
A final ‘hey, it’s about to get real, so either nut up or go home’ without actually saying it. He doesn’t really know this guy yet. Doesn’t know if he’s doing it to be nice or doing it to cover his own ass. But all that really matters is that Mickey is forcing himself into the ‘nut up’ category, swallowing down the last of his beer before leaving it next to the demon giraffe and heading forward.
He follows Ian.
Into the belly of the beast.
The hallway darkens the further they get from the dim lighting of the living room, this thick pink and red glow pouring from the door in the back.
A real ‘light at the end of the tunnel’ situation, but make it sexy.
It’s got a certain way of getting Mickey’s adrenaline to spike - warm, curious interest building with each step.
When they get to the room there’s no fanfare - no briefing - Ian just walks straight in like he’s done it a thousand times (which he probably has) and Mickey follows right in after him.
It’s warmer in here. Like the vents have been closed off. That, and Mickey can’t help but note the distinct lack of Martha Stewart. No demon giraffes. No boring ocean paintings. Just a bed - nice and big with soft black sheets - a floor length mirror to the side, and a desk on the opposite wall.
Mickey welcomes the change, taking it all in with a deep breath. It’s when he notices the music playing. Wordless. Soft beat.
Ian moves toward the desk to mess with something lying there, his back to him as he speaks. “Nothing crazy this first time. Just gotta show ‘em the concept.”
It’s just vague enough that he’s gotta push back. Gotta clarify. “Meaning...”
Ian’s attention hooks on him over his shoulder, his grin lopsided. “Meaning keep your dick in your pants.”
It’d be a nice smile if it didn’t make Mickey want to do the total, polar opposite. “Yeah yeah - I got that, Bundy. Meant the whole ‘concept’ thing you keep goin’ on about.”
The ‘opposites attract’ schtick. Don’t The Powers That Be already know about it? Ian told him at the dive that they were the ones pointing him in that direction in the first place - telling him it’d be great for his numbers, or some shit like that.
“They gotta okay you.” He’s blunt with it. Still working with something at the desk, silhouetted by red and pink light. “Wanna see how we look before greenlighting anything harder.”
Mickey scoffs. “And what - they don’t like me, you go window shoppin’ for hands again?”
“Yep.”
Point-blank. Blunt as blunt can be.
Mickey can’t peg if he’s irritated or finds it refreshing. Maybe a mixture of both. And anyway, Ian is finally turning, the glitter on his chest so distracting as it shimmers in the light that Mickey almost fumbles what’s being tossed to him.
But he doesn’t. He catches it, the thick black band stretchy as he turns it over in his hands with a frown.
“Fuck kinda kinky shit is this?”
“It goes on your head, asshole.”
And okay, Mickey does kinda dig that Red is already comfortable enough to call him an asshole - that’s good shit, you know? - it’s just…
He turns the strap over in his hands, trying to apply the new context.
This is supposed to go on his head.
He’s being told to wear this. On his fucking head. And the little plastic part right here - he runs his thumb over the divot in the square - like something is supposed to slot into it - to keep it hands-free. Something small.
Mickey looks up at Ian - where he’s rubbing the lens of a palm-sized camera with a cloth, completely unbothered. Oh, hell no. “You ain’t serious.”
It has Ian frowning for a second as he meets his gaze, as if he for some god-forsaken reason didn’t expect any blowback. “What.”
What! Mickey wants to explode. “A headset-”
“If I can wear body glitter and booty shorts, you can wear a fucking GoPro.”
He says it like he doesn’t have time to be having this conversation with him. Like he’d rather jump out the window than entertain Mickey’s hangup and okay. Look. Mickey is just empathetic enough to understand the trade-off. Ian’s the one who looks like a human disco ball. Ian’s the one with his ass out, practically. Ian’s the one who’s gonna be doing all the heavy-lifting when it comes to performing for this shit.
And he guesses, now that he actually thinks about it while they post up for a good ol’ fashioned stand-off, that it does make complete and total sense, because how else is he supposed to hold a camera if the whole point is he’s using both his hands. It’s just-...
Fuck.
Mickey pushes a sharp breath out through his nose, his lips pressed together into a thin line as he nuts up and brings the strap around his head. He’s gonna complain about it though. Gonna be a nice big asshole like Red called him as he struggles with the clasp and the slack adjuster without being able to see it and fuck.
Ian lets him struggle.
Actually looks like he’s enjoying the show for a moment or two.
But then he rolls his eyes, stepping in close to reach around and mess with the strap too.
