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Mickey tosses the gun on the bed, thumbing at his mouth. It feels like an invitation.
Ian doesn’t really think about it, just moves forward, leaning in, but Mickey’s already gone.
“Kiss me and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”
Ian shrugs. Fucking Mickey had been fun – amazing, really – but if Mickey didn’t want to kiss him, so be it. It’s no big deal to Ian.
~
As it turns out, it is a very big deal to Ian.
Because it wasn’t just the once. It wasn’t one strange, wholly unexpected, wild, fantastic afternoon slip-up. Mickey came into the store, and Ian snuck into his room, and soon they were grabbing each other wherever they could, fumbling at their clothing, hastily baring as much skin as they could risk. It became a pattern that turned into a habit that developed into a full-blown obsession. And before he knew what the fuck was happening, Ian began to crave it. Crave Mickey.
This wasn’t the awkward, overeager groping he’d had with Roger Spikey. It wasn’t even the easy familiarity he’d had with Kash. It was a constant hunger, the thrumming need to touch and feel and just be with this boy he’d known forever and hadn’t known at all.
Today, Ian pushes Mickey against the root beers and grapefruit sodas in the freezer, pressing his chest against Mickey’s back. He thinks idly that their encounters must have crossed into the double digits by now. Then Mickey grinds back against him and he stops thinking at all, can only think fuck, yes, MickeyMickeyMickey...
He pulls at the neckline of Mickey’s shirt to bare more skin, mouthing clumsily at his shoulder. He wants to taste every inch of this boy, wants to mark him in ways he knows Mickey won’t allow. But he can reach for the zipper of Mickey’s jeans, rub shamelessly against his ass, and it’s better than nothing. It’s better than everything.
When it’s over, Mickey turns to him, lips curving into a grin as he straightens his clothes.
“Damn, Gallagher, you gave it good today. You worked up about somethin’?”
Ian isn’t, especially. He’s pretty sure he’s just falling deeper and deeper into Mickey’s thrall, and getting increasingly worse at hiding it. He shrugs in response, willing himself not to blush.
Mickey’s grin widens. “Well, keep at it. Put that cock of yours to good use, let it live up to its potential.” Mickey’s eyes drop to Ian’s groin, and he licks his lips. Ian stares, feeling a tremor run through his entire body.
Mickey leaves without another word, but Ian stays put, the chill of the freezer doing nothing to ease the heat coursing through his body. He replays the image of Mickey’s tongue skimming across his lips over and over again. Oh god.
Ian wants him. He knew, of course he did, that he was developing something for Mickey, some kind of feelings, attachment, whatever. He’s not an idiot. But this overwhelming desire, this need for him, is something new. Something frightening, and exhilarating, and so so stupid. Maybe he is an idiot, after all.
But he wants to kiss Mickey Milkovich. Badly. Fuck.
~
He doesn’t get the chance. They get caught, and Mickey gets shot, and then they’re looking at each other through a state-issued penitentiary window that feels a little too symbolic for Ian’s tastes. He presses his hand against the glass and yearns for the feel of Mickey’s skin. Mickey brushes his sentimentality away, but he smiles at Ian, begrudgingly, but maybe almost fondly too, and Ian carries it with him through the months apart.
And every night he dreams of kissing Mickey, and every night, Mickey lets him.
~
Mickey gets out, and Ian is there to meet him. He gazes at Mickey and tells himself over and over again to control himself, to not let it show on his face, but fuck, it’s Mickey and he’s here and Ian just wants to touch him. He presses his hand against the bare skin of Mickey’s shoulder, and Mickey shrugs him off, but he gives him a look, and Ian can wait a little longer. His hand tingles the whole bus ride back home.
He waits while they play video games back at the Milkovich house. He waits while Mandy tries on outfits for the party she’s going to tonight. He waits while Mickey loads up a backpack with beer and cigarettes and tilts his head towards the door. He waits while they walk side by side to the dugouts. Then Mickey’s pulling his bottom lip into his mouth (god, that mouth) and telling Ian to fuck him, and Ian doesn’t have to wait any longer.
