Archive of Our Own

“Ma, don’t worry about it,” he tells her, when she sets to folding his clean laundry.

“And when’ll you get to it, some time in the next month I expect, Mickey?”

It hasn’t even been there for a day and she knows that, given she’d seen him taking it off the line with her own two eyes. 

“It goes great with the wallpaper,” he says, not bothering to dodge when she whaps him on the bum with a shirt for his cheek. He leans down and she presses a kiss to his cheek, giving his other one a pat for good measure. 

“You were home late.”

“I was.”

“You weren’t fighting again, were you?” Her voice is hard, steel all the way through, but Mickey recognises the worry in it, the hurt. Like a lot of things, it stems from Mickey’s Da, rest his soul. Love of his Ma’s life; Mickey remembers him as decent enough, though his memories of the man are almost entirely worn through with age. It was only technically a fight that did him in; cut on his knuckle from the other man’s tooth got infected. Badly, the way Mickey’s seen happen to some of his own friends. He lost the use of his hand, couldn’t work much after that. From there… 

“No Ma, I wouldn’t do that to you,” he lies, the sting of guilt no less just because it’s a lie he’s told a hundred times before. She gives him a fierce look and inspects his hands, not that she’d find much even if he had been fighting. There’s no bruising, no redness, and nothing at all on his face. Mickey adjusts his collar as his Ma’s scrutinising gaze drops down to his neck. She waves him away and returns to folding the laundry. 

Mickey, figuring the kip he’d been looking forward to has just been indefinitely postponed, starts cleaning as well. There’s not much to be done, in all honesty. His Ma’d box his ears if she thought he was living in his own filth. Still, he gets out the feather duster and slides open the windows, ready to clean up all his shelves, knick-knacks and photo frames. 

He doesn’t realise he’s whistling until his Ma says, 

“What’s got you so happy?”

“Never you mind, Ma.”

Somehow, she manages to make folding clothes sound like a pointed stare. Truly a miracle worker, he doesn’t know how she does it. 

“Don’t suppose you found a nice girl last night, Mickey?”

“No, Ma.”

Thing is, everyone knows Mickey’s a queer. It might’ve been smarter to keep it quiet, but he didn’t quite have the option — didn’t have the forethought for it, maybe. Caught with his pants down, back when he was a young lad; the farmer certainly hadn’t appreciated that, though his son definitely had. 

All in all, Mickey’d actually had it fairly easy, even after his business was laid out for all and sundry. Maybe it was because everyone found out ‘cause he came home with buckshot in his arse and they were too busy picking it out to care. Then again, it could be because he hadn’t exactly been bad in a punch up as a teenager and word’d already gotten around about that before anything else got the chance. Of course, it didn’t stop everyone, but Mickey appreciated the practice. Can’t get as good as he is, doing nothing but friendly scrapes with mates, after all. 

Mickey’s always been more likely to respond to an insult to his sainted mother than a slight against himself, anyway. 

“You met him at that party of yours, I suppose?”

“No, Ma.”

“You ‘no, Ma ’ me one more time, Michael O’Neil, and we’ll see what happens then.”

“Yes, Ma,” he replies, and darts out of reach before she can whack him one. He sees her tuck a smile away in her cheek and grins, though he’s not foolish enough to keep dusting near her. 

“I was walking back to the others when I met him, actually. He came up to me, talking about the weather or some shite. This was past midnight, mind. Black as pitch.” 

“The weather? Past midnight?”

“Right? Thought he was up for a blue at first, til I realised he was just an awkward fucker.”

“Watch your language, Mickey.”

“Sorry, Ma.”

Turkish’s thought process went a little something like this:

He needs a new caravan.

He doesn’t know fuck all about caravans, and Tommy knows fuck all about anything, so he’s right out. 

Someone who undoubtedly does know about caravans is ambling down the road, drunk and singing loudly enough that his incomprehensible accent is echoing off old brick and darkened shop fronts. 

Far be it from Turkish to stop a man in the middle of a cheery jaunt on a Tuesday bender, but this is the sort of opportunity that don’t exactly come around every day. Of course, it’s not every day that Turkish is out and about at half past two in the fucking morning, either, but that’s another complaint to lay at Tommy’s fucking feet. How hard is it to restock the fridge when you’ve used the last of the milk? So now, in order to satisfy what should have been a simple craving, he’s had to make an entire fucking trek to the only place that’s open at this time of night. And pay out the bloody nose for it. 

Fucking Tommy. He doesn’t even like milk, really. 

However, it stands to reason that for every piece of bad luck foisted on Turkish by his miserable taste in friends, perhaps a silver lining can indeed be found. 

For instance, the drunk Traveller making his loose limbed way down the street. Rare as it is to see a singular Traveller anywhere — usually if you can only see one of ‘em, you’re simply not looking hard enough — Turkish is inclined to believe it. In Turkish’s limited experience, they seem to clump together in an even denser thicket when they’re drunk. It could be some sort of scheme, of course, being that Turkish has never met a Traveller who wasn’t eyeing up everything not nailed down. 

Try as he might, though, Turkish can’t figure out what sort of scheme could be undertaken in this piece of shit part of town, alone; even a B&E would need at least another man, preferably three — not that Turkish knows anything about that, of course. He’s as on the up and up as it’s possible to be, for a man in his profession. 

Turkish is used to weighing up the odds, it being somewhat important in a job like his, and he figures that this is a case of nothing ventured, nothing gained; or at least something along the lines of ‘nothing to lose.’ He’s got about fifty p in his pocket, after that extortion they called the price, so even if he does get rolled it’s no great loss.

