Archive of Our Own

The splinters in his hands have splinters, and they never seem to go away. Mickey's supposed to wear gloves, but he's shit at keeping things level without actually touching the wood while he's working.

He digs his lower canine deep into the flesh of his fingers as he clocks out for the night, trying to pry the little bastards out before he gets home so he can forgo tweezers, just wash his hands with peroxide and pass the fuck out.

He feels irrationally pleased with himself when he spits the last of them out about a block from his complex.

 

•••

 

Mickey begs off going to the usual bar with his coworkers. They'd completed an order quicker than expected and the boss' boss had given them the rest of the day off as a reward. The sun's still setting as they pile outside, a backdrop of purple and gold behind them as they jog down the steps and shove at one another.

They're the closest thing he's got to friends, and usually he'd go with them; have a drink or two, shoot the shit, and then leave to do his own thing.

They know he's — the way he is. Gay, or whatever. It's never been a thing. Sometimes one of the guys will tap Mickey on the shoulder when they spot a guy cruising him, will offer to go to a gay bar with him. Mickey appreciates it, but there's no way in hell that's ever happening.

At the birthday party they threw for him last year, they got Mickey beyond drunk and made him promise to bring any potential boyfriends around. In the morning, once he'd sobered up, Mickey had wanted to laugh himself sick once he remembered it, but Mickey's never been the laughing type, sick or otherwise.

Looking back on everything that he's gone through in his life — dropping out of school before his voice finished changing, moving out of his father's house not that long after it finally did because the relationship between him and his dad had reached a literal do-or-die, stumbling his way into his current job through multiple trials and errors that left him near-starving more than once — the one thing that seems the most impossible to achieve is finding a guy who's not only into Mickey, but who's willing to deal with all the shit that comes with him.

It's nice to know they don't think its beyond the realm of possibility, though.

So, they turn left and Mickey makes a right. For some crazy reason he's got a good feeling about tonight.

 

•••

 

Mickey looks up from where he'd been playing pool and spots a guy he doesn't recognize at the bar. He looks Mickey's age, maybe a bit younger, and Gabe, who's on bar duty, isn't even pretending to be willing to serve him a drink. It's probably the red hair and freckles. Even in that army-camo getup of his he looks like somebody should probably hold his hand whenever he crosses the street.

Mickey slides up behind him and says the first thing that comes to mind.

"This' what living in a post-Don't Ask, Don't Tell world is like, huh?"

Admittedly, it's not his best line.

 

•••

 

He's always liked sucking dick, but this is something else.

Mickey's got G.I. Joe shoved up against a wall out back in the alleyway, mouthing at the head of his dick. It's big; long and fat enough that Mickey's practically gagging on air with how badly he wants it down his throat.

Which is exactly what he does with it.

With his eyes closed everything feels like sensory overload. He's acutely aware of the tears slipping out from the corners of his eyes, rolling down the planes of his face just as intensely as he feels his throat work around the dick that's stretching his mouth as wide as it'll go.

Mickey pushes down further, presses his nose deep into the skin and short curly hairs of G.I. Joe's groin and inhales, makes it so that as far as Mickey's concerned, the universe ends and begins with what's happening between them right then and there.

G.I. groans like he's dying and cradles both sides of Mickey's face with his fingers, pulling Mickey even more into his body. Mickey opens his eyes and all he can see is the pale, freckled skin of G.I. Joe's lower belly. They're so close together that whenever Mickey blinks, his eyelashes brush against the skin and muscle in front of him; it's a strange sensation that only makes everything feel just that much more.

When he comes down Mickey's throat, Mickey doesn't even think of pulling back or spitting. He swallows dutifully, the light headed feeling slowly making its way through him has him pulling back just enough to get his throat free of dick so that he isn't risking passing out. Mickey mouths to mouth at his dick as he slowly begins to go flaccid, not wanting to give up his mouthful and take the kid up on his promise of reciprocation just yet.

 

•••

 

As if to balance out the universe, the next Friday has Mickey working overtime as they rush to finish an order that's had its due-date upped to Saturday. They don't clock out until way after the sun sets.

Mickey's tired. He should probably go home and sleep until Monday morning. He's been having trouble falling asleep all week, can't stop thinking about the redheaded army dude he hooked up with the previous Friday.

He'd sucked Mickey's dick like a dream and looked gorgeous doing it, but Mickey can't kick the phantom ache in his own mouth, feels as if he can still taste sweat and skin when Mickey licks at the roof of his mouth.

He hasn't jerked off this much since he was twelve and the mailman accidentally left a copy of the Chicago FD's charity calendar in the Milkovich's mailbox.

Mickey knows that there's no sleep waiting for him back at his place.

He doesn't expect for the guy to be there, because life's never been that good to Mickey before. He figures that he'll skulk around until he finds someone who hopefully has a dick big enough to help Mickey forget about unusually hung redheaded army brats.

G.I. Joe is there, in the same spot Mickey picked him up last time, except now the seat to his right isn't empty. There some late-20's loser mackin' on him, but he doesn't seem to mind, based on the pairs of empty glasses spread between them, he's been talking to G.I. for a while. Mickey's so focused in on them that he can make out their voices over the low hum of various conversations throughout the rest of the bar.

"So, Ian," the loser says, and suddenly Mickey knows his name. "You wanna get out of here?"

Mickey's pissed. Pissed that he learned the name of the dude he's been having non-stop wet dreams about from some asshole academic that Mickey would have beaten up and robbed not four years ago, just for the hell of it.

Pissed that Ian came back to one of the few gay bars Mickey feels comfortable at, just to hook up with someone who isn't Mickey. Ian's good looking enough that he could pick up anywhere; he's got no right to take this away from Mickey.

Even worse, Mickey's mad at himself for being pissed in the first place, doesn't know when he managed to get himself this worked up over some random trick; mad that he didn't pick up on the signs and nip it in the bud. He never should have come out tonight.

