Chapter Text
It had taken weeks for them to fully settle in the West Side.
Turns out, signing the lease, packing your shit, and dumping it into their new apartment didn’t account for even half of the moving out. Now that they’re grown ass adults, they have an actual clean employer to report to, their own bank accounts to fill, furniture to buy, and utilities and bills to pay. In hindsight, maybe Ian should’ve known how hard it would be to live this far from the south side, like his husband so very clearly and very aggressively told him. But this is good. It’s a fresh start with just him and Mickey in a nice apartment with heat and no broken windows or remains of a dead relative.
Running in the new neighborhood is different, too. Everyone’s already awake as early as six in the morning, for one—corporate dudes sitting outside cafés, chattering into their laptops about back-to-back Zoom work calls, college students with tangled earphones balancing an iced coffee and a tote bag in one hand, and joggers like him, but with their overcomplicated gear, sucking on a weird gel as they ran.
He must stick out like a sore thumb with his faded shirt, holed sweatpants, and worn out sneakers. The stares are just as hard to ignore as the polite smiles and occasional waves towards him. He returns them with his own. It’s pleasantly surprising how easy it is for him to make friends in this neighborhood; he could stand on a random sidewalk and someone would undoubtedly approach him.
Pausing by the gates, Ian looks up at the whole expanse of their building. It feels unreal to come home to this when he didn’t even realize he wanted it in the first place. He sighs deeply. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt this good.
It’s a lot, but it’s good.
Mickey’s still asleep by the time he gets back, face down on the bed and lightly snoring. The sun shines through the window, washing over him in warm streaks. Suddenly, Ian’s ready to go back to bed.
He strips off his sweaty clothes and knees across the bed to climb over his husband. Leaning down, he presses his nose to the back of Mickey’s neck. He smells like clean cotton and the faint trace of Ian’s soap, because god forbid he uses his own. Ian leaves a trail of kisses on his bare shoulder down, down, down to the dip of his lower back. Slipping his fingers up his thighs and underneath his boxers, he pushes up the material and bites into Mickey’s asscheek.
Mickey shifts underneath him with a groan.
Ian softens the nip with a kiss. “Good morning.”
Grumbling, Mickey gets more comfortable. “Better make it good, Gallagher.”
Ian smirks as he nuzzles Mickey’s smooth skin. It’s amazing how this body has been rendering him crazy these past years. Nothing’s ever disarmed him in so many ways as this one has, and it’s all his. He can have it anytime, anywhere, and all he has to do is make it good.
And he makes it good .
Again, and again, and—
“Again?”
Mickey huffs out a tired laugh, tipping his chin back against his pillow as a lazy grin spread on his lips. He looks good. He feels good, and Ian pushes past the discomfort as he nudges his hips into him again. Mickey’s eyes roll into the back of his head, his own hips attempting to twist away from him, only for Ian to grab them and pull him back in deeper. “Fuck, man.” he breathes a sigh, wincing. “That’s the third fucking time. I ain’t getting any younger.”
Ian leans down to nip at his shoulder. “Come on,” he goads, biting lightly, “just one more time, baby.”
A hand twists in his hair and pulls him back roughly. He’s met with Mickey’s scrunched up face—he didn’t like the ‘baby.’ “Ew, also, get off me.”
Ian groans. “Just your hand?”
“No. Let me sleep in peace, you horndog. ” Mickey pulls off his cock with a grimace before collapsing back on his chest.
Huffing, Ian lets himself be pinned back on his pillow. He tries to get comfortable as he shifts under Mickey’s weight. The buzz has settled into a low hum, but it hasn’t dulled completely; it’s right there under his skin, persistent. His hand drifts to his half-hard dick, lazily palming himself. His hips roll into it but it’s not enough, he needs—
Food. He needs food.
A man on a mission, he wiggles from his husband so he could get up on his feet. Mickey squints one eye open when he’s rudely jostled. “The hell, man? Get back here.”
Ian presses a loud, wet kiss on his cheek as he slips on his boxers. “Gonna make you some breakfast.”