Fucking Mickey again doesn’t feel like coming home. It feels like arriving in a dazzling new city and realizing this is where you really belong. It’s Mickey’s gasping moans and his fingers curling into the chain-link fence and Ian pressing his face into Mickey’s neck and licking at the beads of sweat that trickle down it. It’s Ian’s whole world zeroing down to this one boy and still feeling bigger than it’s ever been before.
They stay in the dugouts for most of the night, fucking and talking and fucking again. There is something magical about this night, a buzzing in the air, and Ian is sure it’s something important. He feels wild, but calm somehow too, like he’s on the edge of some great discovery. Ian watches Mickey, and Mickey smiles at him easily, and Ian is purely, simply happy.
They started up long ago, but tonight, something really began.
~
That summer, they still pull each other into alleyways and dark corners and the freezer at the Kash & Grab. But they also compete against each other at target practice and play board games with Mandy and drink whiskey in the Gallagher pool in the middle of the night. One day they jump the turnstiles to the El and go uptown, wandering the park and photo-bombing tourist pictures at the Bean. They end up at the lake, beers in hand, bare feet in the water, and Ian just feels good. He’s utterly content, here in the sun with Mickey by his side.
Mickey takes him to the roof of an abandoned building one evening, and it’s clear from the empty bottles and burned down cigarette butts that Mickey’s been here before. Mickey looks nervous somehow, shooting furtive glances Ian’s way and thumbing at his bottom lip. Ian thinks he’s trying to show him something, reveal a part of himself. Ian doesn’t want to spook him, doesn’t want to say anything and chance Mickey closing himself off, so he just pushes him against the wall and ducks down to nip at his collarbone, hands pulling at Mickey’s belt. Mickey sighs and tilts his head, and Ian nuzzles closer against him, trying to tell him with his hands and his lips that he wants this, wants every part of Mickey that he’s willing to give him. That Mickey can have Ian too. You can have all of me.
~
They return to that building, and to the one across the way, the one with the open roof and the expanse of sky above their heads. On this night, they’re lying side by side, passing a blunt between them and trying to blow smoke rings. Ian challenges Mickey to puff a ring around a particularly bright star. He misses by a mile.
“Shut the fuck up.” Mickey grumbles as Ian laughs. “It fucking moved, alright?”
Ian turns his head to grin at him. “How could it move? It’s a fucking planet.”
Mickey scoffs. “How would you know? It’s a plane, man.”
Ian’s cheeks are starting to hurt from grinning. “Nah, I think it’s Venus. We learned about it in science last year.”
Mickey scowls harder. “What, just cause you paid attention in class one day you’re a science expert now?”
“Maybe. Maybe I’ll be an astronaut.”
“Bitch, you would be an astronaut if you were rich enough to go to fucking astronaut school or whatever.”
Ian rolls over onto Mickey swiftly, settling between his legs and leering down at him. “You wanna inspect my rocket ship, Mick?”
Mickey rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “God, you’re such a fucking nerd.”
“A nerd who’s gonna go to space. You jealous?”
Mickey bucks his hips, trying to push Ian off of him, but Ian resists, and soon they’re rolling around, scuffling and giggling like the teenagers they are. They eventually settle, again with Ian on top of Mickey, and this time when Mickey bucks up into Ian, it’s slow and deliberate, and Ian inhales sharply.
“Fuck, Mick,” he pants, grinding down into him. Mickey’s hands dive under Ian’s shirt, nails skittering up his back, and Ian groans, burying his face in Mickey’s neck. They press against each other, groins rubbing until Ian is rock hard and gasping. He fumbles for Mickey’s belt, shoving his hand down to grasp as Mickey’s dick, solid and hot and perfect in Ian’s palm.