He somehow managed to come in behind a couple of big bulky dudes, so Mickey's pretty sure Ian hadn't spotted him when he walked in. He's only been inside for a couple minutes, but he knows that if he stays any longer the chance of him being ID'd go up, and Mickey doesn't want to deal with that level of humiliation.

The last thing Mickey wants to know is if Ian takes that loser up on his offer or not.

Luckily, a group of guys make their way to the door and Mickey slides out with them as they leave.

Jerkin' off by himself for another night sure as hell won't kill him.

 

•••

 

The Friday after that, Mickey decides he won't let one hookup dictate what he does or doesn't do.

He stops by his house after work and changes out of his dirty clothes, showers. Mickey tells himself that he isn't doing all this shit just for the off-chance that he might run into Ian again, and he almost believes it.

Thirty minutes later he's shrugging off his jacket and taking a seat at the bar, rapping his knuckles along the countertop.

"Someone's got his eye on you," Gabe says as he slides up to him, prying the top off a bottle of Mickey's usual and setting it down in front of him, before making his way to serve another customer.

Mickey freezes, dread and anticipation warring against one another in his stomach. He snatches up his drink and takes two long pulls, nearly finishing it in one go, before turning around to face the music.

It's not Ian.

Instead it's a guy with blond hair that's just long enough to cover his ears. He's got this puppy look to him, and Mickey tells himself that he's what Mickey wants.

He follows Mickey out back to the alley and Mickey uses two tight fistfuls of his hair to guide him through sucking his dick.

Mickey heads back the next week, expecting more of the same: he looks for Ian as soon as he enters. He tells himself he isn't looking for anyone in particular, let alone Ian, and then he grabs a bottle of his usual and heads back towards the pool tables to kill time until he settles for whatever guy meets his eyes the longest.

He's reached the pool table part of his plan when his eyes flick towards the door for what has to be the twentieth time that night — he's told himself a million times that this time will be the last time he'll let his eyes stray to the doors, expectant, but it never is — and sees Ian walk through it. Mickey blinks, sure that his eyes are fucking with him, that it's some sick joke his brain is playing on him, but no, Ian's still there and he catches sight of Mickey nearly as quickly as Mickey spotted him.

Mickey can't stop himself from smiling sharp, predatory. He bolts for the hallway that leads to the alleyway behind the bar, takes for granted that Ian will follow, that Ian walked through that door and was hoping to spot Mickey.

Sure enough, Ian's practically pressed up against his back before Mickey's even reached the back exit, the wet, shallow inhalations of his breath making the shorthairs along Mickey's neck stand on edge and curl.

"Fancy seeing you here, Captain America," Mickey says to break the silence they've been standing in for a solid minute, both their backs pressed against either sides of the walls that make up the alleyway. Ian's staring at him like they haven't seen one another in years, like Mickey's a ghost, like he's the lone oasis in some dry as hell desert that Ian's been withering away in.

It would creep Mickey out if it didn't turn him on so fucking much.

His voice breaks Ian out of the trance he was in and he crowds his way into Mickey space. It's everything that Mickey wants, but he still freaks out when he realizes Ian's leaning in to kiss him.

Mickey jerks his head to the side and stares at Ian out the corner of his eye, aghast. "Kiss me and I'll bite your fuckin' tongue off," he tells him. His heart is racing a mile a minute and Mickey has no idea why, it's not like they've even had a chance to really grind their dicks together yet.

Trying to regain his bearings, Mickey reaches behind him for the condom his stuffed in his back pocket at the last minute before leaving the house and sticks the foil packet between Ian's lips, hoping to move past whatever the fuck just happened and get them back on track.

"Now fuck me already."

Ian keeps staring at him. Mickey wonders if the mood is gone, feels himself get pissed at Ian for ruining their night before it even began, for trying to kiss him out of fucking nowhere when he doesn't even know Mickey's name — doesn't know that Mickey knows his name — and then has the nerve to get weird when Mickey tells him no. He's still willing to fuck Ian, so where in the fuck does Ian get off being awkward when Ian's the one who made shit weird in the first place.

Right when Mickey's about to shove him away and just go the fuck home, Ian snaps out of whatever the fuck was wrong with him and pulls the condom out from between his teeth.

Mickey spins around, glad that Ian's gotten with the program and even more relieved to not have to keep eye contact with Ian any longer. He works at getting his getting his belt and fly undone so he can shove his jeans down to his thighs.

He told himself he wasn't hoping to meet up with Ian, but Mickey was hoping to find somebody that he felt okay enough around to let fuck him. Most guys usually assume that he's a top, and Mickey doesn't care enough to correct them, but it's been a long time since he was fucked and he's aching for it; nearly brought himself to tears in the shower he took before coming out with just his fingers.

It's why he made sure to bring a condom. He knew that he needed to be fucked bad enough that he'd maybe settle instead of being choosey like he usually is. For whatever reason, Mickey feels comfortable around Ian, and he's grateful that Ian actually showed up tonight — alone — to save Mickey from himself and whatever shame and regret would have followed him home after fucking the first guy that asked.

Ian drops to his knees and shoves the tails of Mickey's button-down up so that he can get at his ass, grabbing twin handfuls and squeezing rhythmically.

"Hey, would it be cool if..." Ian trails off, distracted. Mickey waits a beat for him to finish his thought, and when nothing comes Mickey goes to ask him just what the fuck he wants but he's cut off by the hot, slick slide of Ian's tongue licking up his cleft.

"Fucking—" Mickey barks out, surprised, his body suddenly lit up like a live wire. "God, yes." He pushes his ass back against Ian's face, reaches behind him to grab at Ian's hair. Mickey bites at the forearm he'd been using to shield his forehead from the brick of the building, trying to muffle his moans and breathy grunts.