He ends up using the last of their eggs—all twelve of them. He cracks them in a bowl and dumps the scrambled mess on a hot pan. “It’s my life, it’s now or never,” he finds himself humming under his breath, feet tapping against the hardwood. “I ain’t gonna live forever!” He snatches the wooden spoon from the counter. “I just wanna live while I’m alive!”
He laughs to himself as he dances in his kitchen. His kitchen! The one he bought with his husband and their hard-earned money, in the nice apartment building they call home. God, he loves it here.
“It’s way too fucking early for this.” Ian whips around to see Mickey making his way over, covered in his threadbare robe loosely tied around the waist and nothing underneath. “Heads up.” he tosses something in the air. Ian neatly catches it; it’s his pill bottles. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Eggs.” Grabbing one pill from each bottle, Ian washes them down his throat with a big gulp of coffee.
Mickey rubs at his eyes as he looks at the heaping plate, almost glaring. “You feeding a family of ten or somethin’?”
“I got hungry!”
Mickey snorts out a laugh. Grabbing two bowls from the cupboard, he serves himself some eggs. Ian leans against the counter and allows himself to look at his husband. He’s captivating, moving around in their own space like this. He’s comfortable enough to stroll in half-naked, bitching about breakfast with no one to bitch back at him. Well, today, at least, because Ian’s in an indescribably good mood and he’s gonna let his husband complain and grump all he wants.
Mickey notices him looking. He leans a hip on the counter, giving Ian his full front of bare chest. Jesus. “You’re disgusting,” he says. “It’s barely eight in the morning. Stop eye-fucking me.”
Ian grins, feeling feral. He crowds against Mickey, placing his hands on the counter on either side of his waist. “You want me to do it for real?”
Mickey raises an eyebrow. “How ‘bout you get some food in you first, stud?” He doesn’t even wait for Ian to answer; he scoops a forkful of eggs and shoves it into his mouth. Ian simply accepts it on instinct, making Mickey laugh, amused. “Your horny ass is gonna make us late. Trish already chewed us out last time.”
“Since when are you the responsible one?” Ian opens his mouth for more.
Mickey feeds him again. He smacks Ian on the chin when he tries to chase his fingers with his mouth.“Since you woke up with your dick screwed on, apparently.”
Ian smirks wolfishly. “Wanna take a look?”
“Jesus Christ, let me eat in peace.” Mickey pushes him off to grab himself some coffee. He fills up a mug, which Ian promptly snatches from his hands.
Backing off, Ian hops up the counter instead. “Her schedule is stupid, anyway. Can’t we have our own?”
Mickey raises an eyebrow at him. “You looking to get unemployed? We’ll be off the roster if we get another strike.”
“Then we do our own business!” Ian exclaims. He downs the rest of his coffee in four gulps. “Like, a coffee shop or whatever. You know it’s booming everywhere here, it’s insane.”
“Right, we’ll be one of those yuppies with the hippy corner stores selling nonfat caramel sweet cream fucking…macchiatoccino or some shit.”
“What? It’s a good idea!” Mickey delivers a warning slap to Ian’s bare thigh, making him yelp. “Ow, Mick!”
“Get dressed, dumbass. We’re gonna be late.”
The suggestion has Ian perking up. He immediately forgets the sting as he hops down from the counter. Walking his fingers down the marble and up Mickey’s arm, he leans down towards him. “Or…we can take a shower together?”
Smirking, Mickey holds his gaze. He’s never one to back down from a challenge. But then, he raises a palm to push Ian’s face away as he walks off. Ian huffs to himself. He would be kicking a rock if there was one around.
But then Mickey turns around as soon as he gets to the bathroom, leaning on the doorway and untying his robe. “The fuck are you waiting for?”
Ian clambers towards him like a starving man.
——
“Hey, guys!”
Ian shuts the back of the van as Jill and Alan make their way over. Jill is looking as chipper as she always does, but Alan looks like he’d rather swim in Ian’s contaminated pool water than come over.
Beside him, Mickey murmurs under his breath, “Oh, fuck me.”
Ian reaches for him to straighten his collar. He gets his hand slapped away before he even gets to do it. “Be nice,” he says, before turning to their neighbors just as they reach them. “Hey, guys.”