Mickey moans and grits out “get the fuck on me, Gallagher,” and Ian pushes down Mickey’s pants before quickly attending to his own. He presses back in the second his jeans are to his knees, desperate for more skin-to-skin contact. They both groan pathetically when their bare cocks rub together, and Ian swears he could die from this, this searing pleasure that shimmers from the top of his spine down to his toes.
He reaches blindly for a lube and condom, stashed in the bag tossed carelessly beside them, and preps Mickey hurriedly, thrusting against him all the while. Mickey is breathing heavily, head tossed back, and fuck, he’s so goddamn beautiful. Ian wants to watch him like this forever.
He can’t stop to think, can’t even pull away from Mickey for any longer than it takes to roll the condom on. All he knows is that one moment they’re grinding against each other and the next, Ian’s inside him, and Mickey’s eyes fly open to gape at him in shock. Ian’s inside him, and they’re looking at each other. They’re face to face, and Ian is inside him, and fuck. Oh god. Oh fuck.
For one suspended second, Ian thinks Mickey’s going to push him off. He’s gone too far, taken too much, and Mickey won’t allow it. But after a moment of silent staring, Mickey clenches around him, just a little. Ian’s eyelids flutter, and Mickey mumbles, “fucking move, Gallagher.” Ian breathes in deeply, and does.
And holy fuck, it’s good. Mickey’s always made the most amazing sounds, but it turns out his face makes these gorgeous expressions too, and Ian never knew. He never saw them, until now. And he can’t look away. Mickey closes his eyes and bites his lip and whimpers in the back of his throat, and it’s honest to god the hottest thing Ian has ever seen in his life.
He already feels on the edge, out of control and desperate as he thrusts into Mickey. Mickey’s groans rumble in his ear, and he picks up speed, pushing into the boy beneath him harder. He presses his forehead against Mickey’s, and he feels Mickey’s hand reaching up to grip the nape of his neck. Christ.
He looks down at Mickey, rapt by the beauty before him. Mickey has his eyes clenched tight in pleasure, his bottom lip captured between his teeth. The sight sends a shock of pure arousal through his overloaded system.
“Mick,” he whispers, “Mick, look at me.”
Mickey opens his eyes, the blue deeper and more vital than the light years of sky above them. Their lips are so close together Ian can practically taste him.
In the end, he can’t help himself. He feels his orgasm tingling up his body, and he has to, he has to kiss him. He closes the minimal distance between them and presses his lips to Mickey’s.
Mickey’s lips are soft and warm and fucking perfect. Ian latches onto Mickey’s bottom lip, just reveling in the simple contact. It’s a chaste kiss, gentle, minimal, but it’s Mickey, and Ian is kissing him, and his whole body is singing. Then, tentatively, the pressure barely there, Mickey closes his lips around Ian’s top lip, and just like that, Ian’s coming.
His vision whites out, and he barely registers Mickey coming beneath him. Ian keeps his mouth to Mickey’s as long as he can, wants to kiss him forever, but his lungs start to burn from lack of oxygen, and he pulls back with a gasp, pressing his forehead to Mickey’s shoulder. When he finally comes down, he feels weak, completely stripped by the force of the most intense orgasm he’s ever had. He nuzzles against Mickey ever so slightly, inhaling his scent.
He knows now. He suspected it before, has been feeling it coming along for a while, but he’s absolutely sure now. He’s in love with Mickey. The strength of it takes him by surprise. He’d thought he’d been in love before, had thought he understood what it meant. He’d had no idea. Nothing had ever felt like this. How could he have prepared for the depth of this, the way it felt more essential to Ian than anything he’d ever thought or wanted or been before? Loving Mickey was like a heartbeat, constant and pulsing and fundamental. He didn’t think he’d ever be ok again.
He wouldn’t trade it for fucking anything.