“Evening,” Turkish calls out, once he’s close enough he doesn’t have to shout. The other man’s singing peters off as he tilts his entire torso towards Turkish, in the way that people who are entirely pissed tend to do. 

“Is it?” He gets in return, understandable enough despite the alcohol and the accent. 

Turkish cranes his head back to look up at the pitch black overhead. There’s not a star in the sky, this deep in the city. Of course, a case could be made for it actually being Wednesday morning, time having ticked past midnight already, but Turkish ain’t exactly here for a meandering conversation wherein they delve into the semantics of it all. 

“Seems like.”

There’s a burst of noise, a voice, and Turkish blinks up at the sky as he parses it. He should’ve known it was a fluke, that brief snatch of mutual intelligibility. His brain finally picks the words apart: Having a nice night, are you?  

“Could be worse,” Turkish replies, looking back towards the other man, who appears to be wavering back and forth ever so slightly.

“Ah, means ‘t could be better, too.” All the words are said so fast they press together but at least this time Turkish is prepared for it. Kind of. Given how the man seems entirely pissed, Turkish supposes he should count his lucky stars that he can even begin to guess what’s being said. 

“Well, I could be cosy in bed right now, not freezing my cobblers off getting some milk.” A pause, while Turkish tries to calculate whether they’ve reached the quota for small talk yet. He really is freezing his balls off; the temperature had dropped even further since he set out, though at least he’s wearing a thick coat, unlike the Traveller. He’s got a light jacket, his shirt opened halfway down his chest, a pair of jeans and a hat that’s likely doing fuck all to keep his head warm. Turkish supposes all the booze is keeping him warm enough, dangerous a game as that is. 

“You?” He returns the question, entirely uninterested in the answer. He’d much prefer to just ask about a fucking caravan — and hopefully get the type of straight answer he wouldn’t get from one of these bastards sober, penned in by other Travellers. Then again, the chance of getting a straight answer out of anyone this loaded is already a dubious prospect. Turkish should’ve just kept walking.

“You’re off home to the missus? She send y’out for some milk?” Is what he gets instead of a simple answer and Turkish doesn’t sigh by sheer strength of will. This is not the sort of bullshit conversation he wants to find himself trapped in at not quite three in the fucking morning. It’d be a waste to cut his losses now, without having asked a single caravan related question, so he answers, 

“Trouble and strife? ‘M not the sort.” 

What Turkish meant, of course, sat somewhere along the line of: for a variety of reasons, he’s never been able to keep a girlfriend around for longer than a few shags, so marriage as a concept is so far-fetched as to be laughable. 

What the Traveller hears, Turkish can hazard a fucking guess; he can tell when he’s being sized up, even in the gloom of a poorly lit street.

He must admit, being the recipient of such a look does get his back up a bit. More than a bit, perhaps. The conversations which follow on usually leave his knuckles in a right state. If Turkish loses his choccy milk because this Traveller bastard thinks he’s a poof, Turkish is not going to be happy. 

Given his thick coat, the cover of night and the fact that he’s not exactly built like Gorgeous George, the way his shoulders tense shouldn’t be noticeable. Especially not to a man who’s three sheets. 

The traveller notices. Perceptive bastard. Means he probably notices Turkish noticing, too. He cocks his head to the side, sucks his teeth, and then… doesn’t launch into something Turkish’s heard more times than he can count. After all, you go around calling a man your partner, and suddenly every knob who thinks he’s funny forgets the phrase ‘business partner’ or ‘partner in crime’. 

As though Turkish would ever go for a twit like Tommy, even if he were so inclined. 

“So you’re out and about for… milk? Just milk? Is that right?” The man says instead.

“That’s right.”

“You strike me as a particular sort of fellow. The milk, that fine coat of yours.”

Turkish narrows his eyes and, in the interest of wrapping this conversation up before the fucking dawn, doesn’t level an insult at the man. 

“I can be.” 

“Strikes me as odd, is all, that a particular sort of man such as yourself would stop me for a chat, is all.”

“I had a question for you.” Had, past tense. He’s got a list of questions floating about in his brain, all about caravans. Unfortunately, he’s annoyed enough to have momentarily forgotten all of them. He’s annoyed about making the decision to talk in the first place; annoyed to be concentrating so hard at this time of night just to have a conversation; annoyed at the bloody cold. 

“Fancy that! Though, this isn’t exactly the sort of place for a friendly chat, is it?”

Turkish will admit that this particular location is rather fucking grim. 

“And since you’ve got no one waiting on you, and my place is a wee bit far, what say we have a bit of a nightcap at yours? It’d be a sight warmer too, I bet.”

“What?” Turkish asks, though it’s less of a case of not understanding what’s been said, as being completely blindsided by the idea of it.

“Warmer at yours,” the man repeats himself, loudly, “Let’s go before you freeze. I’m Mickey.”

Turkish considers himself to be somewhat of a connoisseur of terrible ideas, given his near lifelong friendship with Tommy. 

This, Turkish knows, is a terrible fucking idea. 

What he should do is walk away; walk the long way home and leave this Mickey to stumble his way through the streets alone. Write this whole thing off and never think about it again. 

Mickey throws a grin over his shoulder, a flash of teeth in the night, and Turkish heaves a sigh. 

“What the fuck am I doing?” He asks himself, shaking his head, before he starts to walk down the street. Mickey falls into step with him after barely a moment, his shoulder knocking against Turkish’s and then staying there. Turkish might be the only thing keeping him upright. 

“Turkish,” he introduces himself. 

“Think the local place is closed, by now.”

“No, you twit, my name is Turkish.”

“There a story behind that?” Mickey asks, in the easy manner of someone who enjoys conversation. Turkish, who doesn’t particularly and especially not with strangers, sighs again. 