Ian keeps his mouth on him for a solid ten minutes at least, long enough that his jaw has to be aching, licking and sucking and bringing his fingers into the mix. Mickey feels right on the edge of coming for the entire time, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes because of how good it feels, how long its been, imagines how good Ian must look going to town on Mickey's ass.

Jesus, Mickey's never had anyone do this to him before, but shit, he's thought about it — done more than thought: fucking daydreamed and watched porn focused around it, jacked-off fantasizing about it. Mickey didn't even have to ask; Ian's doing it because he wanted to and fuck, Mickey doesn't want to come without Ian's dick inside of him.

"Please," Mickey flat out begs, his voice a wreck. "C'mon, fuck me. I'm good. I promise."

Ian pulls away and bites the swell of Mickey's left cheek, not teasingly, but hard, hard enough that Mickey knows his skin will hold angry red imprints as soon as Ian lets go, hard enough that the indentations of his teeth will be purple bruises tattooed onto him for at least a week if not more. It's all Mickey can do to gasp wetly against his arm and clinch his fists against the pain, the angry pulse of it synched up with the throbbing of his dick.

Mickey's toes curl within the confines of his shoes.

Ian pulls back, for real this time, pressing a kiss to Mickey's abused skin. He stands tall against Mickey's back, bracketing them together. Mickey feels him duck his head down so that his mouth is pressed close to Mickey's ear. He can't stop the shiver that runs up his spine with Ian tears the condom open, Ian's cheek pressed flush against Mickey's.

Mickey can feel the light graze of Ian's knuckles against his back as Ian rolls the condom onto himself, feels the press of Ian's fat dick against his hole, the steadying press of the hand Ian rests on Mickey's lower back as he guides himself into Mickey's body.

They don't last very long, but it's more than enough for Mickey. The time Ian spends pounding into him feels like an eternity after the workout Ian's mouth put him through. Mickey cants his hips back and gives as good as he gets, using the wall as leverage to push himself back, fucking himself back onto Ian's dick.

The rhythm of Ian's hips start to falter around the eight-minute mark, the tell-tale sign that his orgasm is approaching, and Mickey's fine with it. He keeps pushing back, trying to get Ian to come first, but Ian has other plans.

He reaches both arms around Mickey's waist and wraps one around Mickey's dick, using the other to cup his balls, squeezing them in time with his jerky thrusts. Ian jacks him off at a rapid pace, the influx of miss-matched stimulation is too much for Mickey, and he comes, hard.

Ian's right behind him, grinding up against his ass, the muscles of Mickey's body clamping down so tightly that he probably couldn't pull out comfortably even if he wanted to. Mickey's dimly aware that the sounds they're making makes it seem like they're dying, and he never wants it to stop.

As they're doing up their pants Ian says, "So, uh, I can be here this time every Friday. If, um, you can, too?" It's worded like an offer, but it sounds like a question to Mickey.

He's still riding high off his orgasm, body loose and aching. The bite marks Ian left on his ass are still stinging pleasantly. Mickey knows that by the time he gets home he'll feel more empty than pleasantly loose, and that the marks Ian left on his body will have him bitching to himself during his shift the next morning.

Still, in that moment he feels more than content, doesn't remember the awkward and flighty way his heart nearly burst from his chest when Ian tried to kiss him when they first stumbled into the alleyway, and so he says sure, and thinks to himself that it's not really a standing date so much as a scheduled booty-call.

 

•••

 

Mickey was right, his ass fucking smarts and his arm is irritated from being pressed up against that damn brick wall for nearly an hour.

His co-workers smirk at him and the way he basically hobbles across the workroom all day. He's glad that he doesn't have the type of job that required group showers; the set of imprints Ian left on his ass are detailed enough that Mickey's sure a dentist could make a mold off of them. There's no way he'd ever be able to live the teasing they'd inspire down. He'd have to quit and move to a whole new fucking state to escape it.

Still, that doesn't stop Mickey from shoving his hand down into his boxers each night, rubbing his dick raw to the memories of Ian's teeth pressing into his skin, the ache that still radiating through his body from them making the memories of that night just that much more real.

 

•••

 

They meet up the following Friday and Ian fucks Mickey again. It's just as good as it was before, except that Ian didn't rim him this week, leaving Mickey feeling slightly disappointed. That one time has him hooked, but he has no idea how in the hell to ask Ian for it again.

He's gotten another set of teeth marks for his troubles, this time along the curve his neck where Ian bit down as he came. The ones on his ass have just starting to transition from deep, achy purple to a yellow-green pallor.

Mickey lets Ian rest against him as they come down from their orgasms, enjoying the feel of Ian inside him while they catch their respective breathes, Ian's body pressing him against the wall of what he's come to think of as their alleyway, his weight making it just that much harder for Mickey's lungs to get enough air.

Ian starts to ask him something but Mickey cuts him off with a breathy laugh, already figuring what it is that Ian wants to ask. "Don't worry, I came, dude. No complaints on my end."

Mickey pulls away, feels Ian's dick slip out of him as Mickey ducks down to get his pants up. They're pushing their luck by loitering around with their pants around their ankles; without the thrill of sex clouding his senses, Mickey isn't all that keen on getting busted for public indecency.

"No. I mean—I know," Ian rushes to say, awkwardly clamping three of his fingers around his softening dick to keep the condom from slipping off and disappearing into the leg of his jeans. "I was going to ask, uh. What's your name?"

Mickey freezes for half a second before going back to doing up his fly. He'd nearly forgotten that Ian doesn't know his name, that he shouldn't know Ian's. He doesn't want to lie, and he sure as fuck doesn't want to explain how he managed to learn Ian's name, so instead he says, "Yeah, that's not gonna happen," and fucking flees from the alley, hopes that Ian didn't manage to catch sight of the embarrassed flush staining Mickey's face.