It’s too many hands. Too many cooks in the kitchen, their fingers tangling and hooking and finally Ian is taking charge - “N-... Quit it,” his voice annoyed but purposefully low, considering how close he’s leaned in.
Mickey scowls but allows it because fuck that clasp. And fuck the little plastic piece that’s digging into his forehead. And fuck Ian for smacking his fucking hand away as he reaches up to try and push it back.
“This is the dumbest shit,” he says under his breath.
To which Ian answers with a simple, “Suck it up,” and then reaches back over for the camera. His brows knit together as he concentrates on twisting and locking it into the slot - big hands attempting to be gentle with precious cargo.
Mickey could say something mean, but he’ll cool it for now. He’ll let the guy work, cranky but still entertained as he watches Ian click his tongue against the roof of his mouth in irritation, pull the camera to double check the lock-in direction on the back, and then reach up to try and slot it in again with a quiet, “fuck’s sake…”
It’s now that Mickey notices how the freckles on the bridge of his nose are gone, brushed under a fine layer of makeup. They’re gone from his forehead too. And the apples of his cheeks. And the delicate dip above and below his lips.
“You gonna kiss me, or what.”
Ian’s question is flat and without eye-contact and absolutely not a question, his attention still devoted to the camera.
But Mickey huffs out a scoff anyway. “In your dreams, Red.” And then there’s the distinct sound of a plastic click! against his forehead. Ian gives it one last look before deeming it ready with a nod, and then his eyes are finally dropping to meet Mickey’s as he smirks and fires off two light smacks to his cheek.
Mickey swipes at him. Ducks away. Grumbles a cranky “fuck outta here,” but doesn’t miss the way Ian’s grin stays in place as he turns toward the bed to straighten the sheets.
And suddenly, as he stands here - thinking - waiting - it’s all very out-of-body for him. This setup. This concept. Mickey has done some truly heinous shit to get a few bills paid. But this is a completely different ballgame. He’s gone from being pistol-strapped to camera-strapped. And it’s all just a little bit of a tone-shift (a lot of a tone-shift), his brain short-circuiting as he sees Ian knee onto the bed and then turn, shimmering, waiting for him.
“Comin’?”
It’s now that he realizes it. That final out before - that ‘Comin’?’ at the mouth of the hallway - that wasn’t his final out.
This is.
This is his last chance to escape. To call bullshit and get out of this with his dignity intact.
But Mickey has been simmering. He’s been stewing - ready to bubble over and make a mess for days now.
And if he’s gonna make a mess, there are about a thousand worse places to do it, and a thousand worse people to do it with.
So.
Mickey steps forward, Ian’s hand tugging him in by his shirt because he’s grown impatient.
His knees press against the foot of the bed and then he’s stopped, that hand holding him in place without a word.
Ian slides closer, shimmering, brows etched the slightest bit as he focuses on the camera just above Mickey’s eyes, lining himself up with it.
He’s done this before. He knows the angle the camera needs to be at so it’s hitting him. Is readjusting things for Mickey’s specific height, versus whoever the fuck else does this with him. Or does whatever with him. Anything sex and GoPro related. (Mickey didn’t bother to look him up on Pornhub, so it’s not like he has a frame of reference for this shit.)
“Try not to move your head too much,” he says, but it’s far away - is paired with both his hands coming up to frame Mickey’s face - to tilt it at a lower, apparently better angle.
Mickey wants to protest, but lets it go, “Whatever you say, princess,” because going through the motions seems to actually be important here.
And if Ian’s convinced little nod to himself is anything to go by, it seems they’re done anyway. Because he brings his hands away...sits back silently on his knees as he closes his eyes...and then inhales...long and grounding…
When he exhales, it’s even longer...his nostrils flaring just the slightest. And when his eyes flutter back open, it’s like he’s taken a hit of something, his lids gone heavy and sensual.
In The Zone.
Mickey blinks. Deeply, deeply wants to give him shit, but settles for an unimpressed, “Wow…”
But Ian is reaching forward - “Don’t talk...” - gaze nestled low as he takes both of Mickey's hands and slowly guides them onto his chest.
Mickey’s fingers twitch, his adrenaline getting good and worked up at the feeling of Ian’s bare skin beneath his palms, the muscles tensing underneath as he starts a slow, easy body-roll.
Ian’s warm. Smooth. Pale and glittering as his hands are dragged slowly down over his firm pecs.
It’s been exactly twenty seconds and Mickey is already seeing the appeal - that juicy juxtaposition everyone at the studio is apparently clammerin’ for. Because it’s good - Ian’s cut, shimmering body - Mickey’s inked hoodrat hands getting all up in there, ready to defile and corrupt.