“Name of Turkish.”

“Oh, that’s a little exotic.”

Mickey laughs, shaking his head. 

“White as bread, Ma. Named after a plane, if you can believe it.”

His mother raises her eyebrows and Mickey can practically hear her saying, ‘well, the world takes all sorts, doesn’t it?’ Mickey sits on the lounge, duster slung across his knees, and settles in.

“After a bit of back and forth, wherein the man makes it known that he’s available, as it were —”

“Bit of a risky manoeuvre,” his mother pipes up, her hands now folding clothes at about a quarter of the speed she usually does. 

“Aye, he knew it too. Tensed up something fierce but a bit of the O’Neil charm never goes amiss.”

His Ma clicks her tongue but the smile says she agrees with him. 

“So we head round to his and you’ll never believe where he lives.”

“Where does he live?”

“No, you’ve to guess, Ma.”

“Oh I do, do I? Well then. Fancy penthouse?”

“A caravan inside some dingy warehouse.”

“Inside a warehouse? That’s a new one, I suppose. Was it nice?”

Mickey sucks his teeth, tilts his head from side to side, then says,

“Fucking abysmal, to be honest with you, Ma.”

“Language, Mickey.”

“Sorry, Ma.”

See the thing is, rent in London is one of the biggest scams there is. You pay off some other bludgers mortgage — and their holiday house in Spain, and their trip to America, and pricey schools for their brats as well — and they don’t work a fucking minute for any of it. They’re the sort to tell you not to breathe too deep, when you tell ‘em about the mould infestation creeping through the walls. When you move out, they point to a piece of chipped paint and refuse to give you back your deposit, even though they haven’t painted for a decade and it was cheap and flaking even then. 

So when faced with the prospect of paying twice the rent — that is, paying for a flat of his own and paying for the decently sized space which he uses to train boxers — there was, really, only one decent solution. 

He got the trailer for a steal — it wasn’t even falling apart at the time, neither. Age has finally gotten to the thing; a concerning water stain, a kitchenette that’s more of a fire hazard than Turkish’s strictly comfortable with, wiring that’s perhaps slightly more concerning than the kitchenette and, of course, the door which’s recently acquired the habit of falling off instead of opening. 

Tommy’s stupid suggestion to ‘think about moving into a flat’ had not been well received. Turkish had had to, yet again, lay out the precise reasons why this setup had come about in the first place. 

His caravan’s the type of place somebody’s kindly mother would call ‘cosy’ with a strained look on her face, while she scrambled for something nice to say.

With all this in mind, Turkish can maybe understand why women aren’t exactly climbing over themselves to keep him company. Trotting into this sort of out the way area isn’t something anyone, regardless of gender, tends to do once it’s late at night. 

Mickey, arm slung around Turkish’s shoulder — he’d allowed it in order to keep the man on his feet, though thankfully he hadn’t had to haul the man upright on their journey — hadn’t so much as blinked. He’d asked near incomprehensible questions, chattered on like he’d die if he shut up, and laughed when he’d leant heavily against Turkish and said,

“You’re into boxing? I’ve been known to swing a time or two.”

“Shocking,” Turkish deadpans. Mickey laughs again, loud and bright and near entirely draped over Turkish as he unlocks the side door to the training space. Turkish wouldn’t’ve let the man lean on him in the first place, if he’d known how handsy he was apparently inclined to be. 

Alone, Turkish wouldn’t bother to turn on the overhead lights. So long as everything’s back in its place at the end of the day — and Turkish always makes sure it’s back in place — he could navigate his way to the caravan blindfolded. As he has a — guest? he switches them on. For a moment, the only sound is the dull, repetitive clunk clunk clunk as the lights flicker on, one after the other. Then, Mickey’s slow whistle; Turkish isn’t sure whether it’s supposed to be sarcastic or not. 

During the day, the space is filled with noise and the bustle of people. It crowds the space, makes it feel smaller than it is. Empty of all but himself — and a plus one, currently — it’s an echoing cavern, bouncing Mickey’s whistle off the tall ceiling and the bare concrete walls. Turkish closes the door behind them and even that dull sound echoes, though it’s a much more familiar sound than the fading whistle. 

For one brief, glorious moment, Turkish thinks he’s been freed from Mickey’s drunken clutches. He even gets to slide the lock, before one of Mickey’s surprisingly strong hands curls around his elbow and tugs. After two steps, Turkish manages to get his feet back under him, though his arm stays firmly within Mickey’s grip despite his best efforts. 

“What,” Turkish grits out, once he’s capable of doing more than swearing; it’s all he manages to say before Mickey talks over him, entirely cheerful. Turkish, not exactly overflowing with the milk of human kindness at even at the best of times, doesn’t understand a fucking word. 

While the exact words might be lost forever, the meaning becomes clear near instantly; Mickey’s making a beeline for the ring. It’s only when he’s squirming over the side that he lets go of Turkish again. Then he leans against the ropes, grinning at Turkish as though anything he’s done for the entire half hour of their acquaintance has been endearing enough for this bullshit. 

“Fancy a rumble?” 

Turkish holds up his plastic bag, milk still inside. He could’ve had it on his walk home, of course, but there’s always the chance that he’d spill it on his coat. Then he’d have to pay for dry cleaning and lose the use of his favourite coat until it came back. Better to wait; doubly so, with a drunken Traveller hanging off him. 

“Chuck it in the fridge first, then.”

“Not exactly what you came round for.”

“Time enough for that, my friend. Let’s get the blood pumping.”

Turkish stares up at him, hoping to convey exactly how much he doesn’t want that. He drops his hand, bag and milk knocking against his leg with a dull thud. 