 

•••

 

The main boss gives them a rare day off in the middle of the week as a reward for all the weekends they've put in over the past month, so Mickey spends Wednesday running errands.

He does a couple loads of laundry, one with the shit he's been wearing to the bar and another with his work clothes. He makes a run to the grocery store to restock his fridge. Mickey even drags out his second-hand vacuum and does a cursory pass with it over his living room carpet and the rugs he keeps in the bathroom and kitchen.

By noon he's finished everything off his chore list and feels bored out of his mind.

Every month Mickey sends some money back home to his siblings, enough to help if they've gotten behind or just for pocket money if they've managed to cover the bills themselves. Usually he just mails it or has one of his brothers come pick it up, but since he has nothing better to do he figures he might as well take the train into his old neighborhood and drop it off himself.

Mickey sends out a group text when he's halfway there, unsure of which one of them may have had their phones shut off or maybe had their numbers changed. He's nearly at their stop when Joey texts him back, saying that they're all at home and that Terry's locked up again.

It dawns on him that he hadn't even really considered running into his father, and now that he has, he doesn't feel overly scared or threatened at the thought. Mickey still isn't exactly sure when the abject terror Terry instilled in him died off, but he can't say he isn't glad for it.

He drops off the money and makes small talk with his brothers and sister, all of them neatly side-stepping any mentions of Mickey's romantic life. Mandy's still in school and isn't knocked up, which is great, and all of his brothers are gainfully employed and aren't locked up, which is all that Mickey can ask for.

As he's leaving they all hug him, even Tony, and it's the least awkward Mickey's felt around them in a long while.

Mickey's still left feeling on edge as he leaves, lights up once he's back on the sidewalk to help calm his nerves. He decides to go for a walk to the little corner store and buy another pack of smokes so he wont have to do anything once he gets back home.

He flicks the last vestige of his cigarette down at the gutter just as he reaches the door of the Kash'n'Grab. Mickey's trying to remember if he forgot anything important on his trip to the grocery store this morning, working out the logistics if it's worth grabbing what he forgot from here and lugging it back home with him on the train.

He glances at the guy manning the register — he's a redhead, and Mickey has found himself drawn to men with red hair recently, everyone from his mailman with strawberry blond hair to the latest pornstar's he taken to beating off to the most, something Mickey is doing his best not to think too deeply on — and realizes with with start that it's Ian.

His Ian. Who's smiling at Mickey like he's the best thing that's ever walked through that door. Mickey feels the shock at seeing Ian outside of the bar — in the real world, in the light of day — bleed out of his body and he can't help but smile back before he catches himself, sucks his lips into his mouth because his face just wont quit now that he accidentally let it show in the first place.

Mickey stuffs his hands into his pockets and makes a b-line for one of the isles, eyes skipping over the items lining the shelves, unseeing, as he chances looks over his shoulder to see if Ian's still staring his way. Every time Mickey gets up the nerve to look, Ian's looking right back at him.

"Can I help you find anything?" Ian calls out, voice cracking.

Mickey finds courage in Ian's nervousness, uses it to look at Ian fully and smirk at him as he walks backwards deeper into the store, keeping eye contact with Ian as each step Mickey takes puts more distance between them, even if it feels like they're getting closer.

"Naw, I got it."

He grabs the first things he sees and takes them up to the register, asks, "This place got a Friends & Family discount or somethin'?"

"What, you my friend now?" Mickey's completely entranced by the way Ian's smiling at Mickey as he teases him, blindly ringing up the shit Mickey dumped in front of him.

"Sure as shit ain't your family," Mickey mumbles back dumbly. He does the quickest scope-out job of his life, half-assedly glancing around to make sure they're alone in the store before reaching out his hand to press his thumb up against Ian's lip, pulling it down so he can see into Ian's mouth.

Both of their breaths pick up and Mickey's just about to suggest Ian lock the door and flip the 'We're Open' sign to 'Closed' when something crashes in the freezer at the back of the store.

They jump away from one another, the owner popping his head out half a second after they spring apart to ask Ian to do something until he notices that Ian's with a customer.

Mickey bristles at the thought of being written off as just a customer, doesn't like that he's without a solid place in Ian's life, one that warrants special consideration outside of social niceties.

Before he can think too hard on just where in the hell the burning deep in his gut came from, Ian says, "I was planning on taking my break after this," whining at the end, letting his boss know that he's interrupting something without coming out and saying it matter-of-fact.

The burning within Mickey turns into something warm, and he can't stop himself from tacking on, "Yeah, Pops, I haven't even paid yet and you're killing the view for me, so why don't you keep your ass in the back and let the kid finish ringing me up."

It's the sort of thing that usually makes him want to punch his own face in, both from the stupidity and recklessness of it, but Ian's laughing before he has the chance to regret it, and the regret never settles in anyway.

They head to the park once Ian finishes ringing him up, the bag full of Mickey's shit — two bottles of blue Gatorade, a pack of gum, a pack of cigarettes, and a Slim-Jim — swinging between them as they walk.

"How long's your break?" Mickey asks as he herds Ian into one of the cleaner stalls of the park's men's room.

"T—twenty minutes," Ian stutters. Mickey realizes he can feel Ian's breath ghosting across his lips and wonders just when in the hell they got so close. He drops to his knees, doing his best not to dwell on the almost-kiss he nearly initiated, and gets Ian's pants down around his knees.

Mickey blows him for the full twenty minutes, his jaw aching perfectly by the end of it . When he's done he slaps Ian on the ass, fondly, in response to Ian asking if he could return the favor.

"Your twenty minutes are up, firecrotch. Get the fuck out of here before your dumb ass gets fired."

He can't help but squeeze his dick through his jeans as he watches Ian leave, every line in his body screaming its reluctance to leave Mickey's side; Mickey finds that nearly as much of a turn-on as having Ian's dick down his throat was.