“Ian,” Alan greets curtly, then he looks at Mickey. “Michael.”
Mickey’s eyes roll to the back of his head. “Fuck no.” He shrugs off Ian’s hand and stomps away.
Alan’s lips curl up in amusement. It’s the only time Ian’s ever seen him smile. Beside him, Jill sighs. “I said be nice, honey.”
The slam of their car door has Ian wincing. “So, what’s up?”
Jill brightens up. “Well, we’re hosting a small get-together tomorrow night and you have to come! Everybody’s gonna be there.”
Ian’s instantly hooked. Being in a party, meeting new people—it’s his element. “Yeah! That sounds great,” but, “I gotta check in with the husband, though.”
Alan turns to Jill. “Remind me to bolt down our chairs, sweetheart.”
“Alan,” Jill hisses at him, before beaming right back at Ian. “He’s kidding.”
Ian’s already laughing, tossing his head back and clutching his stomach. Alan is so funny. “Ha! Good one, Al!”
Jill laughs with him, but it’s stilted as she exchanges a look with Alan, who simply shrugs.
“Ian!”
Ian jumps.
Jill waves him off. “Go! Sorry for keeping you. We’ll see you both tomorrow, okay?”
With a final wave, Ian watches them go. He joins Mickey in the van, immediately receiving a glare even before his seat can warm up. “What the hell was that?”
Ian braces himself. “They invited us to a party.”
“A party,” Mickey says slowly, like it’s a foreign word, “with a bunch of bourgies we barely know. The last time we went to a party, we ended up getting blown by six different twinks, Ian.”
The image automatically conjures in Ian’s mind—Mickey on a couch, two dudes knelt between his spread legs fighting for a turn while he watched. Ian shifts in his seat, and then a clipboard is chucked to his face.
“What the hell, Mick!”
“Stop fucking thinking about it!” Mickey barks. “Jesus, what is up with you lately?”
Ian groans as he rubs his nose. “It’s not an orgy. Come on, it’s Jill and Alan.”
“That’s your bargaining chip? I don’t give a shit about Jill and Alan!”
“It’ll be fun,” Ian insists.“Didn’t you like the food last time, at least? They got champagne, those little cheese cubes with the ham on it.” Even with nostrils flaring, Mickey looks like he’s beginning to warm up to the idea. Ian decides to lay it on thick, reaching over to squeeze his thigh. “We can just stick to the booze and the food, stand in a corner for thirty minutes, then we’ll go.”
Mickey seems to mull it over in his head. Eventually, he huffs, shoulders relaxing. “You really want to go?”
The warmth spreads through Ian’s chest. “Yeah, they’re nice people.”
“Alan constantly bitches at me,” Mickey points out.
“And you lost the towel he let me borrow when I asked you to take it to the laundry, Mick. I’d say we’re even.”
“I didn’t lose it; it disappeared,” Mickey mutters. “Fine. Thirty minutes, and we steal a plate of leftovers.”
Ian loves this man. “I love you.”
Mickey rolls his eyes, his cheeks flushed pink. “The things I do for your pale ass.”
——
“I’m just saying, they invited us. Who cares if we’re late?”
“It’s not polite. Can we just…” Ian fusses with his collar and tugs at the sleeve of his jacket. He stops by the hallway to look at his reflection at the elevator. He already looks great; he picked out his best shirt, his tightest jeans. Everything is even Mickey-approved. Still, there’s something off that he can’t put a pin on.
“Let’s go, then,” Mickey says behind him, impatient.
“Just…wait a second.” Ian huffs, running his fingers through his hair in a desperate attempt to fix it. He needs to grow it out at some point; he misses his undercut.
“Christ, come here.” Mickey roughly tugs at his jacket. Ian lets himself be pulled and pushed to an awkward bow for Mickey to fix his hair for him. When he’s done, he straightens Ian up and gives his ass a sharp smack. “There, all pretty, princess.” Ian bats him away before his dick could get any ideas.
The party is at the rooftop deck. People are already milling about—some huddled by the fire pit, a few side-stepping on the makeshift dance floor, and the others by the open bar. Everyone’s talking and laughing and dancing. Ian aches to join these people, get to know them, make friends. All that West Side dream.