“Warm me up?” Mickey takes his hat off, every inch of his face lit by the overheads. His grin is broad and lopsided, entirely sure of himself, the bastard. He’s swaying back and forth against the ropes and Turkish walks towards his caravan, pretending he never saw the other man wink at him. Maybe if he’s lucky, Mickey will disappear somewhere between heading inside and shutting the fridge. 

If Mickey makes a sound while Turkish is finangling the door open, Turkish ignores that too. In fact, he should just ignore the man entirely. Better yet, Turkish should tell him where to go. Mickey starts whistling again, the cheerful sound echoing round, and Turkish sucks his teeth while he slams the fridge door shut. 

“I don’t box,” Turkish calls, leaning against the open caravan door. 

“Live in a boxing ring and you don’t box?”

“Thought you said you didn’t fight none,” his mother interrupts, clearly snippy with him. Mickey sighs, sinking even further back into the seat. He shouldn’t’ve mentioned it, but it’s rather integral to the whole tale in his opinion. He opens his mouth and a folded shirt beans him right in the face. He leaves it there while his Ma says, 

“Don’t get smart with me, either, Mickey.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Ma.” He knocks the duster off his lap and pulls the shirt from his face. 

“I wouldn’t exactly class this as fighting.” Mickey hedges, folding the shirt. It’s not as crisp as his mother gets it but that’s no great loss — especially not when she’ll likely refold it before she leaves.

“Oh, what’d you call it then?”

Mickey looks up and grins at her, entirely unrepentant. 

“Flirting, Ma.” 

An extremely unimpressed eyebrow is raised at him. Why, Mickey could almost say she didn’t believe him, impossible as such a thing is. 

“Look, not a mark on me!” Foolishly, Mickey lifts his shirt in proof, having momentarily forgotten the state of himself. He drops it just as quick but the damage is already done. A second eyebrow leaps up to join its partner, and suddenly Mickey’s subject to an expression he’d not seen for a good half decade. Truth be told, he hadn’t much missed it. Luckily he’s grown enough that it doesn’t make him squirm uncomfortably like it once did. 

“Is that right?”

“Not a bruise on me — from fighting, at least.” He corrects with a brazen smile. 

It’s a pair of his own shorts flung at his face this time and Mickey’s too busy laughing to catch them before they hit. 

A glass jaw is not something that’ll get you far, in the ring. Nor out of it, either, if word gets around. Thankfully, almost no one knows. Embarrassingly, it was Tommy that knocked him out with one light hit when they weren’t even sixteen. Turkish’s dreams of boxing glory had crumbled to dust in his hands. Disappointment was an old friend, by then, so Turkish did what he did best: he got on with it. It’s worked out well enough for him — he’s likely had a much more successful career as a small-time boxing promoter than he ever would’ve as a mediocre boxer.

Plus, the lack of concussions means he’s still a fair few brain cells floating around, unlike just about everyone else he knows. 

Despite said brain cells, Turkish still somehow finds himself inside the ring. With — and Turkish cannot believe he’s saying this — a Traveller bastard who just might know what he’s doing. Small time promoter he might be — and occasional trainer, as needs must — Turkish is good at his job. Very good, for all he doesn’t quite have the pull or money to snag anyone too flash. No offence to Gorgeous, of course. 

What that means is, he knows talent when he sees it. 

Talent, drunk as he is, has footwork Turkish’d kill for Gorgeous to have. They haven’t even started yet — Turkish is still in his coat, hands paused on the buttons — but he watches Mickey prance about the ring. His shirt’s off, as though it’s not cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, and the loose limbed, cocky confidence of the other man is hard to look away from.

Where was this easy grace when the man’d been clinging to Turkish for most of the walk here? Turkish has been half expecting the man to start staggering any moment, back and forth, feet lazily scraping over the ground. Instead he’s stretching lazily, back arched, hips jutting forward, steadier on his feet than Turkish’s see him so far. It draws the eye to his fucking atrocious tattoos. Just another distraction amongst the rest. Turkish knows what the Traveller bastard’s up to. 

“You’re trying to hustle me.” Turkish accuses. Now that he’s not distracted by the man’s constantly running mouth, or his clinging, gesturing hands, Turkish is just about sure of it. The man in question just laughs. That’s another thing — he’s too cheery. No one’s that happy but especially not after three in the fucking morning. On a Wednesday. No one likes Wednesdays. 

“D’you see any money involved?”

“Not exactly keen to get my teeth knocked in, money or no.”

Mickey saunters towards him, clapping a hand on Turkish’s shoulder. He leaves it there, weight but no warmth transferring through the thick wool. It’s a wonder the twit can feel his fingers enough to form fists at all. 

“‘S a friendly spar, is all. I’ll keep away from your face. Swear on me Ma.”

Friendly, huh? Turkish knows just how poorly a ‘friendly spar’ can go, especially with Turkish’s uncomfortably fragile constitution.

“This is a terrible idea,” Turkish says, giving voice to the words that’ve been spinning in his head since they met. 

“No, it’s fantastic.”

“You’re probably near hypothermic already.”

“So warm me up!”

“...With a little friendly one-two?”

“Good a place to start as any.”

Mickey’s hand only falls away once he cajoles Turkish into it, speaking fast enough to make Turkish’s tired head spin. That’s the only reason he agrees; fatigue and confusion. Turkish’d never be stupid enough to do something like this on his own. Tommy’s poor decision making must’ve rubbed off on him. 

They dance. Even the ‘friendly jabs’ that Mickey throws out snap against Turkish’s skin, red and already on their way to bruising even through his jumper. 

