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It was a blisteringly hot August day. Ian was fairly sure there were already visible sweat stains under his pits and he could feel rivulets of perspiration running down his back. He should have planned better—worn something lighter colored and lighter weight. Brought extra deodorant so he wouldn’t smell rank—not that Mickey would give a shit, but it's not like Ian couldn’t try.
At least he’d gotten a haircut early that morning and shaved off his untidy beard—that alone had changed his face. Made him look younger, softer. More like the kid he’d once been—the kid Mickey’d fallen for with the freckles and the baby face. And he’d even used aftershave–Aqua Velva because he knew Mickey loved the smell of that shit but Ian hadn’t worn it in years. Not since Mickey’d gone into lock-up.
The hood of his beater, which had once upon a time been black but was so mottled with rust it was hard to tell, was hotter than hell so even though he was leaning against it in his best fitting jeans, his arms were crossed in front of his chest so he wouldn’t touch the hood by accident and burn the shit out of his hands—at least again. He’d done it a couple of times already.
Ian had been waiting the better part of three hours like that. And sure, he could be waiting inside the prison walls instead of in the middle of the blazing hot visitor parking lot—he could literally see steam coming off the pavement—but he had zero intention of setting foot in that prison ever again. He’d spent more than enough time there the last four years—had too often felt like it was his home away from home, especially when the place would go into lockdown and he’d be stuck there for days on end. Not that that had always been a bad thing—sometimes it meant he got more time with him. With Mickey.
But Ian was done—and fuck them for complaining he hadn’t given his full two weeks’ notice. He’d been a perfect employee for years—almost never called in sick, almost never showed up late. Never gave anyone crap if they didn’t deserve it.
If they’d just given Mickey the heads up about when he was being released a bit earlier, Ian could have timed his departure better. But since today was Mickey’s last day, it was Ian’s last as well. And if it screwed things up for everyone else in the kitchen—that was their problem, not his.
He thought back to the first time he’d stepped foot in the place. He’d been so green then—only having seen the public-facing side of a prison. The “safe” side. The “clean” side. The side that didn’t scare the living shit out of every unlucky person who walked through its doors.
He’d had no idea how different things were once you made it through the “back door”—once you got to see how the sausage was made. It was a whole other world behind the scenes.
It had flipped him the fuck out at first—being up close and personal to guys that were long haulers, lifers. Working shoulder to shoulder, ten hour days, five days a week, next to guys who unlike Mickey, were in there because they were actual murderers and rapists—a place where the Terry Milkoviches of the world would’ve had no problem calling home.
And the kitchens, where Ian had eventually held the title of shift supervisor, had been one of the scarier places to land. Where, on a daily basis, a crew of dangerous as fuck assholes—Mickey’s words, thank you very much—were provided access to all the many tools of a massive commercial kitchen. And trust Ian when he tells you, it wasn’t just the fucking sharp kitchen knives you had to worry about. At least the knives were chained up. That was something at least.
It wasn’t a popular gig for your run-of-the-mill cook like Ian was—plenty of access to scary motherfuckers with few, if any, morals and far too much time to kill—literally—while he, on the other hand, had no access to weapons of any sort to keep his own ass safe. He’d learned early on that his best course of action was to make friends with as many COs as he could, because he’d need them to bail him out if shit went sideways—or rather, when shit went sideways. It had happened more than once over the years and he had the scars to prove it.
But the kitchens had been an entry point into the prison, and that meant Ian got to see Mickey, five days a week for the last four years. No other job would have ever let him do that—and at the end of the day, that’s all that mattered.
It had taken him almost two years to get the gig in the first place—he’d needed to build his “resume” to get his foot in the door. He’d worked part-time at St. Bernard Hospital while getting his culinary arts certificate from Malcolm X. And then he’d asked Lip to do his “magic” because there was no prison under the sun that would’ve hired a guy with his mental health shit if he hadn’t found a back door in. Somehow Lip had scrubbed his records clean and the next thing Ian knew, he was gainfully employed by the State of Michigan, Department of Corrections.
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The first couple of years at St. Louis Correctional Facility were some of the hardest of Mickey’s life. One day he’d woken up to the news that because of upcoming renovations at Statesville Correctional Center, he was being shipped out to St. Louis, Michigan. And who the fuck even knew there was a St. Louis in Michigan? Wasn’t St. Louis in Missouri? He’d been a shit ass student but he was pretty sure of that much.
His new “home” was in the middle of fucking freezing Michigan. He supposed it was better than landing his ass in Texas at least.
From the time Mickey’d learned he was being rehoused, until the time he stood in front of his new bunk, a flimsy paper bag holding his miniscule belongings in his arms, only fifteen hours had passed. At least the administrative twits on top had communicated the bare minimum to his family about Mickey’s relocation.
And since he’d been brand new to St. Louis, he’d had to wait the better part of a month for his visitor list to be re-approved and longer still to get regular phone access. Even his mail took more than a month to get to him. It had been fucking miserable and Mickey’d been pissed as all get out.
At least they’d let him make a singular phone call upon his arrival—to let someone in the “real world” know he’d made it there safe and sound. He’d tried Ian first, but when he didn’t pick up, the asshole of a CO told him he’d have to try someone else, right then and there, or wait until his phone access was reinstated. So Mickey’d called Mandy—she was his best bet and still Ian’s BFF, whatever that bullshit meant.