“Hm,” Mickey says, stepping up beside him, “not bad.”
“Yeah? It’s nice, right?” Ian reaches for his hand and gives it a squeeze.
“You still owe me some cheese cubes.”
Ian laughs. Cheese cubes it is.
Just like he promised, he gets his husband his small plate of ham and cheese cubes, topping it off with chocolate strawberries and a handful of nuts, while he gets himself a beer. Mickey seems to like it, surprisingly. He fills his palm with cashews that he occasionally tips towards his mouth so he could fill his cheeks like an overgrown chipmunk. Ian’s two attempts to pluck a few pieces from him gets slapped away. The corner they find is a good vantage point, giving them the full view of the bar and the dance floor.
“I found a love,” the speaker croons, “for me.”
Ian perks up.
“Darling, just dive right in. Follow my lead.”
Ian reaches for Mickey’s wrist, shaking him lightly. “Mick, it’s our song.”
The sudden jostling rattles a few of Mickey’s nuts off his hand and onto the floor. “Ay, my cashews!”
“We gotta dance.” Ian bounces on his toes. “Let’s dance. Come on.”
“Not in front of these idiots we won’t.” Mickey shrugs off Ian’s hand to dust off his palms.
Ian is not pouting. “Please?”
“I never knew you were the someone waiting for me.”
Mickey looks from the dance floor and up at him. Ian answers with a slight tilt of his head and a small smile. He knows Mickey recognizes the look on his face; it’s the same one that’s got him faltering since they were seventeen and nineteen, right under the blue and purple lights.
“We were just kids when we fell in love.”
The sigh Mickey lets out is long-suffering as he lets himself be dragged to the floor. He rolls his eyes in annoyance, but the smile on his face widens as Ian lifts his arm and twirls himself under it. He voices out his amusement, “You’re an idiot.”
Grinning, Ian tugs him closer, leaning down to wrap his arms securely around him. He hears Mickey grunt as he takes half of Ian’s weight. “You’re not getting any smaller, Gallagher.”
Just to be a little shit, Ian shifts his entire weight on him like a giant koala, making him stumble. “Jesus, fuck,” Mickey curses as he rights them back to their balance, but not without thumping a fist on Ian’s broad back.
Ian laughs and it makes Mickey relax under him. “You happy now?”
Ian feels it bubble in his chest—that deep-seated warmth that he’s never gotten from anyone but Mickey. It spreads to his fingertips that he uses to stroke Mickey’s cheek as he pulls back to look at him. “The happiest,” he murmurs, gazing at those blue eyes he’s been swooning for for about ten years now. “You?”
And because he’s Mickey, he only huffs and says, “You know damn well.”
They stay for the rest of their song, barely dancing and mostly holding each other as they sway on the poorest side-to-side shuffle. It’s over too soon and the song morphs into something more upbeat.
“Ian! Mickey!” Ian looks over to see Jill waving at them, beckoning them over to her little group. Heart thrumming excitedly, Ian drags Mickey by the hand as he weaves across the space.
“Jill, hi!” He greets his friend with a hug.
“Oh!” Jill exclaims, surprised. It takes her a second but she returns it nonetheless. “I’m so glad you two could make it! Come, come.” She leads them to her friends, all who give him and Mickey polite smiles. “Guys, let me introduce you to these two. This is—”
“Hi!” Ian jumps forward to shake the hand of Jill’s friend, and the next one, and the next one, and the next one, all while he prattles along, “My name’s Ian! Just moved here a few weeks ago. Beautiful place. We came from the south side so you know, it’s a big move.”
The others wait expectantly.
Mickey roughly clears his throat behind him.
Ian startles. “Right. Uh… this is my husband, Mickey.”
“Don’t sound so excited,” Mickey scoffs.
The group chuckles. Thankfully, Jill steps in and saves him. “So, these are my friends. This is Riley, Nate, Ash, and Alfie. They’re content creators.”
Mickey’s face scrunches. “Content what?”