"See you on Friday," he calls out, voice teetering between teasing and genuine longing.

 

•••

 

Mickey's completely dead after work on Thursday.

He drops down onto his couch with a stiff drink and flips through the channels, wanting to unwind a bit before he passes the fuck out. Days like this he's prone to have nightmares or just straight-up dreams that he's back at work, putting in a full eight hour shift in his sleep that leaves him feeling like he hadn't got a wink of sleep once he wakes up, and he isn't in the mood to deal with either of those options tonight.

He settles on some show that's half-way finished on HBO, wanting to catch the movie thats coming on afterwards. Mickey drains the rest of his glass and sets it down onto his coffee table before flopping down sideways and pulling the blanket he keeps tossed over the back of the couch down onto him.

Mickey's never actually watched whatever show it is that's on, but he has seen commercials for it. One of the main character guys is going at it with his boyfriend, kissing him like they've got all the time in the world.

Both of the actors are hot, so it's not like it's a chore for Mickey to watch them go for it like they're headlining in softcore porn. Mickey's mind starts to wander, and he can't help but think about the time that Ian tried to kiss him,or the time he almost kissed Ian without noticing. He falls asleep right around the start of the movie he wanted to watch.

In his dream, Mickey wakes up before his alarm. When he opens his eyes he sees that Ian's there with him, awake and smiling softly at Mickey as he slept.

Ian notices that Mickey's awake and he smiles wider, leans in to press a kiss to Mickey's lips, chaste. Mickey opens his mouth and sucks Ian's bottom lip into his mouth, the same one his thumb played with when they ran into one another on Wednesday.

Ian presses himself against Mickey's front when they finally pull apart for air, curling his longer body into Mickey's shorter one.

"Call in sick today," Ian demands. "Let's just stay home together."

Mickey thinks about it, knows that he has saved up vacation days that he hasn't gotten around to using yet. "Sure, alright. Why the fuck not?"

Ian beams at him, radiating happiness as he tips his head down to kiss Mickey again. They stay like that for a long while.

In the morning when Mickey wakes up for real — alone, body curled up on the couch because he never did make it to bed — he can still feel the phantom press of Ian's lips against his.

 

•••

 

Mickey gets off of work later than usual that Friday so he has to make a mad dash to his apartment. He showers, cleaning himself throughly even though he doesn't have the time for it. There's been something he's been craving for the past three weeks and he'll be damned if he misses out on it because he was in a rush.

To make up for the extra time spent in the shower, Mickey does the most half-assed, barebones job at drying himself, tosses on the first outfit he can pick out that doesn't completely clash before taking off through the door, shoving his phone and keys and wallet into his pockets as he runs down the stairs, taking them three at a time.

He grabs hold of Ian as soon as he spots him, dragging him back out into the deserted alleyway.

"I took a shower," he tells him, just in case Ian somehow managed to miss the way that Mickey is practically dripping in the spring chill of the evening. Ian starts licking behind his ears, where the skin is damper than the rest of him from the way his hair is still dripping.

"Which means my ass is squeaky clean. Clean enough to eat off of," he tacks on because Ian still hasn't said anything. Ian moans, finally catching on to what Mickey's been hinting at.

Ian pulls back to stare into Mickey's eyes, and they're within kissing distance again. Mickey stares at his lips, transfixed, and says, "You owe me. From Wednesday." In his mind he adds, I dreamed about you last night. You owe me for that too.

Mickey tilts his head up and parts his lips, willing Ian to close the gap.

"I like how you think you'll enjoy this more than I will," Ian says around a laugh. Mickey's willing to take that bet; he's never kissed before, not for real, and he can't imagine wanting to kiss anyone more than he wants to kiss Ian right then.

They're talking about two different things, though. Ian drops down onto his knees and undoes Mickey's pants, turns him around so he can bury his face in Mickey's ass.

Mickey remembers the disappointment from a few weeks ago when Ian hadn't rimmed him before they fucked. What he's feeling now feels more intense than that, hits him someplace other than his dick, for whatever reason, even though kissing isn't anything other than a type a foreplay, just like this is.

 

•••

 

Mickey spends the whole week thinking about kissing Ian — kissing Ian while they fuck, kissing Ian after he gives Mickey a rimjob, kissing Ian as they greet one another at the bar, kissing Ian as they go to sleep — and starts to go crazy from it. He decides that if Ian's too dense to pick up on all the countless clues and opportunities Mickey fucking laid at his feet the Friday prior, then Mickey's just going to have to be the one to kiss Ian first. He figures that it can't be that hard.

He's so entrenched in thoughts of kissing Ian — of how he'll do it, when, where — that he forgets the old worries that plagued him originally, forgets the things that made him hesitant in the first place.

Ian's talking to some guy when Mickey arrives at their usual time, and it throws him for a loop. Usually he gets there before Ian does, and the few times he's run late, Ian's always been lurking near the entrance, waiting for Mickey — alone. His first instinct is to hide, to leave and go home before Ian can catch sight of him.

Mickey shakes off that thought as soon as it settles over him. He's seen the way Ian gets around him, both when they're fucking and even when they're just talking. The way he's looking at the guy he's speaking to now is nothing like that, isn't even in the same category.

It just looks like Ian's talking to some guy while he waits for Mickey to show up, trying to pass the time. Mickey tells himself that's all it is, wills himself to believe it, to not punk out and run, to ignore all his instincts that are telling him to do just that.

Ian jumps a bit when Mickey slides into the booth next to him, turning Mickey's way with hardened eyes like he's looking for a fight. Once he realizes its Mickey who's next to him his eyes light up and his face practically glows. Mickey knows that he made the right choice in coming over, in not running.

"Hey," Ian greets him, drifting forward. Mickey's sure that Ian's going to try to kiss him, feels his own body tense up in anticipation, but then Ian changes direction and just bumps their shoulders together. "You're finally here." The happiness in his voice helps keep the disappointment Mickey feels over Ian aborting their kiss at bay.