Loathe as Turkish is to admit it, he’s having fun.

“You’re certainly something, alright,” his mother mutters, mostly to herself as Mickey recounts all the lovely little compliments Turkish had showered him with while they sparred. 

Now, Mickey’s not quite a stranger to the situation he’d found himself in, in the early hours of this morning. Whether it’s being approached for a light, for money or drugs, for the contents of his pockets — even as a little bit of rough for some up himself city prick — Mickey’s experienced it all before. So, once it’d become clear that Turkish weren’t looking for any of the former, Mickey’d had his number. Thought he’d had his number, at least.

It’s always more or less the same, when someone approaches him for a quick tumble. There’s a way to go about it; steps to a dance, unspoken rules. Rote compliments to throw out, a bit of back and forth to test the waters and figure out the where of it all, seeing as it’s now the wrong part of the year to dip into the nearest alley. 

Turkish — odd and awkward, nattering on about nothing with a single carton of milk in hand — hadn’t known any of it. 

Mickey’s the first person to admit he’s a bit of a bastard sometimes, always more’n willing to test his luck. So he’d pushed — just a little, at first. Shoulder brushing against shoulder, an arm slung around the other man’s neck, his waist. He took a mile with each inch given, creeping further and further into Turkish’s space, but the man hadn’t so much as blinked. That sort of amiable, near affectionate touching isn’t exactly welcome, so far as Mickey’s experienced. He’d been braced for an elbow, at the very nicest. 

Despite that, he’d still expected everything else to be more or less the same. Some flat, a quick shag, then back home before the dawn. Instead, a boxing ring, a caravan and gruff sincerity. Most things are water off a duck’s back, with Mickey. He knows what people like about him, what they don’t. His face, his smile, the lean look of his body — his accent, his people, his life. He’s heard it all a thousand times before. Any of that he could’ve — would’ve — laughed off without care. 

There was nothing to laugh off, with Turkish. Not a word for his eyes, nor how he should put such a quick mouth to better work. No silver tongue, no effusive and effectively lacklustre praise. Simple, matter of fact acknowledgements of Mickey’s talent, his skill. His form and footwork, the strength in his waist and shoulders. The power in his hits, even when pulled. Never three words when an incline of his head could do instead. Unbothered by Mickey’s constant chatter, chasing Mickey around the ring; letting himself be shepherded right back the way he came. Quiet questions, easy suggestions. 

It’s not like that’s the first time Mickey’s ever had a friendly spar, or had someone compliment his fighting. Not even the first time a professional boxing something or other’s fed him up on praise, angling to get Mickey into their pockets for profit. But Turkish hadn’t been trying to butter Mickey up at all; no contract to sign, and Mickey’d already been a done deal, sex wise.

Turns out, Mickey might have a weakness for men telling him how good he hits while they take it from him. 

…When put like that, it really shouldn’t’ve been such a surprise. 

Mickey clears his throat, eyes skittering across the ceiling instead of looking over at his mother. Lucky he’s already worn out from this morning — and that there’s a pair of jocks and a shirt in his lap, just in case.

“That all it takes to get you smiling like that? Thought you were old enough to know better by now, Mickey my love.”

“Please, Ma, what do you take me for?”

“You’re a good lad.”

“Thank you, Ma.”

“Though Lord knows you’ve not got a sensible bone in your body.” She smiles at him, indulgent, then rolls her eyes. “Dogshite taste, though.”

“Ma, Language! The nerve of you!”

The caravan isn’t exactly large, which is yet another complaint on Turkish’s list. Used to be a good thing, in winter; easy to heat means it’s easy — and cheap — to keep warm. Besides, given the amount of tiny flats he’s lived in over the years, it was barely anything to adjust to the smaller space. Its ability to retain heat is another thing which age has stripped from it. Warmth seeps through cracks, through the broken door frame. Fittingly Turkish has adorned his small bed with about fifty fucking blankets, just to get through the night. He’s got a little heater, as well, but it honestly does fuck all, what with the caravan having turned into a fucking colander. 

He could start the generator up, of course, but then noise’d mean he’d never get to fucking sleep. 

“Now, far be it from me to badmouth another man’s home,” Mickey says, because of course he does. He’d been running his mouth even when they’d been sparring. At this point, Turkish is beginning to think that even a gag wouldn’t do a thing to stop him. The man’s followed Turkish into his caravan, the two of them stood in the middle taking up near all the space. Mickey’s standing in the way of the table and its chairs and, given how narrow the walkway is, there’s not space enough to squeeze by him.

“Go ahead,” Turkish grunts. He’s heard every complaint already, from Tommy. 

Unless Turkish wants to stand for however long — which, to be clear, he doesn’t. He’d been tired even before he’d spent however long dancing with Mickey, and now he’s near exhausted — the only option is his bed. 

Turkish weighs it up in his head: if he climbs in like this, sweaty and exhausted, he’ll have to take his sheets to the laundromat tomorrow. Maybe he can make Tommy do it, rather than find the time himself. This is all Tommy’s fault, after all, in a roundabout way. The milk, you see. If he leans against the cabinets, he’s tired enough he might just fall asleep standing. Then, given he’s not a fucking horse, he’ll topple arse over tit and end up with a concussion, knowing his luck. If he sits down on his bed… 

So far the only sense or courtesy he’s seen in Mickey is in the ring. If he goes to sit on his own bed, what are the chances that Mickey’s going to do the sensible thing? Take a seat at the table just behind him, rather than continue to trail Turkish. Follow him across the small caravan until he makes himself at home on Turkish’s bed.

Turkish has just enough energy to feel mildly disgruntled at the thought. 