Riley begins, “Well, we make—”
“It’s like a social media thing, Mick,” Ian answers for him. “They create all kinds of content stuff, upload it online. Videos, blogs, websites.”
“Basically, yeah, but it’s a lot more than that,” Nate points out, eyeing Ian carefully. “We work a lot with professional brands, manage their marketing production, that kind of stuff.”
Ian lifts an arm and wraps it around Mickey’s shoulders. “Mickey and I are security couriers. We work under an agency, but we handle a lot of executive clients, too.” He feels Mickey’s eyes on the side of his head.
Riley asks. “Security couriers?”
“Yeah! We transport high-value stuff, super confidential.”
“What kind of stuff?” Ash tilts her head curiously.
Ian smiles. “Pharmaceuticals!” Mickey sighs. “It’s a risky business. We actually got held at gunpoint once! Can you believe that?”
“That sounds…concerning.” Alfie blinks, sending a look towards her friends.
Jill chuckles. “Yeah, that’s uh…actually really crazy.”
Laughing, Ian bats a hand. “It’s pretty funny! You see, we were carrying buttloads of cash, right? Like bags of them right in the backseat. I see this very suspicious car right at our tail so naturally, I turn to Mickey and I say, ‘I think someone’s following us’, ‘cause duh–” He feels a nudge on his arm and he shrugs it off, “and get this, another van appears out of nowhere and cuts us right off the road! So we’re panicking and panicking,” Mickey coughs loudly beside him, “so we get out of the car. There’s like six guns pointed at us in broad daylight. And then–oh, you won’t believe this! The guys turned out to be Mickey’s–!”
“Alright!” Mickey roughly grabs him by the shoulder, plastering a too big of a smile towards the group. “That’s a little wild for champagne, babe. We don’t wanna scare them off.”
Ian’s heart is pounding through his chest. He feels electric , his spine tingling and skin buzzing. “I’m just getting to the good part, though!” he argues. “We’re all having fun, right, guys?”
The five of them exchange looks in stunned silence.
Ian scoffs, his hackles rising. “Seriously? You know what–”
Mickey pats Ian on the chest, hard, with his fist. “Okay, why don’t we get a drink first, huh? I’m thirsty.” Without waiting for an answer, he bodily shoves Ian away from the group.
Huffing, Jan lets himself be led away. “What the hell was that, Mick?”
“You’ll get our asses kicked out of here by tomorrow. No one needs to know about our goddamn business, Ian.” Mickey levels with him a glare.
Ian tears away from his hold, roughly straightening his jacket. God forbid he just wants them to fit in and have some friends. It’s not his fault everyone else is a bunch of pussies.
Mickey sighs behind him. “If you’re gonna throw a fucking fit, do it at home.”
Ian ignores him as he makes his way to the bar. He needs something to take the edge off. “Hey,” He nods to the bartender, “whiskey, on the rocks.” The man makes quick work of pouring his drink before sliding it across the bar.
Mickey reaches him just in time to grab it. “You’re not drinking. Not on your meds.”
Ian grinds his teeth. “It’s one glass, Mick.”
“And you get fucked up after three beers, lightweight. I’m not letting you get hammered here.”
Ian flexes his fists. “I can handle it.”
“Handle it another time.”
The dismissal has Ian clenching his jaw. The pressure builds at his temples. The ringing in his ears begins. The noise is gradually drowned out—the lame music, the fake laughs, his husband’s fucking nagging. He’s not gonna lose his shit here, but he’s getting real close so he has to do something.
“I’m gonna dance,” he decides. “Is that something I’m allowed to do?”
When Mickey lets out a loud breath and scratches his eyebrow, Ian knows he’s starting to get on his nerves. Eventually, Mickey simply nods towards the dance floor, taking a seat by the bar. “Do your worst.”
Ian shrugs off his jacket, leaving him in his tight black shirt, because he can. He also dumps said jacket on Mickey’s lap, because he fucking can.
The handful of people crowded on the dance floor are paired off, and Ian plants himself right in the middle. The music beats through the speakers, enveloping him in rhythmic waves. He lets his body remember. It’s been too long since he danced like this—limbs loose and mind free. He feels dozens of eyes on him and he lets them look, soaking in their stares. The world feels scattered but it’s bright and intoxicating and even euphoric, like he’s standing on the very top of it.