Mickey begins to stir restlessly beneath him. Ian musters up his remaining strength and rolls off of him, gazing dazedly at the stars. He can hear Mickey fiddling with his clothes, adjusting himself. He can’t bring himself to look over at him. He can feel Mickey pulling back, sealing himself off again. He can practically hear Mickey’s thoughts racing, scrambling for a way to erase what had just happened. Ian just keeps staring at the sky. He won’t push Mickey, not tonight. Mickey had already given so much, more than he’d intended, and Ian won’t demand that he own it. Soon, maybe. But not now. Now, he’ll let Mickey pull himself up, grab the backpack, mutter a low “later, Gallagher.” He listens as Mickey shuffles down the stairs, down into the depths of the building below. He stays where he is, flat on his back, looking at the stars and feeling his lips tingle. He’s terrified and frustrated and fucking happy. Mickey Milkovich had ruined him, and Ian is lost.
But he had kissed Mickey. They had kissed. Tonight, that was enough.
~
As predicted, Mickey is distant when they next see each other. Ian grits his teeth and tries to brace for it, tries to keep the pain at bay. He knows Mickey, knows what the other night cost him, and he’ll handle it. Even when he enters to freezer to find Mickey with his back already turned, hands gripping the bars of the shelves, he ignores his sinking heart and starts tugging at his belt. It’s fine. It’s not great, but Mickey’s still here, still pressing back against Ian. And even if he’s quieter than usual, subdued and anxious, he’s still here.
Ian knew that loving Mickey would be a challenge. He’s always been up for a challenge.
~
Ian doesn’t push, and Mickey relaxes, and the distance lessens. They regain some of their easy rapport, and more and more, when Ian meets his eye, Mickey doesn’t look away. Soon they’re joking again, jostling shoulders as they pass each other, and Ian’s relief that they can overcome this is bone-deep.
But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel the urge to slam Mickey against the wall and devour his mouth every damn minute of every damn day. He does. God, he does, and the need to taste him again is constant, his skin prickling with it. But he stops himself. He can do this. He can play the long game.
~
They fuck face-to-face again a few weeks later. This time, Ian presses Mickey against the table in the freezer, and Mickey locks his legs around Ian’s waist, keeping him close. Ian’s careful with him, careful not to take too much this time, but Mickey makes it hard, panting and moaning and looking like that, jesus fuck.
Ian squeezes his eyes shut, trying to hold back, biting at his lips to keep them from seeking out Mickey’s. He opens his eyes to find Mickey watching him, staring at his mouth, and Ian’s rhythm falters, his hips stuttering. Mickey’s eyes dart up to his, and he looks a bit panicked, caught. He holds Ian’s gaze for a moment before turning his head, looking away. Ian understands. Not today. He presses his forehead to Mickey’s temple instead, savoring what he can. Mickey’s hand shifts up, fingers threading into Ian’s hair, and Ian thinks maybe it’s an apology.
~
Summer is winding down, the evenings starting to hold a mild chill. Ian can feel it in the air, the end of this stolen season. Soon there will be school and ROTC and hours and hours away from Mickey. The thought causes a pang of unhappiness in his stomach every time.
He tries not to be too clingy, but he knows he’s failing. Every touch lingers, and he finds it harder and harder to pull away each time they’re together. Ian will burrow into Mickey’s skin and breathe him in until the fleeting intimacy gets to be too much for Mickey and he shuffles away. Ian lets him go, but he never moves first anymore. His willpower only extends so far.
He makes his way up to the roof of the abandoned building on one of the final nights of summer, and Mickey is already there. He tosses Ian a beer, and Ian slumps against the wall next to Mickey, content to just soak in the heat of the boy next to him. They drink in silence for a few moments, the mood of the evening somehow subdued.
Ian wants to touch him, breathe him in. Maybe hold his hand. Instead, he takes another sip of his beer, and then another, until he is feeling loose and warm and a little bold. Which is probably why he says what he says next.
“I’m gonna miss you. When school starts.”
Mickey scoffs. “Come on, man. You’ll still see me all the time.”
Ian shrugs, staring at the floor between his feet steadfastly. “Yeah, but it’s not the same.”