“I’d not even put my dog up here for long.”

“Your what?” 

Mickey leans in, as though it’s at all necessary. They’re already nearly pressed together in the tight space, Mickey’s bare, sweaty chest brushing against Turkish’s arm. He’s warm, even through the damp fabric. His breath as it hits Turkish’s ear is warm, too. It fans across the side of his face, down his neck. Not quite ticklish but it still makes the hair on his neck stand up. 

“Woof.” 

It takes Turkish a second to put two and two together, distracted by the seeming non sequitur and Mickey’s lips, just barely scraping against his cheek. Too fucking close, really, but it’s not like there’s much room to go around. Besides, they’d been closer than this in the ring, grappling like a pair of fools, Mickey’s laugh ringing through the warehouse. 

Oh. Turkish realises, after an extended moment. Dog. Right.

Mind made up, Turkish manages not to knock his elbows against anyone or thing as he turns and heads towards his bed. It’s too narrow but at least it’s long enough. He’s not stupid enough to buy anything where he doesn’t like the bed, though admittedly he doesn’t spend that much time in it. Unlike Tommy, Turkish has got a little thing called forethought. If sleeping in a certain bed is mildly annoying now, that annoyance isn’t going to fade over time. Quite the opposite. 

His coat gets tossed onto the counter and then Turkish sits down on the edge of the slim bunk. Unsurprisingly, Mickey’s followed him. Stands directly in front of him; over him, really. The expression on his face is hard to read, though maybe that’s just because Turkish was ready to be asleep several hours ago. 

“Not too tired, I hope?” Mickey asks, when he’s close enough that Turkish’s knees are touching his legs. His feet are bracketing Turkish’s, and touching there, too. Tactile traveller bastard. 

“I’d like to sleep for a week,” he replies, entirely truthful. He’ll be lucky if he gets — fuck, who even knows what the time is, but his alarm’s set for seven thirty and that’s only because it’s a rest day for Gorgeous. 

“So if you don’t mind…” Turkish prompts, waiting for Mickey to pick up the hint and fuck off. 

“Right, of course,” Mickey replies with a smile, and then he’s leaning down, leaning closer.

For a second, Turkish thinks he’s hallucinating. Why else would he have another man’s lips pressed to his own? A broad hand heavy on his shoulder, sliding up to cup the back of his neck. Cool fingers dip beneath the collar of his jacket, and the feel of them against his own marginally warmer skin is enough to startle Turkish back to life. 

Opening his mouth, he doesn’t -- tongue, slick and almost too hot, licking into his mouth like it belongs there. Turkish hears the noise he makes before he hears it, low and deep in his throat, and it’s definitely a confused sound. Not eager or aroused or any other fucking thing; the fact that he can feel Mickey smirk into the kiss is entirely unrelated. 

Turkish turns his head away which, as it turns out, is as poorly considered as opening his fucking mouth. Pleasantly warm lips smear against his jaw; teeth, sharp but soft, nibbling their way down to his neck. This much, with his eyes closed, and he could be with any woman he’d picked up in a bar. Lips, tongue, teeth, warm breath — no wonder he’s firming up, just slightly. It’s been an age since he’d fucked anyone, after all. Of course he’s reacting to it. The scrape of stubble against his own, the width of the hand cupping his neck, the deep sound of Mickey’s approving croon whenever he makes Turkish shiver… 

“Fuck you think you’re doing?” Turkish rasps out, all his weight braced on his hands, having been pushed back by Mickey’s assault. That’s why he’s not lashed out yet, not bodily thrown Mickey away from himself. He’s too tired to deal with it all. Mickey’d probably duck out of the way of the punch, anyway; at least that’d get him further away, get his lips and mouth and amused hum away from Turkish’s skin. 

“What, you shy now? ‘S alright, I know you’ve not done this much.”

First of all, Turkish has no idea what Mickey’s fucking talking about. Second of all, 

“Not done this at all,” he clarifies, cause he’s not about to let that fucking stand. 

Look, he’s been through this before, is all. People hear Tommy’s his ‘partner,’ think that maybe he don’t mind fucking fairies — both literally and not — and try to crack on. He won’t have a bar of it. Ever. Reputation is worth its weight, after all, and infinitely easy to tear down. He’s not cruel about it, despite his general disgust with the whole concept; Tommy’d be on him for it, if he was. Jumping around like a yappy little dog, as though he actually gives a toss. 

It’s the fault of all those fucking queers who stop by the shop to gamble. So long as Tommy keeps a civil tongue — and Turkish keeps his fists to himself — they’ll keep pumping money through the machines. What about the shop inspired any of them to start patronising in the first place, Turkish hasn’t the foggiest. Tommy, weasel that he is, had looked decidedly shifty when Turkish had bothered to pose the question. 

“Not at all? Well then.” One final nip to Turkish’s neck, done with the exact amount of pressure needed to send pure sensation straight to Turkish’s cock, and Mickey pulls back. In the dull light thrown through the caravan curtains by the warehouse overheads, Mickey’s looking at Turkish like he’s prey. He’ll change his mind about that once Turkish bloodies that surprisingly straight nose of his. Not like this Traveller comes to the shop — not like this Traveller knows anyone that Turkish knows. Whatever Turkish does to drive him off, it ain't exactly gonna matter. 

Turkish swallows, running that thought back once more. 

Whatever he does…

“I’ll be real nice about it, just for you, Turkish.”

Mickey bends down to catch his mouth again and if Turkish tilts his head up into it, no one’ll ever fucking know. 

“Of course, I let him know all about caravans, since the poor fucker’d clearly been taken for a ride last time he bought one.”

“Very kind of you, Mickey.”