“Hey!” someone from his right says. A total stranger, probably a neighbor, “I like your moves!”
Ian beams at the compliment, running his hands through his hair. “Thanks!” He’s about to turn away, but apparently the guy wasn’t done with him.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. I’m Alex.” The guy, Alex smiles, offering a hand. Ian immediately notices the glint of a wedding band and he relaxes.
“Ian.” He reaches to shake his hand. “Just moved in a few weeks ago, actually. From the south side.”
Alex blinks at him, jaw dropping. “You’re kidding, right? Dude, me too!”
Ian snorts out a laugh. “No, you’re fucking with me.”
“Oh, buddy, I got the scars to prove it.” Alex grins. “My wife can vouch for me. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
Ian is led to the firepit where a few others are gathered into a game of poker, heading straight for a blonde woman who’s most likely the wife. As they approach, Alex grabs Ian by the shoulders. “Mia! We got another Southie over here.”
Letting out a sigh, Mia presses her lips into a tight line. “Babe, you can’t just adopt everyone from the south side. We already have enough as it is.” The other two around her snicker.
Ian takes a good look at the group. All of them don’t look any different from the others, but they have a certain kind of roughness only one would get from a hard past. The slight hunch of the shoulders, the stubborn jut of the chin, the thick calluses on the knuckles. “You’re all from the south side?”
“Born and raised, brother,” one answers with a knowing smirk.
“See?” Alex, much like an overeager puppy, shakes Ian by the shoulders. “You thought you were the only one who got to get out of that shithole, huh?”
The others scoot from their places to give Ian a space and he eagerly takes it. He sits between Alex and Mia who offers him a beer that he actually likes. He snorts in amusement as Lena complains and reshuffles the cards so he could join in. He accidentally spills his second bottle on Jordan as he cheers after winning the first round, and he cackles when Jordan beats him on the second. He kicks his feet up from laughing too hard and almost burns his shoes off at the firepit.
It’s easily the best he’s felt since moving here. There’s no need to fit in; he just does.
After a few hours that felt only like minutes, the party eventually subsided. Alex is the first to tap out, standing with a yawn. “Alright, I’m beat, and I got yoga early tomorrow.”
Mia snorts out a laugh as she follows. “As much as I wanna stay, this one’s gonna get cranky if he’s not in bed by eleven.”
“Same here.” Jordan grunts as he gets up from the couch. “But unlike buddy boy over here, I actually got work.”
Mia chuckles as she kisses Alex’ flaming cheeks.
“Boo, you wussies.” Lena jeers. She gets a double middle finger thrown at her way by the two men, and she sticks her tongue out at them in return. She looks back at Ian. “And you? What lame excuse do you have?”
Ian chuckles. “Actually, I gotta get back to—” it hits him then.
He whips around to look at the bar. The dance floor. The stairs. All the corners. Shit.
Alex frowns. “You okay?”
Wincing, Ian scratches at his eyebrow. “Yeah, uh. My husband. I can’t find him.” Shit.
The others perk up, intrigued. It’s Jordan who asks him first. “You came here with your husband? Dude, why didn’t you say so?”
Ian simply cringes.
“Ooh, someone’s in trouble,” Lena teases.
Ian gets to his feet and the world tilts.
“Woah there.” Alex grabs him by the arms to steady him, concerned. “Are you seriously drunk right now? We only had a few drinks.”
Ian shakes his head but it only blurs out everything. “Sorry,” he manages, “Lightweight.”
“Aw, now I feel bad.” Lena pouts.
Mia steps towards him, matching Alex’ worried face. “Ian, can you walk home? If you can’t, we can come with you.”
Ian waves a hand. He thinks, “It’s…it’s okay.”
“You sure?” It’s Jordan this time. “If you break your neck on the way home, that’s not gonna be on us.”
“Jordan,” Mia chastises.
Ian takes a minute for himself, screwing his eyes shut as he pulls himself together. It’s only a few beers. He can’t embarrass himself more than he already has. He can handle himself. He’s been handling himself.