"Two and a half hours: that's a long time to have somebody wait," the guy Ian was speaking with notes. Mickey had nearly forgotten that he was there, can tell that Ian forgot he was still at the table too. Mickey's eyes lock in on him, unwavering.

Ian says something about it not feeling that long, sounding vaguely relieved, but Mickey can't be bothered to actually listen. He wants to know why this man is here, why he's still here.

"I'm Jon," he introduces himself after the silence that's settled over them becomes awkward. Jon sticks out his hand to shake Mickey's, but Mickey's having none of it.

"Let's go," he says to Ian, standing up. He wants to leave, but instead he stays by the side of the table, waiting for Ian to make his choice instead of trying to force it.

Ian says goodbye to Jon and the interloping asshole actual has the nerve to ask for Ian's number right in front of Mickey, despite it being obvious that Ian's his.

Mickey hovers close at Ian's side, just slightly behind him, holding his tongue as Ian rattles off his number so that Jon can type it into his phone.

Mickey thinks about how he doesn't have Ian's number, isn't even supposed to know Ian's name, and can't help but get mad at himself. He had a bunch of chances to learn those sorts of things from Ian but instead he's found himself discovering them from the outside looking in, getting peaks at Ian's personal details while he shares them with other men. It's maddening.

Ian nearly knocks the two of them over when he turns around, obviously not expecting Mickey to be so close behind him. Mickey grabs his wrist and tugs him away from the table and out the front entrance of the bar, the two of them spilling out onto the sidewalk.

Mickey still feels too tight in his own skin, something boiling just under the surface, although fuck if he knows what it is. All he knows is that he doesn't want to be at the bar anymore, feels the itch of needing to just get the fuck out.

He starts walking, hand still clutching Ian's wrist, but not tight enough that Ian couldn't pull away if he wanted to. They wind up in Millennium Park, and something inside of Mickey tells him that this is far enough, so he drops down onto one of the empty park benches and finally relaxes.

"Jesus, you got a warrant in that part of town or somethin'?" Ian plops down next to him, huffing and puffing as he catches his breath.

Mickey ignores the joke, his hand clinching into a fist where it rests on his thigh. "Why were you there for three hours?"

"Spent most of the day in the city with my brother. I shoulda snuck into a movie to kill some time or whatever, but I went straight to the bar. You’re usually there before me so I don’t know what time you actually show up, but I figured I’d risk it. The wait really didn’t feel that long, and you're here now, so," Ian trails off.

Their eyes meet and Mickey realizes how weird he acted, even though he had been forcing himself to be as calm as possible throughout the whole thing. "You need to get your shit together," he says embarrassed, "You're a mess." Mickey wonders if Ian can tell that he's talking more to himself than he is to Ian.

He stares down at his legs, starts drawing patterns against the grain jeans to keep from having to look into Ian's eyes. "That happen to you a lot? Guys buying you drinks'n'shit?"

"It got me you, didn't it?" Ian kicks at his legs playfully. "I'm sort of a catch, in case you couldn't tell. Other dudes got eyes too, man. You'd better be nice to me, or I'll walk." Mickey knows that Ian's just kidding around, but it hits too close to the root of Mickey's fears for him to feel comfortable joking back about it.

Mickey shoves at Ian in lieu of replying, hard enough that Ian slumps over onto his side, half-laying on the bench, his breath still coming out pretty hard. Mickey supposes that Ian's got to be more tired from their little field trip than Mickey originally expected.

"Yeah, okay," Mickey agrees noncommittally after a while. He stares at Ian's body, at the way he's slumped over and sleepy-eyed, looking a hell of a lot like he had in Mickey's dreams, when Mickey's mind conjured up pictures of them falling asleep or just waking up, and he blurts out, "I'm hungry. You wanna eat?"

"Yes," Ian agrees instantly.

Mickey figures he should do this right. Plans on taking Ian to dinner and then either riding the train back with Ian or inviting Ian to stay in the city and sleep at his. Either way, Mickey would lean in close once they reached either of their doors and kiss Ian, nice and chaste. Ian wouldn't pause or freeze up, because he's been wanting Mickey to kiss him just as badly as Mickey himself has been craving it, and after that Ian will know it's okay to kiss Mickey whenever he likes.

As soon as he spots a dark alleyway, though, Mickey realizes he doesn't want to wait — can't bear to wait any longer. He drags Ian into the shadows and tells himself that he's going to kiss the hell out of Ian, just get it out of the way so his mind will stop building it up into this big epic thing that has him nervous as hell to initiate, but changes his mind at the last second.

Instead he presses kisses along Ian's jaw, trying to give himself something to hold him over. Ian doesn't comment on it, just tips his head back and starts letting out these little breathy sounds, giving Mickey full rein over the vulnerable skin of his neck.

Mickey doesn't want their first kiss to be in some dark alleyway. Mickey can have sex anywhere, wants to have sex with Ian everywhere, but he doesn't want to have this particular thing happen in the dark. When he looks back on it, he wants his memories of it to have warmth and light surrounding the feelings it'll bring up in him, and the dark intimacy of this place just doesn't feel right.

Embarrassed at himself, Mickey buries his face in Ian's throat and gets to work at sucking a hickey there, knows from experience that Ian bruises even easier than Mickey does, knows that it'll show up as soon as he pulls his mouth away. There's something about Ian's skin that's had Mickey hooked since the moment Mickey first tasted it, Mickey can't get enough of it, doesn't think he'll ever have his fill.

Ian's moaning, and Mickey smiles up at him with his eyes, putting the finishing work on the hickey he's worked onto Ian's neck before pulling away, surveying the mark he's left on Ian's pale, freckled skin.