“Aye, I thought so. He was very appreciative, too.”

His mother shoots him a sharpish look, letting him know he’s not exactly getting away clean here, but she doesn’t call him on it. 

“Anyway, since we’ve got that spare caravan —”

“Which one? Sorcha’s old one or Reg’s?”

“Of course Sorcha’s old one, ‘m not trying to stiff the man.”

“That portion of the relationship already being squared away, of course.” His mother quips, raising another deadly eyebrow and Mickey shrugs, even as he chuckles. 

“Aye, well, hopefully not squared entirely away. I’ve invited him ‘round. To look at the caravan.”

“Oh, to look at the caravan, was it now?”

“I’m a known multitasker, Ma.”

She clicks her tongue at him, unimpressed. 

“When’s this man of yours arriving? You want I should put the word out so the kids don’t rattle him round too badly?”

Mickey thinks about Turkish for a moment. The way he’d first seen the man, buttoned up neck to knee, awkward, kind of grumpy and utterly unimpressed. Then comes the image of Turkish as he’d last seen the man, buried under a mountain of blankets, lips swollen from Mickey’s attention, mostly asleep but still managing to snap back at every word out of Mickey’s mouth. He gives his mother a winning grin. 

“Nah, he’ll be fine. Probably.” 

“A- ah ,” Turkish means to say something else, besides that. Slow down, maybe. Take it out, definitely. All he does is fist his fingers tighter into his winter sheets, laid out flat on his bed as fucking Mickey shoves a finger up his arse. That seems to be all he can find the breath for, the rest of him entirely distracted by the odd, wrong sensation of something being pressed in.  

“Too, too much,” he gasps and Mickey, thankfully, hears him over the growl of the generator they’d booted up once they’d decided it was too cold to do anything at all, otherwise. The feeling lessens, withdraws completely. Back to nothing more than the tip of a single finger rubbing at his too tight hole. Which, Turkish reluctantly admits, feels good. Better than good, even. One of Mickey’s hands rubs at his lower back, a pleasant warmth that keeps Turkish mostly still, despite the urge to squirm. 

“How many was that?”

“Still just the first finger; second knuckle, now.”

Fuck.

“‘S alright, Turkish, you’re doing grand. Just relax.”

“Relax? You’re telling me to relax? You try having some bloke’s finger up you, see how well you like it.” 

“I like it well enough,” Mickey laughs, “though I much prefer it like this.”

“Might be that I prefer to be t—” Turkish falters, slightly, at the feel of Mickey leaning overtop of him, lowering himself until he’s blanketing Turkish near head to toe. It’s more enjoyable than Turkish would’ve thought it would be, if he’d ever given it a single thought. For a brief moment, Mickey’s hard dick presses right up against Turkish’s hole, smearing wetly, catching slightly. It hits him like a kick to the gut; arousal so overwhelming he can barely bite back the sound that tries to escape him. There’s no hiding the full body shiver that wracks him, though. 

Disappointment lances through him when Mickey shifts, his cock sliding between Turkish’s spread legs instead. Making himself comfortable, cock nestled alongside Turkish’s own, Mickey runs his nose up the length of Turkish’s neck.

“You prefer this,” Mickey says, low and intimate, lips brushing against sensitive skin as he talks. “Promise, gonna make you see God.”

An open mouthed kiss is pressed against his neck before Turkish can argue. Wet and filthy, teeth scraping against skin. To make matters worse, Mickey starts to move. Inelegant, little more than rubbing back and forth — how fucking ridiculous, for Turkish to be so undone by another man humping him. The feel of it has his own cock leaking into the sheets again. Skin against sensitive skin, increasingly slick with every movement. Everytime Mickey’s hips press against him, his weight bears Turkish down a little more and…

“Fuck,” he grunts, too guttural to be a moan, and Mickey hums another laugh, right into his ear. Bastard’s always laughing and that feels good, too, vibrating against his skin. That’s all part of the same bloody problem, of course; everything Mickey does feels good, with one notable exception, and even that’s apparently not a bloody dealbreaker. 

Part of Turkish has definitely been waiting to hit up against some firm, immovable boundary within himself. A point at which the sounds of some deafening alarm will ring out, reminding him that he should not be doing this. Even when a finger’d been pressing what felt like too deep inside, that moment of clarity hadn’t hit him. Give it another few minutes — Mickey’s mouth against his neck, voice in his ear, cock rubbing up against Turkish — and then whatever sense he’s got left in him will be gone with the bloody wind. 

As no external or subconscious klaxon appears to be forthcoming, Turkish is going to have to put a stop to all this bullshit himself. At this point, he’ll even pay for a fucking taxi, so long as it shows him the back of Mickey. 

“That’s the idea.” Another bite; another zing of arousal right to Turkish’s cock, which really should be more discerning, at his age. 

“Don’t matter how long it takes. ‘M not in a rush.”

Here’s where Turkish has to muster up what little clarity he still has and say something like put your kit back on and fuck off or why not a blowie instead or can’t go wrong with a handjob. Seeing as how this is a night containing one foolish fucking decision after the next, Turkish doesn’t say a single sensible thing when he opens his mouth. Instead, 

“Really?” like some sort of insecure poof. 

“All the time in the world,” Mickey replies, words almost entirely unintelligible once again, too busy slobbering all over Turkish’s neck and shoulder. It should be disgusting. It is disgusting. But not, unfortunately, a turn off. 

When Mickey nudges him, Turkish lets himself be rolled over onto his side. Mickey slots up against him near immediately, chest to chest, and licks his way into Turkish’s mouth again. Some more manoeuvring — awkward, too many limbs in a too small bed — and then Mickey’s flat on his back, grinning up at Turkish. For half a second, disappointment cuts deep; maybe Turkish does want it, more than he’d ever admit to himself. 