So he gets a fucking grip and straightens up.
He brushes off two more offers of a walk home before they negotiate and decide to take him to his floor, instead. When they do, Ian gives them a wave goodbye and a promise to meet again.
“And take your husband next time, alright?” Alex says just as the elevator doors close.
Ian heaves a deep sigh, leaning his head against the metal.
His husband.
Right.
——
Ian braces himself as he steps inside.
The apartment is dark, saved by the moon shining through the window in the living room. It’s quiet, almost eerily so; Ian waits for a few seconds to see if Mickey would jump at him and kick him back out. It doesn’t happen, and their bedroom door remains firmly closed. As he grips the doorknob, he holds his breath and only lets go once he realizes it’s unlocked.
Mickey’s asleep. He’s laying on his side of the bed with his face buried on Ian’s pillow. Even in his sleep, he looks downright pissed.
Ian’s chest tightens. It’s not like he meant to ditch him. He would have come right back if Alex hadn’t swooped in and lured him with his southside buddies. He would have…
He would have, but he didn’t.
The bed shifts under his weight as he carefully climbs up the bed and settles beside Mickey. He reaches up to smooth the frown between his husband’s eyebrows, leaning in to press his lips on the space.
“Mhm,” Mickey rouses, and then the frown is back in an instant. He’s still sleepy enough to forget what happened, so Ian takes advantage of the tight five-second window to scoot even closer. He fails. As soon as Mickey feels him moving, he pushes him away and turns on his other side. He should know that that move is useless, because Ian simply wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him back to his chest.
“Fuck off, you asshole.” Mickey groans, trying to twist away from Ian’s persistent lips as they find his neck.
Inhaling deeply, Ian nuzzles him. When the heat blooms in his abdomen, he easily surrenders, and it charges the longer he stays plastered to Mickey’s skin. And oh, he does. His tongue darts to trace the fold behind his ear, huffing out a breath that makes Mickey shiver. His hand finds Mickey’s chest, fingers splayed as he keeps them pressed together. His hips begin a slow grind, rolling it against Mickey’s back—
Until an elbow jabs at his ribs and knocks him back on the bed.
Mickey hovers over him, hand heavy over his chest. “I told you,” he growls, “to fuck. off.”
Winded, Ian lets himself be pinned. “Okay, okay. I’m–”
“Save it,” Mickey snaps. With a deadly glare, he pushes himself away once again, leaving Ian to fend for himself.
Ian rubs his hands over his face. He stares longingly at Mickey’s back, knowing that it’ll be the only part of his husband he’ll get to look for at least a day.
Sleep doesn’t come easy for him and he blames it on the beer. He spends the next two hours tossing and turning and getting up and pacing and stretching and more pacing. He would go out and run, but he’s already in the doghouse and he’s not an idiot to risk it even more. Eventually, his body begins to protest; his muscles get heavier, his eyes start to burn, and the ache in his temples get even worse. Still, his mind runs miles per second and he’s already tried everything.
Except.
His body moves on autopilot. Before he realizes it, he’s heading straight to the bathroom, but not without snatching the lube from the nightstand. He doesn’t waste any more time as he kicks off his boxers and gets his slicked hand on his half-hard dick and oh, it’s so good. He’s fully hard in seconds, his cock red and weeping as he strokes and strokes and strokes. The pleasure pulses through him and his hips fuck forward harder and faster.
Somehow, it’s not enough.
Pulling his hand off his cock, he grabs the lube so he could squeeze a glob on his other hand, all over his fingers. He’s never really tried it on himself before, but if Mickey says it's as good as he says it is, he’s sure as hell can do it to himself, too. So he reaches back with a slicked finger and fuck, it stings. He’s never going to get used to this feeling, but somehow, he can’t stop. His body craves it more than ever.
He gets a hand back to his dick and brings it back to its full stand, the other pushing his finger in deeper. It’s not a good angle—standing like this, wrist bent awkwardly and shoulder pulled back—but he needs it, even more than he wants it. So he sucks it up and plays with himself even as his knees shake and his arm cramp.