Mickey's enraptured by it for a bit, thinks of how long it'll last on Ian's skin, takes in how he can still make out the smattering of freckles through the blood that he sucked up to the surface. It looks like Ian's got a whole constellation right there on his neck, the freckles stars in the dark purple backdrop of blood staining his otherwise spectral skin, and it's only there because Mickey willed it into existence with his mouth.

"C'mon," he says eventually, relishing in the shiver that makes its way through Ian's body. "I said I'd feed you."

Mickey takes him to the nicest place he can afford. He's only been once before, when one of the interns took all the full-time guys there as an attempt to butter them up and get them to give him an A for his final grade.

Mickey makes sure to pay for the both of them once they've ordered, wanting to make it as clear as possible without spelling it out that this is an official date.

The table they decide on is cramped as hell and Mickey wouldn't have it any other way. Ian's bony knees knock into Mickey's underneath the table as they eat. The second time he does — blatantly on purpose — it Mickey captures Ian's feet between his, keeping Ian's legs tangled tight within his own as they finish eating.

Once they're done Ian stacks their plates and moves them off to the side so that the tabletop isn't so cluttered. Mickey stares at him, charmed for whatever reason. For a lot of reasons.

"You've got," Mickey starts, noticing a bit of sauce that Ian managed to miss. He realizes that he doesn't want Ian to have to clean it off himself, that Mickey wants to be able to do that sort of thing for him, so he leans across the table and thumbs Ian's lip clean, popping his thumb into his own mouth once he drops back down into his seat to suck the sauce off it.

"Um," Ian says, getting the look in his eye that usually precludes him reaching for Mickey's dick. His eyes flit around the interior of the restaurant, probably searching for a bathroom for them to duck into.

That's not what Mickey has in mind, though, even though his dick is telling him it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. His eyes have been catching on the bruise he put on Ian's neck, he can't help but think about making more constellations, whole galaxies of them, bloom across Ian's body.

"So," Mickey says, wiping his thumb dry with his already balled-up napkin. He doesn't want Ian to jump in and change the mood, not when Mickey's still scared half to death and feels just about ready to give up on his plan and do what Ian's eyes are suggesting, take the easy route they're already familiar with. He finally looks up and meets Ian's gaze, says, "My name's Mickey."

Ian stares at him, his mouth dropped open slightly, before he's surges up out of his seat and leans across the table to kiss Mickey square on the lips.

Mickey doesn't expect it, doesn't know why he didn't expect it, when this was what he was hoping for in the first place, and realizes he has no idea what to do with his mouth, not really.

He opens his lips, knows that he wants to taste Ian at the very least, and after that it comes easy to him, just does what Ian does.

It doesn't last very long, because they're out in public and it can't be comfortable for Ian to lean across the table like that, but Mickey can't say that he's sad when they pull apart and the kiss ends.

He has the feeling that was just the first of many kisses.

They make plans to meet up again on Friday, after Ian tells Mickey his name, and Mickey pretends that he's just learning Ian's name, because there's some secrets that are pathetic enough that you just have to keep them to yourself.

After that they exchange numbers, and Ian tells him to text him whenever, says that as long has he's awake he'll text back right then and there.

 

•••

 

They keep up a steady stream of text messages through the entire weekend. Ian's true to his word, texting Mickey back near-instantly, even when he should be sleeping. Mickey knows that he should probably be embarrassed over how quickly he himself replies. It's the first time he's ever really put his unlimited texting plan to use.

By Sunday they've moved onto sending one another dickpics and have even had phone sex; a first for the both of them and something that they both agreed needs to happen again. Mickey feels ridiculous, like a teenager, and then he remembers that he still is a teenager and that Ian's even younger than him. It's the first time he's felt his like his real age in a while.

Tuesday afternoon he can't take it anymore, so during his lunch break he texts Ian and asks if he wants to do something that night. Ian calls him back instead of typing a response. Mickey barely presses the 'accept call' button before Ian starts speaking.

"Tonight tonight?" Ian asks.

"That's what tonight means, yeah." Mickey grouses back, trying not to sound overly fond. His coworkers are eavesdropping. They've been on his ass since Monday morning, speculating loudly on just who Mickey could be spending all that time texting. It hasn't even been two whole days and Mickey already wants to murder them. Or tell them that he has a possible-boyfriend. He isn't sure which would be worse.

"Shit, yeah, okay," Ian says in rush, and Mickey's mind conjured up a picture of the smile that must be spread across Ian's face, just from the way Mickey recognizes the tone of his voice. "You wanna catch a movie or something?"

"Sure," Mickey agrees. "Text me the time and address and I'll meet you there. I get off at six." They say their goodbyes not long after that and hang up.

Mickey stuffs his phone back into the pocket of his overalls and walks back to his table. Jake looks like he's going to explode, body overflowing with whatever smartass comment he's doing his best to hold in. Mickey sighs and flaps his hand in Jake's direction, wordlessly giving him permission to just fucking say whatever it is he wants to say before he fucking explodes.

"Oh, I bet you're gettin' off at six all right!"

 

•••

 

They go to see one of the newer superhero movies. It's been out for a few weeks and it's a seven p.m. showing on a Tuesdays, so the theatre is completely deserted.

Ian threads his fingers through Mickey's as he leads him all the way to the top row, settling them down in seats smack-dab in the middle. As soon as the lights dim Ian sets their shared bucket of popcorn on the floor and flips up the armrest that separates their seats, scooting in close.

They make out the entire time, and even though Mickey hasn't seen the movie yet and was sorta looking forward to watching it with Ian, he can't say he minds. When the lights go up again they finally pull apart. Mickey's mouth aches in places he didn't know that it could ache, hasn't ever had his lips feel this swollen even when he's really drawn out a blowjob. His lips feel beyond chapped, yet too-slick at the same time.

It's an amazing feeling.

 

•••

 

do you wanna stay over this weekend?