Then Mickey tugs him down, holds him close, one calloused hand sliding its way down Turkish’s body until slick fingers are pawing at his arse cheeks again. Turkish is never going to see Mickey again anyway, after this, so what does it matter if he goes lax and loose and lets the other man take all his weight? If he shudders when Mickey mouths at his neck and jaw, when his other hand traces meaningless shapes against his back and side.

“Shoulda known,” Mickey hums in his ear, almost as distracting as the finger that’s once again sinking into Turkish’s body. What he should’ve known, Turkish can’t fucking figure out, feeling strung out between Mickey’s mouth sucking dark bruises into his skin and the way his finger pushes ever deeper. Mickey ruts up against him, idly, and Turkish doesn’t realise he’s finally relaxed until pleasure knifes through him, a live wire from Mickey’s finger to Turkish’s cock. 

“Can you come again?” Mickey asks, voice caught awkwardly between languid arousal and his regular rapidfire prattle. 

“I’ve not come at all.”

When Mickey laughs this time, the gravel in it has Turkish’s hair standing on end.

“Not yet,” he promises, the mischief in his grin the only warning before he slides his finger out and fucks it back in, perfectly aimed. Turkish makes a sound he hadn’t realised he could and sinks his teeth, hard, into Mickey’s shoulder. 

For once, the aroused shout that echoes around the caravan doesn’t belong to Turkish. 

The car that rumbles up to the camp’s a real beaut. Some shiny new fourby that’s practically begging for wandering hands. The glare of the weak sun on the windshield makes it hard to see the details of who's inside, apart from the basics of there being two people. Mickey watches them both get out — a big bloke, from the drivers side, and a slim little fella from the passenger seat. Neither of them, Mickey’s disappointed to note, are Turkish. He’s got half a second to think, maybe Reg’s old shitbox really is the way to go, when the rear passenger door swings open.

Flash shoes, buttoned up neck to knee with some fancy scarf draped loosely over his shoulders, Turkish shuts the door while looking exactly as uncomfortable as he’d been when they’d first met. Mickey’s too far away to tell but he’d bet his Ma’s favourite sweater that that expensive looking scarf isn’t high enough to hide everything Mickey’d done to him. Smug pride makes a home within his chest and Mickey doesn’t bother to shrug it off. 

One of the kids — Jamie’s brat Andy, looks like — ambles up immediately, of course. None of them can keep their noses out of anything, though most of them’ve enough sense to wait for the more foolhardy to scope out the situation first. Andy, firecracker that he is, obliges. He latches on to the smaller of the unknown pair, pegging him for an easy mark as easily as Mickey’s done. 

Unlike the other two, obviously occupied with their immediate surroundings, Turkish’s eyes are scanning the camp; he actually knows who he’s looking for, after all. 

“Turkish, good of you to come,” Mickey calls as he makes his way over. “And you’ve brought the whole family!”

The bigger one he can see for either protection or the threat of trouble, not that Turkish’d need either, with Mickey here. It could almost be sensible, if it weren’t fucking offensive. Might be there’s another explanation; might be Mickey should wash his hands after he sends Turkish on his way, no matter how fond a single shag had made him. Mickey’s got enough trouble without borrowing any from a city lad. The smaller man, though — him Mickey’s got no idea about. 

“That’s Gorgeous George. It’s his car. Wouldn’t let me drive it.” Turkish shoots a sour look across the car at good old Georgie, who’s entirely too preoccupied with a staring contest to notice. Mickey meanders even closer, close enough he could almost knock their shoulders together. 

“And the other one?”

“Tommy. He’s a ninny. Leave him alone for too long, he gets like an anxious dog. I’d rather not go back to all the cushions torn to shreds, ta.”

“Oi!” The aforementioned Tommy, close enough to overhear, takes obvious exception to that. Turkish, clearly unmoved by the meagre protest, levels an unimpressed look towards his friend. Huffing, Tommy rolls his eyes and turns his face away. Unobserved by the man, Mickey manages to catch young Andy’s eye. He raises his eyebrows at lad, flicking his eyes across to Tommy in a way that’s likely obvious. Luckily, the only people paying him any mind are the boy in question, and Turkish. 

Grinning like he’s been given a real treat, Andy immediately sets out to cause some mischief. Mickey ignores the start of what’ll surely be carnage and leans closer to Turkish, that friend of his now entirely occupied for the foreseeable future. Before he can say a word, Turkish hisses,

“I can still feel you, you fucking bastard.”

Given the tone Turkish’d used, such a thing’s surely meant to be a complaint. Mickey takes it as a compliment regardless, as it’s been just over a full day since they’d seen each other. He’d been quite considerate of Turkish’s circumstances after all — treated that virgin hole of his as gently as could be. That said, Mickey does like to be an indulgent lover when there’s the time. Turkish had begged rather a lot, eventually, and it’s not in Mickey’s nature to deny anything when asked so sweetly. 

“Wanna feel me again?” Mickey doesn’t bother to hide his cocky grin, entirely amused by the way Turkish’s quickly narrowing eyes can’t quite hide his interest. 

“Leave the lads with the car, I’ll show you what a real caravan should look like on the inside.”

“The bed at least,” Turkish mutters, scowling, turning his head away when Mickey claps a hand on his shoulder. 

“There’s the spirit! Now, boys, I’m sure me Ma’d love to have you for tea.” He directs the comment to Tommy and Georgie and doesn’t give them time to lodge a protest before he’s slid his arm around Turkish’s shoulder and is leading him away.