Damn, they really are onto something out there in TinselTown. “Hold the fuckin’ phone, Gallagher - we’re hot as hell.”
Ian bristles a little, his eyes rolling closed in a clear attempt to stay in character. “I said don’t talk.”
“You really expect me to—”
“When you say weird shit, I gotta go back in and edit it out before I send the tape to them.” His eyes are still closed. Hands have paused in directing Mickey’s hands. Probably doesn’t wanna waste anything good.
But honestly, that doesn’t even sound like a hardship. A little editing?
Mickey clicks his tongue, “Boo hoo.” But when those green eyes fall open, they’ve lost their puppy-dog sweetness. On the contrary, they look ready to kill. Or at least dismember. “Okay!” he surrenders, but not without pulling a face. “Fine!” He’ll shut the fuck up! Fuck him, he guesses!
It must be enough, because Ian waits a second, and then he starts leading his hands again.
They’re back in it.
He’s directing Mickey.
Showing him what he expects him to be doing.
Slipping them down past his chest to spread out over his abs, and then letting his own hands drop away so Mickey can do it himself.
It’s on-the-spot, but Mickey isn’t one to back down from a challenge, no matter what his nerves may be doing. So when Ian leans back on the mattress a little, making a show out of rolling his body and finally flicking his eyes up to the camera, Mickey pushes through the pop of excitement that travels up his spine.
Because Ian’s not looking at him. He’s looking into the camera, a few inches above Mickey’s eyes. And maybe that’s the disconnect he needs for the surge of confidence, because it’s way too easy to keep this up, despite his pulse taking off.
He brushes his knuckles against his abs. FUCK over glittery, tensing muscles.
Smooths his palms back down and slides them both up the long stretch of his body, not missing the way Ian rolls into it, seizing the opportunity, reaching up with one hand to join the momentum of Mickey’s left and bring it up the side of his neck.
He’s starting to sweat, his skin slick near the base of his hair. But Mickey lets his hand be directed because it’s dawning on him now that it’s all by design. The closed off vents. The heat in the room. It gets Ian at an impressively slick sheen, the smart bastard. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
Mickey huffs a laugh but is cut off, not even realizing his gaze has trailed over toward the closed vent above the bed until he feels the hand on the back his neck - Ian’s free one - reminding him with a redirecting tug downward that he needs to fucking pay attention. Needs to keep the camera aimed at him.
Mickey’s all fired up and ready to snap that he doesn’t appreciate the neck tug when it sticks in his throat, his mouth open but on hold at the feeling of Ian’s lips wrapping around the tip of his pointer finger - warm and wet and oh. That’s why he wants the camera on him.
He guesses he can let it slide. Guesses he can settle for this instead, pressing the pad of his middle finger to Ian’s lips too.
Ian takes them into his mouth. Keeps those dark green eyes locked in on the camera and sucks on Mickey’s fingers and fuck, that’s actually pretty hot. Mickey’s dick likes that shit a lot. It’s that tasty juxtaposition all over again - his knuckle tatts and baby-faced Ian and his weirdly cute fucking mouth.
“Those TinselTown fuckers are gonna cream their pants when they get their hands on this shit.”
“Uuuugh Mickeyyy.”
The heat of Ian’s mouth disappears as he groans - eyes rolling shut and entire body collapsing backward onto the bed in defeat.
It’s the first time Mickey’s heard his name come out of that mouth and that’s kinda revolutionary on its own, but he’s got a fuss to kick up, his hands held out at the dramatics unfolding in front of him. “What!”
“Do you want the money or not.”
He rears his head back, the camera probably going wild, but: “Of course I want the fucking money-”
“Then shut the fuck up!” Ian’s shot back up - eyebrows have shot up - hands have shot up like he wants to strangle the life out of Mickey where he stands, so fuck him for that. “Shut up! Stop breaking the momentum!”
The ‘momentum’. “Jesus, Gallagher you’re acting like a little editing is gonna kill you fucking dead—”
“No, it’s just really not that hard to just shut the fuck up and touch me.”
Mickey frowns, refusing to back down now. Ian’s the one being a drama queen here, not him. He's the one that dragged them into this shit in the first place. “Yeah - and you’re welcome, by the way.” On that nice little note. “You’re welcome for coming here at all after that 'gimme your hands' shit you pulled, you fucking psychopath.”
Ian says it all in one droning, even tone, a hand running down his face like he’s said it so many times now that it physically pains him to put any life into it anymore. “Oh my god I’m not a serial killer.”