Mickey’d been surprised when Mandy’d ordered, in no uncertain terms, “Don’t put anyone else on your visitor’s list, Mick. You hear me? No one else.”
“What the fuck are you talkin’—”
“You need to trust me on this. Just me on the list, got it?”
Mickey’d tried to argue but there’d been no time. Before he’d uttered more than a solitary sentence, the call disconnected. He’d been at St. Louis less than fifteen minutes and he’d already hated the fucking place.
Four weeks later, after receiving zero phone calls and not a single letter, Mandy’d shown up solo during Sunday visitor hours. He’d been sure Mandy hadn’t missed his crestfallen face when his redhead had been nowhere to be seen. Shouldn't've come as a surprise that Ian hadn’t been by her side—Mickey’d actually listened for once in his life and hadn’t added Ian to his visitor’s list. But knowing Ian wouldn’t be visiting and experiencing the reality of it had turned out to be two very different things. Not seeing Ian there had been a punch in the gut.
Bypassing pleasantries, he’d immediately demanded “What the fuck, Mandy?” as soon as they’d taken their seats on the hard metal chairs.
He’d expected her to grimace, look apologetic or the like. Instead she’d smiled and leaned across the table. “Play it cool, Mick.”
“Been goin’ nuts for the last month wonderin’ what you two idiots are playin’ at. You better start doin’ some explainin’ fast.”
“Keep your voice down, dumbass. He and I been talkin’ and we got an idea to get him in here with you.”
“You’ve both fuckin’ lost it!”
“For fuck’s sake, Mickey. Hear me out, okay?”
And Mandy’d proceeded to lay out the “plan” that she and Ian, in all their “brilliance,” had concocted.
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Ian had never expected how much planning and patience and hard work it would take to get a job at St. Louis. For the better part of two years, his only means of communication with Mickey was through letters that were sent under Mandy’s name. On paper, Ian had severed any connection he had to Mickey Milkovich. He’d never have been hired otherwise.
Ian knew full well that Mickey’d thought it was a bullshit plan—a plan that had left Mickey abandoned for more than two years. But Ian knew it was worth it the day Mickey looked down the serving line, and saw that Ian was overseeing it.
They hadn’t let their eyes meet that day—they’d been more than six feet apart from each other. But after all those years, they were finally breathing the same air, existing in the same space. And Ian knew that Mickey could feel him there, the same way he could feel Mickey.
It was close to another year before they got to stand anywhere closer—after Mickey’d been able to get himself a place in the kitchen. It was a highly coveted job for a prisoner—with real employment options once you “graduated” back out into the world. But that’s not why Mickey’d fought to be there.
Once they were working in the kitchen together, they got to interact—at least a little. Got to say words to each other with their own hidden meanings. They developed a private language that no one understood other than them.
But it wasn’t like they could touch—it was too risky. Not worth putting themselves in danger in a place where there were weapons a plenty and they were both fully replaceable except to each other.
Mickey was the one that started dropping little slips of paper on the floor, kicking them to the side before others could see. Leaving them for Ian to find. They never said much—-but a little was much more than nothing, which was all they’d had for so long. It took weeks and weeks before Ian started dropping his own—feeling safer over time as nobody seemed to take notice.
As the years clicked by, Ian rose up the ranks, making it incrementally easier to exist within each other's space—even if there always was a barrier between them. Even if there were always eyes on them, from every direction. All the time, without fail. But they were both there together, and that wasn’t nothing. That was everything really.
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Mickey’d never forget the first time he spotted Ian overseeing the cafeteria’s serving line. His heart had practically stopped—he’d been so overwhelmed by all the feelings he’d buried down deep—as deep as he possibly could—and then without any warning, they’d come right back up to the surface. Flooding him with so many emotions he had nothing he could do with—no way to stop them from taking over each and every part of him. He would have fled if he could—given himself time to think, to process, to breathe. But that’s not the way things worked in a prison cafeteria. That’s not the way anything worked in prison—where every part of you is trapped. Not just your body—that doesn’t matter. It’s your head and your heart that feel the walls closing in. Tighter and tighter by the day.
And today, his last day in this place he’s called “home” for the past six years, he is just as overwhelmed by all those feelings as he picks up his shit and heads back out into the “real world,” into the sunshine that is blinding his eyes and will be burning his skin if he doesn’t get moving. It’s hotter than Hades and he probably stinks but he's got places to be, people to see—well one person, only one person. His person.
His redhead is right there in front of him.
100 feet away.
50 feet away.
5 feet away.
Close enough to touch him.
Close enough to breathe Ian in. Smell his skin. Taste his lips.
“You’re burnin’ like a motherfucker,” are the first words that slip out of Mickey’s lips. Not “I love you.” Not “I’ve missed you.” Not anything sappy. That’s not him—not them.
And then arms are wrapped around him—squeezing him tight. So tight he can hardly breathe. But he doesn’t want to—not if breathing means letting Ian go. Because that’s never gonna happen—never again.
“You ready to ride?” Ian asks.
They both know the answer.