Chapter Text
He had been staring at the painting for at least half an hour, and found that he couldn't move. Couldn't really breathe. He knew nothing about art, had never stepped foot into a museum or an art gallery until today—which he had done so reluctantly—and he had no context for what he was looking at. All he knew was that he couldn't take his eyes off of it and he knew it made him feel things he had never felt before.
A warm glow was blooming in him that he imagined was maybe what love was supposed to feel like. He didn’t know. And he definitely felt a tingling below the belt, which wasn't new, but he’d never had that feeling from looking at something that wasn't another man or at least a photograph of one.
What was before him were the forms of two men, he was sure of that, but it wasn't a photograph, or even realistic likenesses. The bodies in the painting were a swirl and a mix of colors not found on human skin, and they were standing intertwined in what looked like a dance, but maybe it was something else that was like sex, but wasn’t. They were...masculine and sad and sexy. They were passionate somehow with no real faces or defined forms, and they were tangled together, but they also looked like they were saying goodbye. They were so many things, and it made his stomach clench with desire, and his chest ache.
How a combination of colors brushed onto a canvas—or paper or whatever that was—could evoke so many emotions in him was a mystery. It felt like magic, like witchcraft, like something supernatural. Or maybe like a drug that entered his system and heightened his senses for a brief point in time. Fuck . He was just so blown away and he stood there with his mouth gaping open, almost breathless.
"Ya like that?" He jumped, startled by a masculine voice that had sidled up right next to him. The voice spoke again, "Whoa, calm down, killer.” He turned to see a shorter, dark-haired man with the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen, and he was breathless in that moment.
“Um…” He looked down at his feet, embarrassed by his reaction and he could feel the heat rising on his face. He nodded, looking back at the painting to avoid eye contact. “Yeah. All the others around here are a little too...fucking weird for me, but this one is...different.” He got lost in the painting again and whispered, “I like it a lot.”
The man next to him snickered a little when he called the other paintings fucking weird, but he hadn’t noticed because he was entranced, to a degree, even with the stranger at his side.
“Well, what do you like about this one?” the man gestured up to the painting. “Why ain’t this one weird?”
“Oh, well, uh...” He struggled a little with his words because he didn’t feel like he knew enough about art to even be talking, and he felt really shy. “It makes me...feel things.”
“Good things?” The stranger raised his dark eyebrows.
“Yeah, definitely.” He nodded enthusiastically and turned back to look at the other man, who was beaming up at him, smiling and obviously admiring him with a sly grin.
“That’s real good.” Blue eyes twinkled up at him, and he stopped breathing. “I’m Mickey.”
“Ian.” He held out his hand and Mickey grasped it firmly, shaking it slowly while never breaking eye contact. The handshake was intimate and his piercing gaze sent shivers down Ian’s spine, causing the bloom of color on his cheeks to spread down his neck.
The handshake stopped, but they didn't release each other, continuing to look at one another, entranced. Ian felt electricity shooting up his arm from Mickey’s hand and it traveled across his chest and squeezed his heart. Nervous energy started to dance in his stomach and there was an undeniable rush of blood going south. Mickey’s tongue slowly wet his bottom lip and Ian thought he might pass the fuck out just from observing that one simple gesture.
“Well! Did you actually find something you like?” A booming voice came up behind Ian and he felt a powerful hand come down heavy on his shoulder, causing Ian to gasp. “And I see you met the artist.”
Ian and Mickey detached from one another and both looked at the intruder with wide eyes.
“Mikhailo, right?” The man next to them was almost as tall as Ian with dark hair that was dusted with gray, and a stupidly expensive suit that was a bit showy for a gallery opening. At least that’s what his personal assistant had boldly told him before they left for the day.
“Yeah, hey,” Mickey extended his hand and the older man took it readily, giving it three firm and forceful shakes before disengaging.
Wait. The artist. Mickey is the artist. Of the painting that was giving me a chub? Fuck that's…that's… And he realized he thought that was really fucking hot.
“I’m Robert Cooper,” he said with a smug look that seemed inappropriate. Ian looked over at him and couldn’t help but furrow his brow.
“Oh, yeah. Okay.” Mickey nodded. “You're one of the gallery investors.”