And yeah - sure. “Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night - fuckin’ Bundy-ass motherfucker.”
“You’re not even thinking of the right one.”
“What?”
“Ted Bundy doesn’t even make any sense - Jeffrey Dahmer was the gay one, you dumbass.”
Mickey head flies around again - floored by what he’s hearing - as if the distinction even matters! “Who the fuck cares!”
A psychopath is a psychopath! He knows one when he sees one and right now, it’s wearing sparkly gold booty shorts and staring at him like he wants to murder him and eat his heart.
Wait - okay, maybe he was thinking of Jeffrey Dahmer.
“Alright - you know what, fuck you.” It’s a kneejerk decision and he’s making it on a dime, but it’s his decision all the same, every step he puts between himself and this Edward-Cullen-motherfucker a step in the right direction.
And just like that, they’ve fallen right back into familiar territory, Mickey stalking down the hallway, Ian staying close behind.
But this time there’s nothing lost-puppy about him. This time he’s following to chase. To hunt, voice deep and annoyed when he wants it to be. “Are you seriously leaving because I told you to shut up?”
“I’m leaving because ‘fuck you’.”
“Oh!” Sarcastic. “Great! Because that makes perfect sense.” Close, close, close on his heels. Close enough to turn around and knock his ass unconscious if Mickey wants. And he wants. He wants, he wants, he wants— “You have the fucking camera on, you dumbass.”
“I know.” Mickey scrambles for the strap. Rips and tugs and gets the stupid fucking thing off because he never wanted it on in the first place and— “I know that. Here - fuck.” He shoves it into Ian, hoping it shatters on his stupid glittery-ass abs because fuck that camera— “And I hate that fucking giraffe—” he points for good measure, reaching down for his shoes where he chucked them over the couch “—it’s demonic as shit. A whole-ass demon—” two good shoves of his feet and then he’s ripping open the door, making sure to make eye contact as he shoves through it, “—keepin’ that thing around - the fuck is wrong with you.”
And then he slams the door behind him.
And then he’s gone.
Mickey has boiled over and made a mess.
Three days pass.
Three days, sun-up to sun-down.
Mickey stays under the radar, happy to pretend he never met Ian Gallagher, but also filing away the feeling of his fingers in his mouth into his own personal spankbank.
He dips into it regularly, but what of it. He’s allowed to.
On day four, he’s almost ready to drop that too, getting pretty much all he can get out of it before the memory turns sharp and catty and annoying. Thoughts of GoPros and pink/red and one too many serial killers for his liking while he’s trying to jerk it.
He’s bled that memory dry, and it’s time to put it out to pasture.
Mickey’s head hits his pillow with a thunk.
Box fan rotates slowly next to him in the window.
Phone lights up, bright and obnoxious in the midnight darkness.
It’s from a string of numbers - one he didn’t bother to name at the time and has to actually open to place.
Above the new message is the short, single-lined one. Exactly four days old. An address and nothing else.
And now below it?
maybe i AM actually out of my mind. not bc you think so but bc i went for it and sent it in
Mickey’s pulse thickens, his brow furrowing as he tries to make it make sense.
Another swipes below.
they like it. say we got chemistry off the charts for some fucking reason. i didnt even edit it bc i wanted them to see what a dick you are but. jokes on me i guess
He-...
Wait.
Ian...sent in their video. Their shitshow. What can’t be more than a couple minutes of weird-ass touching and then a full-blown, house-wide bitch fit.
And The Powers That Be dug it?
they want us. wanna give us 300 a vid as incentive bc i told them youd never come back
Three-...
Three hundred. A crack.
Mickey falls into his mattress, his head spinning.
He rereads the messages over and over. Tries to shake his brain into action, his pros and cons list sounding too fucking similar to the one he made before sealing it all with a cheers that night a week ago.
The only thing that’s new is the ghost of a camera strap around his head and lips around his fingers.
And glitter.
Lots of glitter.
And those muscles.
(And that giraffe.)
Mickey’s phone screen lights again as he reads over the messages one last time, the cursor pulsing in the reply box, empty and waiting to be filled.
so
gonna come back?
He sniffs, running his thumb against the scar beneath his brow. Steeling himself.
He should wait until morning, but he types.
He should sleep on it - let it rest - but he types, and then sends it off without looking back.
fuck you
And then Mickey does the dumbest shit he’s ever done in all his existence. The one thing that he’ll trace back to for many years to come.
He opens up Pornhub.
And he starts to look for Ian.