“What the fuck ever,” Mickey replies, nudging Ian’s leg with his knee. It was meant to be a rough gesture, but Mickey’s knee remains resting against Ian’s thigh, and Ian can feel a smile threatening.
“You gonna miss me, Mick?”
“I’ll still see you every afternoon, asshole.”
“Think you can wait that long? Or will you find some new hot young thing to fuck you in the freezer in my absence?”
Ian’s joking, but the thought has crossed his mind. He doesn’t want to be like this, hates the very thought that he’s jealous of his own paranoid fantasies, but he can’t help but worry that out of sight, out of mind is a saying for a reason.
“Fuck you. I ain’t that desperate.”
Ian smirks a bit. “I don’t know, Mick. You’ve been pretty eager…”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Make me.”
It’s a challenge, and one he knows Mickey will rise to. Sure enough, Mickey tackles him, and they roll around a bit before settling. Mickey raises his knees, squeezing Ian’s hips between them, and Ian swoops down to kiss his neck. Mickey whines a little, and Ian trails his lips up to bite and suck at his earlobe. That has a glorious effect, and soon Mickey is thrusting up against Ian, trying to gain some friction. Ian smiles against his ear.
“You want me to fuck you, Mick?”
He can practically hear Mickey’s eye-roll even as he pants, “would you shut the fuck up and get to it already?”
Much as he loves to tease Mickey, Ian is all too happy to oblige. Fingers fly over belt buckles and zippers as they rush to touch each other. In no time at all, Ian is surging into Mickey, burying his face in Mickey’s shoulder as he adjusts to the exquisite heat surrounding him.
They establish a rhythm quickly, familiar with each other’s bodies, comfortable with what they like. It’s still so good – every time they do this, Ian marvels that it never stagnates, is never anything less than incredible. With Kash, at a certain point, they developed a routine – still pleasurable, but standard. Mickey, though – every time, Mickey is a revelation.
Ian thrusts into him harder, spurred on by Mickey’s moans and the fingernails scraping down his back. He places open-mouthed kisses against Mickey’s neck, wanting to touch Mickey everywhere, before pulling back to look down at him. To his surprise, Mickey is looking right back at him, eyes clear and open. Ian stares back, enraptured.
Ian presses into Mickey for a particularly hard thrust, and Mickey cries out, biting at his bottom lip. Ian tracks the movement, hungry to taste that lip himself. When he raises his eyes again, Mickey is watching him. There’s no panic in the blue eyes, no warning. Instead, Mickey drops his eyes to Ian’s lips as well before meeting his gaze again. And doesn’t look away.
Ian doesn’t hesitate. He surges into Mickey, covering his lips with his own. The press of Mickey’s mouth is like a hit of a drug – he’d been craving it, in withdrawal, desperate for another fix, and yet he couldn’t remember just how good it felt until it was back in his system. Ian moves his mouth against Mickey’s, sucking on his bottom lip, and Mickey, god, Mickey kisses him back.
Ian feels high, frenzied, crazy for this boy beneath him. He darts his tongue out, tracing Mickey’s lips, and when Mickey opens under him, meets his tongue with his own, it’s fucking magic. Ian moans, barely remembering to maintain a rhythm with his hips, completely lost in kissing Mickey.
He loses track of time, though it’s probably only a few seconds, but Mickey’s hands are in his hair and his tongue is in his mouth and Ian is pretty sure his entire body is trembling. His orgasm takes him by surprise, his senses so overwhelmed that he’s coming before he even knows he’s close, and he kisses Mickey through it, keeps kissing Mickey until they’re both panting and exhausted and spent. His head is starting to spin from lack of air, but he doesn’t care if he dies from this, if it means he spent his final moments kissing Mickey.
Eventually, though, Mickey pulls away, and Ian gapes at him. That just happened. He can still taste Mickey, feel the indentations of Mickey’s teeth in his bottom lip. Holy fuck.
He stares at Mickey, looking for shame, anger, but Mickey won’t look at him. His hand is still stroking Ian’s neck, though. That has to mean something.