“That’s right.” Robert’s pompous smile made Ian roll his eyes. Robert didn’t see it, but Mickey did and Ian caught him smirking as Mickey looked down at his feet. “And of course you met Ian.” With that, Robert wrapped his arm around Ian’s waist and pulled him in possessively, sending a momentary spike of anger through Ian's brain. “I like to come down here and check out what I’m funding. Look at the talent.”
Ian got a feeling of queasiness looking at the other man’s facial expression that displayed what felt like an inflated sense of self-importance, and what may have also been Robert checking Mickey out. This fucking prick . This type of stuff was exactly why he hated going with Robert to his fancy shit. Ian realized that this was actually what he had been avoiding, not the art. He didn’t know anything about museums and art galleries and whatnot, but he knew about Robert. And he knew about his tendency to think very highly of himself, expect others to as well, and to treat people like possessions to be collected.
Ian was one of those possessions.
But the idea of Robert wanting Mickey to be part of his collection made him unusually irritated. It wasn’t something he normally gave a shit about—Robert did this all the time and he just didn’t fucking care. But that was... what was that? He didn’t know, but him reacting like that because of Mickey was making him tense. Ian had the urge to punch Robert, which seemed irrational, but also somehow justified. It was so fucking confusing.
It wasn’t always like that; most of the time he didn’t feel that way. Just right then. Just with Mickey.
Even though he was feeling that way and also like he just wished Robert would go away, things weren’t all bad between them most of the time. No, Ian wasn’t blind to Robert’s faults. He was pompous, arrogant, entitled, and lacked empathy towards most other humans. He definitely had a great lack of understanding about what someone like Ian had gone through growing up, and compassion towards those less fortunate was a foreign concept to him. He was a typical spoiled asshole that wasn’t used to being told no and was really good at persuading and coercing others with money, promising their heart’s desires to get whatever he wanted. It worked on most people. It had worked on Ian.
Robert had wooed him; he had wined and dined him, and espoused romantic overtures to sway him over to his side. It had actually been a clichéd whirlwind, and Ian had enjoyed every minute of it. Also, he was a good fuck. So that helped.
Ian’s family didn’t understand and he knew they didn’t believe him when he said it wasn’t about the money—and they were right to think that because at least some part of it was about the money and the comfort and security that it brought—but it really wasn’t all about that. Ian was attracted to him—had been from the beginning and continued to be. Robert was older, in his early forties, but he stayed fit. He had soft features that probably helped offset some of his asshole tendencies and made him more palatable to others, including Ian. When he wasn’t being a smug bastard, he had a beautiful smile that he used to his advantage in the boardroom and in the bedroom. And, honestly, when they had started up, Ian had thought he was so fucking lucky and couldn’t believe that this guy wanted him .
Despite having a tendency to treat others like possessions at times, Ian thought he did have a sweet side—with him anyway—and Robert would surprise Ian with trips and gifts, but really one of the sweetest things for Ian was simply that Robert really did seem to care about him. He wanted to make Ian comfortable. Would call just to ask how he was doing. He’d send him cheesy text messages and come home between meetings sometimes just to cuddle with him on the couch.
Ian’s mental health was not stable when they first met and Robert had made great efforts to get him proper treatment, which had been life changing. And—the thing Ian thought he liked the most—at almost twenty years old, he finally had someone in his life that actually gave a shit about where he was and what he was doing. No one ever had. That might be overstating it. He knew his little sister, Debbie, had gone looking for him the first time he ran away from home, but that was it. No one else had. So fuck them.
Despite all the things he did like about Robert and the affection he felt towards him most of the time, he didn’t love him. And on days like this, where they were in public and he was flexing his perceived power and trying to lay claim on the things and people around him, Ian couldn’t fucking stand him. He knew they would get in the car and Robert would coo in his ear and ask him if he was okay. Ask him what he wanted for dinner and if he liked the art. Probably hold his hand because he knew Ian loved that small gesture of affection, and by the time they got home, Ian would feel cared for and supported and would forget how fucking annoyed he had been. Probably.
“Coop!” Ian was jarred from his overanalysis of his partner to find a silver-haired man with a slight build and a black turtleneck headed towards them. Ian glanced over at Mickey, who he found staring back at Ian and it caused his heart to quicken.
“I’m so glad you made it out.” The new interloper and Robert embraced, taking Ian aback. Who the fuck is this guy? And am I jealous?
The slightly built man stepped back and took a look at Ian. “You must be Ian.” He gave him a devilish smile that made Ian uneasy. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ian felt his Southside Chicago hackles being raised and Robert immediately tried to laugh it off, giving Ian's elbow a firm squeeze.