Mickey texts to Ian Thursday night while he's laying in bed.

They both agreed after their impromptu date Tuesday that they both very much wanted to keep their original plans for Friday. The more Mickey thinks about it, the more he's sure that he's not going to want Friday to end, because it felt like torture ending their date on Tuesday, Ian needing to go to school the next day and Mickey needing to go to work.

Friday doesn't have the same commitments succeeding it, so Mickey figures he might as well just ask for what he wants. He's pretty sure that Ian wants it too. Even if he doesn't, Mickey's decided that he's just going to start asking for shit anyway; he's decided to deal with the what-if's only when they become a reality. It's still a work in progress.

yES!

Ian texts back a few seconds later, and Mickey can't help but smirk at his enthusiasm. A minute later he gets a follow-up message that says,

My brother wants to meet you first. Are you okay with picking me up?

Mickey knows that Ian and his family are close, that his parents are just as deadbeat as Mickey's had been, but for some reason that just made Ian and his siblings pull closer together, where the same circumstances made Mickey and his brothers and sister pull apart and fend for themselves, mostly.

He doesn't understand why they want to meet them or why Ian cares what they think, but Mickey does know that he cares what Ian thinks, so he agrees to it just as quickly. It's a small price to pay for the half-formed plans he's schemed up for their weekend together.

After work the next day he comes home and takes a shower, changes, puts on a nice short-sleeved henley that he bought from fucking H&M earlier that week, just so that he would have some new clothes to impress Ian with. He puts on his nicest pair of jeans and his least beat up pair of shoes, figuring that he might as well go all out and dress to impress.

On the train ride he starts to feel nervous, finds himself close to sweating through his undershirt by the time he shows up on Ian's block, wondering just what in the fuck he's gotten himself in to.

He doesn't know if he should ring the doorbell or what, so he opts for texting Ian,

I'm outside

and hopes that he hasn't broken some cardinal rule.

 

•••

 

"So how'd you two meet again?" Ian's older brother asks. The rest of Ian's siblings had waved at Mickey not all that interested, introducing themselves vaguely before going back to their lives. Lip seems to be a whole other breed of animal, getting off on watching his younger brother squirm.

Mickey isn't having any of it. He's never liked feeling like he's the butt of someone's joke. He's never been overly protective of anyone, not even his siblings, especially when it meant putting himself in the hot seat, but if he's learned anything from the short time he's had Lip hassling them it's that he isn't fond of Ian being put in that position either, and that he's willing to divert the attention onto himself to help get Lip off Ian's case.

"Anonymous sex in an alleyway," Mickey answers, blunt in his honesty, hoping to shock Lip enough that he'll leave the two of them alone so they can get the hell out of there.

"Ah, real romantic," Lip quips back, dryly, "Always been real into romance, haven't you?" He directs that at his brother, and Mickey narrows his eyes in Lip's direction, doing his best to sit up straight and resolute to make up for the way Ian's trying to sink into the couch. "I hope you gave it to him good, Mick. Just because you're outdoors doesn't mean you can neglect your partner like an animal."

"Ian fucks me," Mickey hears himself say. Ian's looking at him like he's grown a second head, but Lip genuinely seems shocked, finally replacing the smug look off his face for the first time since Mickey walked into their house, so Mickey figures 'in for a penny' when he adds, "But don't worry, he's real good at making sure he gives it to me good."

 

•••

 

The weekend they spend together is just the way Mickey had dreamed it would be, only better in the ways that it's different, because they're the things that help Mickey remember that it's actually happening.

Mickey wakes up before Ian, notices that he grabbed onto Ian in his sleep, his hand curling around Ian's forearm. He traces his finger along Ian's hand, eventually moving it up Ian's arm to his shoulder. He glances up at Ian's face and realizes he must have woken up at some point because his eyes are open and he's smiling softly. Mickey doesn't stop tracing patterns into Ian's skin, drags his finger up to Ian's face and starts designing invisible patterns across his cheeks, connecting the dots his freckles make across the bridge of his nose.

They have sex in Mickey's bed, in his shower, on his couch. They make plans to do it on his kitchen table, but they never get around to it, so hungry by that point that they just have to cook and eat on it instead.

"Next time for sure," Ian says around a mouthful of the pancakes he made for Mickey and himself.

Mickey can't wait.

 

•••

 

Mickey's boss' boss lets him and the guys clock out early, a reward for completing an order quicker than expected. The sun's still setting as they rush out the front of the shop, fleeing as if they're afraid the boss will chase after them and tell them it was all a joke and they have to get their asses back to work.

They turn left as a group, heading to the usual bar they'll go to after work; sorting out what they're going to drink and who's going to pay for what.

Mickey and Jake rush through the door, trying to squeeze through it at the same time, the width of their combined shoulders making it near-impossible, yet somehow they manage, the rest of the guys bringing up the rear, calling them hyperactive idiots, saying that they're too young for their own good.

Mickey tunes them out, glancing around the crowded bar until he spots a flash of red hair sitting alone at a table too big for just him, giving the eye to anyone who so much as looks as if they're coming up to ask to borrow a chair.

Mickey points towards Ian and waves his friends in that direction, Pat and Erik breaking off for the bar to grab a pitcher of whatever's cheapest on tap to bring to the table.

"Hey," Mickey says once he's reached the table, dropping down into the chair Ian's pulled closest to his own, leaning over and tipping his head up to press a quick kiss to his lips. He's spent the whole damn day mentally preparing himself for what would come next.

"Finally! We get to meet the famous Ian and it's starting off with softcore gay porn!" Jake says, eyes wide as he drops down into the chair on Ian's other side. He leans forward in his seat and plants his elbow onto the table, cradling his chin in his hand, never taking his eyes off them, like he's afraid Ian will disappear if he so much as blinks. "Ian, I've waited like two years for this day. Make it good for me, man."