Ian waits, holds his breath, hopes so fervently that this can stay, that they can remember this. After a moment, Mickey grumbles, nudging at Ian to move.
“You gonna fucking stare at me all night, or you wanna light up?”
Holy shit. Mickey’s not running. He’s still not looking Ian in the eye, but he’s not running. Ian can feel a flush rippling through his body, shocked and hesitant and on the edge of elation. This is it. This is them.
Ian rolls off of Mickey, trying to steady his racing heartbeat. “Yeah, sure, grab the stuff,” he manages to breathe out. Ian hears Mickey rustling around with the bag of weed, but he honestly doesn’t think there’s a drug in the world that could make him feel better than he’s feeling right now.
Mickey lights the blunt and takes a hit before passing it to Ian. Ian wraps his lips around where Mickey’s just were, but he doesn’t need the proxy anymore. Ian has kissed Mickey, really kissed him, and he’s going to do it again. He’s going to do it every day.
~
Two days later, Frank catches them at the Kash & Grab. Ian doesn’t kiss Mickey again for a long time.
~
When Mickey gets out, things feel different. There’s something hanging over them – the words Mickey spoke before he went back to juvie, the long months that Ian didn’t visit, the other people Ian was with in Mickey’s absence. He wants to explain, tell him that he only fucked Ned and the others to try to cover up the ache of missing Mickey with base sensation, but Mickey doesn’t ask, so Ian won’t offer it. Instead, they fuck like it’s simple, like they were never apart, and it’s good, of fucking course it’s good. Mickey doesn’t kiss him, though. And Ian doesn’t try.
~
Until he does. They’re in some alleyway, too starved for each other to make it to the abandoned buildings, and Ian is pressing Mickey into the wall, pulling at his shirt, fingertips glancing over the hard muscles of his abdomen. Mickey utters a sort of strangled moan, and it’s more than Ian can take. He leans in, intent on kissing Mickey, finally feeling those lips against his own.
But Mickey turns his head away. Ian freezes, hurt coursing through him, and Mickey looks up at him, aiming for nonchalant but revealing the guilt underneath.
“Just – don’t with that shit, alright?”
Ian feels like he’s been slapped. “That – what the fuck, Mickey?”
Mickey huffs, frustrated. “It’s no big deal, okay? We just don’t gotta do that kind of stuff.”
Ian’s head is reeling. This can’t be real. “We’ve done it before,” he fires back, jaw clenched, chin jutting out. He promised himself he wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t push, but fuck, he knew they were in a rough patch, but he didn’t realize they’d fallen back this far.
“Just shut the fuck up about it, man. We doin’ this or what?” And Mickey unceremoniously shoves his hand into Ian’s pants, and Ian hates his body for responding and hates Mickey for doing this and hates himself for thinking that they could ever just have this, for real.
~
Ian kisses Ned because he can’t kiss Mickey. He’s kissed him before, just part of the routine, and he lets Ned kiss him again, hoping to trick his mouth into thinking it’s enough. But Ned tastes wrong and he doesn’t sound or smell like Mickey, and it’s easy enough to fuck him, and Ned’s overeager tongue does nothing to quench the thirst Ian has for Mickey’s lips. In the end, he stops kissing Ned completely, but he doesn’t tell Mickey. He wants to hurt Mickey a little, the way Mickey hurts Ian every time he turns his face away when they fuck now. He stays with Ned because Mickey came back, but not completely. And fuck if Ian doesn’t miss him even when he’s right in front of him.
~
But Mickey can still surprise him. Ian taunts him, feeling this ugly edge creep into him. He isn’t afraid to kiss me. Not like Mickey. Just because Mickey doesn’t want him fully, doesn’t mean other people don’t.
And somehow, it works. Ian would feel a little guilty about how he went about it if the result wasn’t Mickey jumping back into the van and kissing him in broad daylight. Ian sits in the van long after Mickey’s departed, feeling the ghost of Mickey’s lips on his, finally, after so long. It feels incredible. It feels like hope.