“Fuck,” he gasps, tossing his head back against the wall. He needs—
He pushes another finger in. It’s too dry and it tears him open but he can’t stop. He should be doing this in bed with his husband. Mickey would get on his knees and give it to him—get those full lips around the head of his cock and that tongue all over his slit and those fingers fucking him deep. Ian could just lay back and savor it or he could make use of his own hands and play with his nipples, touch his balls, join Mickey’s fingers in his ass. And if that wasn’t enough, he could get another set of hands; Alex’ felt nice on his shoulders, and Jordan’s are even bigger than his—
He freezes.
The cold seeps into his skin, killing the heat in an instant. His heart pounds against his heaving chest and it steals the breath from his lungs. When he takes his hand off his dick, and his fingers out of his ass, it hurts, yet he can’t bear the thought of touching himself again. Not when he just…
The nausea rises too fast for him to stop it. He staggers to the sink and the bile burns his throat as it surges out of him. Each gag and heave wracks his body until he’s trembling. It’s over in seconds but something uglier stays with him longer. When he looks up at the mirror and sees the man staring back at him, only then does he realize what it is:
Disgust.
No.
No.
Hands shaking, he runs them under the sink and wipes them off. The pill bottles rattle as he pulls the drawer open. He takes one out and unscrews it, spilling the tablets on his palm. He counts each and every one of them. He counts the days and the weeks and the numbers turn out to be right on all three bottles. Not one pill is out of place, because he took them. He swallowed them every morning and every night and there’s no way he’d forget even a single dose because he’s…
He’s better now.
It’s the alcohol. It has to be. He’s shitfaced and he knows he shouldn’t be but that’s all this is. He can sleep it off, wash it down with water, and it’ll all be back to normal. He’ll be back to feeling great—alive, even.
He doesn’t know how long it took, but he eventually manages to drag himself out of the bathroom. Instead of his boxers, he pulls on some sweatpants and a sweatshirt. When his skin is covered, only then does he begin to calm down. Standing by the bed, he hesitates. He never did before—never with Mickey, but something’s pulling him back this time.
Of course, Mickey’s instinct chooses that time to wake him up. Ian watches as his husband flips onto his stomach, arm sweeping on the space where Ian’s supposed to be. When it comes up empty, Mickey blinks his eyes open, jolting as soon as he sees Ian hovering.
“Oh, jeez,” he starts, collapsing back on the bed. “The hell are you doing up?”
Ian fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “Can’t sleep.”
Mickey feels for his phone and taps it awake, squinting. “It’s three in the morning.”
All Ian gives him is a lame shrug.
Mickey sighs. Without a word, he grabs the covers and pulls it back.
Ian blinks at him.
Mickey rolls his eyes to the back of his skull. “Christ, are you gonna get in or not?”
Ian’s heart swells. He knees his way back to the bed, scooting at the very end of his side so Mickey can still have the space he wanted.
But then Mickey’s following him, shuffling until their bodies are molded together. He places his head on Ian’s shoulder and his breath tickles as he nestles his face against Ian’s neck. He budges even closer, lifting a leg lock with his and resting an arm over his chest. With one last wiggle, his weight settles against Ian’s side—warm, grounding, familiar. Home.
Ian gets his second chance to hold him tight and he greedily seizes it. He secures an arm around his shoulders, the other grabbing the hand on his chest so he could lace their fingers together. He breathes a lot easier, then.
“That better?” Mickey murmurs, relaxing. He asks it as if he’s not heaven himself.
Tilting Mickey’s chin up, Ian smiles at the puzzled look on his face, still sleepy and grumpy. He makes it up to him by kissing him stupid, keeping it gentle and soft as he parts his lips and lightly nips at that bottom lip. When Mickey meets him halfway, he can’t help the breathless moan that slips out of him. For a moment, Ian lets him take over. Mickey’s kisses are sweet enough to dull the bitterness on his tongue, and his little sounds silence the storm in his head. He ignores the acid in his throat, the sting of his ass, and the raw ache of his dick. He forgets the nauseating thoughts that he refuses to be his.
He pushes away everything else; they don’t matter any more than this.