“Ian, this is Gordon Spader, the gallery owner.” Robert said it like he should be impressed, but Ian just kept sending a soft glare in Gordon’s direction, which appeared to amuse both the older men. Ian looked over at Mickey, however, who had a sideways grimace on his face. Not amused. And neither was Ian.
“And you’ve met Mikhailo.” Gordon patted Mickey on the back. Mickey responded by crossing his arms and putting on what Ian was sure was a fake-ass smile. Considering the Earth shattering one that he had seen earlier, there was no way this one was real. “Isn’t he wonderful? Our rising young star. Everyone is going to want a piece of him. But we got him first.” Gordon raised his eyebrows and Ian could see Mickey wanted to spit out something—words, saliva, venom—but he held back.
Mickey’s smile didn’t meet his eyes, but he was making a valiant effort, while seeming to also breathe fire out of his flaring nostrils. “Thank you, sir,” he said in a stilted voice.
“Trying to get him in as one of our represented artists. Isn’t that right?” Gordon patted Mickey again, and Ian thought that the other man was lucky all of his knuckles were still intact at this point.
Mickey nodded while chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, we’re talkin’ about it. Let’s see how things go.” Mickey took a step sideways so that Gordon’s hand fell away and Mickey glanced up at Ian. Despite the other two men standing there, Mickey stared up at him, and his look spoke words that his mouth didn’t have to. A glance out of the corner of his eye over to Gordan and Robert: “Fuck these two.” A look to Robert and then right to Ian with a furrowed brow: “Are you serious? This guy?” And a slow sweeping survey of Ian’s body from top to bottom and back again with one eyebrow arched: “What’s your deal? I’d like to see you naked.”
Robert and Gordon didn’t notice. In that moment they were only concerned with marketing and profit and how to get the gallery on some list or something...Ian didn’t fucking know. He also didn’t care. All he cared about was how his neck was burning and he was starting to stiffen in his pants at Mickey’s sexy fucking expression and piercing stare. And, my God, those eyebrows. They had a mind of their own, dancing around up there, speaking silently for Mickey. Jesus, Ian was turned on.
“You see something you like?” Gordon asked and Ian felt panic rush over him for a moment.
“What?” Ian knew his eyes were wide and he wasn’t sure how to explain himself.
“The painting, babe.” Robert wrapped his arm around Ian’s waist again.
Ugh. Gross. He hated being called babe, but he put up with it because he had been called far worse things by people that supposedly loved him.
“Oh, yeah.” Ian looked over at the painting he now realized was Mickey’s and nodded.
“It’s quite exquisite, isn’t it?” Gordon brought his hand up and cupped his chin.
“Yes, such great colors.” Robert was nodding as both men looked at the painting. Ian, feeling uncomfortable, looked over at Mickey and caught him rolling his eyes.
“I’m gonna go, uh, mingle...or some shit,” Mickey told them and then waved. As he walked away he looked back over his shoulder at Ian and ran his teeth over his bottom lip seductively, taking one last look at Ian, lingering his stare on Ian’s crotch. Oh, shit. I’m in trouble. I need to go and never come back.
Mickey was all the way on the other side of the large, white room by the time they noticed he was gone. They didn’t seem that concerned. But Ian was. He was concerned with how his dick twitched. He was concerned with how his head felt light. He was concerned with not being able to get that gorgeous smile and those expressive eyebrows out of his head. And he was extremely concerned he would never see Mickey again. But more concerned that he might.
Fuck. What a mess. I gotta get out of here.
Ian feigned having a headache, and Robert started to fuss that he probably hadn’t eaten enough and told Gordon they had to excuse themselves, but thanked him for a lovely opening and don’t forget to send those reports and let’s try really hard to get that roughneck kid under contract and blah blah blah…
He was relieved to get in the car and even more relieved that they had made it back through the gallery and out the front door without incident—without running into Mickey. He wasn’t sure his heart would be able to handle it, and it would be even harder to explain to Robert a spontaneous hard-on after the pretend illness that forced them to leave the gallery. But he also felt an immediate loss as the driver pulled away from the curb. He didn’t really remember the last time someone had made him tingle all over like that. Maybe never? He’d never felt a thrill like that before. And as they left the gallery in the rearview mirror, he was so scared it would never happen again.