That feeling flutters in his chest even when Mickey gets shot, even when the social worker arrives in the midst of chaos and drags them all away from home. His life is in utter disarray, but at least there’s this. At least there’s Mickey. God, there’s Mickey.
And Mickey asks him to spend the night and Ian corners him a few hours later and kisses him, hard and quick, and when he pulls back Mickey’s smiling.
~
This night is special. Ian knows it even as he stands in the doorway, Mickey on the other side, ready for him. Ian knows with absolute certainty that this will be one of those nights he will remember forever.
Even so, there’s hesitation, a kind of nervous awkwardness. He can’t call it first date jitters, not when they’ve fucked so many times, when they’ve been quasi-together for years. But still, there’s an urge to take it slow. Ian doesn’t kiss him at first, even though he wants to (he always, always wants to). First, he wants to just enjoy Mickey. Sit on the couch and drink and watch movies and joke around, because damnit, he just really likes Mickey. He wants to hang out with him. And he’s reasonably sure that once he starts kissing Mickey, he won’t be able to stop. He plans to never stop kissing Mickey again.
They keep on like that for a while, casually enjoying each other’s company, but at a certain point the pull is too strong. The movie is over, they’re well fed and a little buzzed, and Ian’s ready. He’s been ready for so long.
He moves towards Mickey, and Mickey meets him halfway, mouth opening readily under Ian’s. Mickey sighs into his mouth, and god, it’s so fucking perfect Ian swears he sees stars flickering behind his eyelids. He pushes Mickey down against the couch, kissing him again and again and again.
They stay there for a long while, trying valiantly to make up for lost time. Ian’s hard – it doesn’t take much, with Mickey – but he’s in no hurry to move this along. He just wants to savor this, to suck on Mickey’s tongue and bite at his lips and feel like finally Mickey might be his even slightly as much as Ian is Mickey’s.
They do move toward the bedroom eventually, but Ian can’t stop kissing him, pressing Mickey into the walls every few feet to bring their lips together. Mickey chuckles and tries to shove him off gently, but Ian bats his hands away before bringing his palms up to Mickey’s face, stroking his cheekbones as he devours his mouth. He feels hot and peaceful and so fucking happy.
The whole night is spent fucking and laughing and dozing off and then waking up to come together again, and every time Ian kisses Mickey, he feels another part of his soul click into place. It feels like that night in the dugouts so long ago, but it’s so much better, because Mickey’s right along with him this time. Ian is in love with Mickey and Mickey might love him back a little bit too, and Ian is completely, utterly sure that this is forever.
~
Forever ends the next morning.
~
He doesn’t like to think about that time much, what happened after. He remembers feeling agitated and off-kilter, remembers weeks of worry and a basement and frantic hands and lips and teeth and a foolish hope that he could have what he wants for fucking once.
Then he left and he doesn’t like to think about that time either, but he’s back and he’s different and he doesn’t need so much. People come and go, into his life, into his bed, and he doesn’t care anymore. He’s stronger now, full of energy and ideas, and he’s young and beautiful and people might love him but he doesn’t love them back. It’s better.
Still, when Mickey comes into the club, it all rushes to the surface, and he clenches his teeth to hold it in. He feels the rage, that anger still simmering, and he feels that other thing, fuck, but he won’t let it swell in his chest like it used to. He steels himself not to look at Mickey, don’t look at him don’t look, even as he presses Mickey into the couch and drags his back down Mickey’s chest.
He’s high, but he’s pretty sure that has nothing to do with how his skin is tingling, and that just makes him angrier, grinding into Mickey just hard enough to punish him. He doesn’t want to still feel like this. He had told himself he was free, but the lights and the coke and Mickey are wreaking havoc on his senses, and he’s just so mad. He turns to face Mickey, and he’s so close, and don’t look at him don’t don’t don’t.
But despite it all, he ends up in Mickey’s bed, and then in his own, with Mickey on his knees in front of him. He wants Mickey’s lips, wants them so badly, but he’s not ready for them against his own. He needs to be in control this time. He needs to be smarter. So he gets Mickey’s lips around his cock instead, and he whimpers and moans and swallows down the missed you’s that come bubbling up his throat. He won’t give it all to Mickey this time.
It doesn’t take long for the need to be too great, though. He needs to kiss Mickey, needs to feel him everywhere, and it’s eating him alive. But he watches Mickey in the club, uncomfortable, nervous, and decides it has to be here. He has to make Mickey choose, force him to try. Take something, Ian tells himself. Take something before you give it all away.
When Mickey kisses him, their lips finally meeting after so long apart, Ian reminds himself over and over again that he’s in control. Even as he loses himself to Mickey’s heat and taste and fucking amazing mouth, he keeps it close to him. But that doesn’t change the fact that with Mickey here, against him, with him, it feels like his heartstrings, so long out of tune, finally play a perfect chord.
~
There are so many kisses after that, soft ones, chaste ones, deep, filthy ones, all of them incredible, impossible to count. Maybe he should have tried to keep track, though, because when they’re pulling on their clothes in the dugouts and he wipes blood off of Mickey’s chin before leaning in to give him a quick peck, it never even occurs to Ian that it will be the last time.
It’s something he thinks about – not at first, not when the haze and the exhaustion and frustration are still so strong. But later, when shades of life are starting to creep in, when he has been in and out of the meds enough to know that things might feel better again, someday. That’s when the ache of missing Mickey breaks through the chaos in his mind. That’s when he remembers Mickey, and what he had. How he had waited and loved and pushed until Mickey was able and willing to kiss him whenever he wanted. And Ian cannot figure out how after all of it, he let him go.
~
It’s two years before it all comes together again. Mickey was gone for a while, Ian didn’t know where, and that was hard. Then Mickey was back, but he was bitter and angry and that was harder. But with time, they went from resentful exes to begrudging acquaintances to almost friends. And after a while, Mickey is smiling at him when he comes into the diner and Ian is sliding him a free piece of pie as he refills his coffee cup, and he feels better than he has in years. And sure, maybe he shouldn’t want to drag Mickey up from his table and kiss him senseless in front of his coworkers and the brunch crowd and even Mickey’s ridiculous fucking stack of pancakes, but what can he do. He may have less-than-friendly feelings towards Mickey, but he’s managing.
It’s a new form of torture, though, albeit a sweet one. Ian and Mickey are finally at a place where they can spend time together, just drinking and chatting like they did back during that glorious summer. And every time Mickey looks at him, his face open and content and fucking stunning, Ian has to bite his lip to keep from kissing him. It’s not his place anymore, not after he pushed so hard and then kept pushing, pushing Mickey away and out of his life. Ian is still in love with him – doesn’t think he ever really stopped, even if he lost sight of it for a while. If anything, it’s so much deeper, so much greater than he realized it could be. But he won’t force Mickey this time. Even if he has to chew on his lips and clench his fingers into his jeans to keep from reaching for Mickey, he’ll do it, just to keep Mickey happy and smiling and next to him.
In the end, it’s worth it all, every last bit of it, if it brings him this moment, the two of them back on their roof, Mickey pressing his palm to Ian’s cheek before bringing their lips together. His lips are soft and he sighs into Ian’s mouth and Ian thinks his heart may have just burst from happiness. He wraps his arms around Mickey’s back and pushes in as close as he can, and it’s perfect, and he wants to cry, from relief, from gratitude, but he just keeps on kissing Mickey instead.
He won’t lose this again, he promises himself. Even after two years, Mickey tastes the same, but Ian is different, and he won’t forget. He has worked so hard, dragged himself through everything life has thrown at him, and he loves this man so much. He must have said that out loud, because Mickey is smiling against his lips and whispering back, and god, Ian will do everything in his power to make sure that now, finally, this will be forever.
~
This time, forever lasts.
-fin