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The club’s music thumps loudly in Mickey’s ears. It’s deafening and numbing. Mickey can’t give two shits about any of that. His eyes are locked in the middle of the room where Ian Gallagher is performing like a two-bit whore on top of a box.
Ian’s waving hips in those god-awful looking booty shorts. As if the cheap gold spandex and the sequin-tie aren’t enough, thick lines of mascara outline his impossible green eyes. Mickey hates the entire package. He hates the way the quote-unquote uniform makes Ian look no better than the stupid-ass skanks above Alibi.
Ian is so much better that that.
Ian is the best goddamn thing in Mickey’s life.
The only thing that feel right.
Mickey’s gut curls at the thought of Ian even being here. But, there’s nothing they can do. He can’t stop Ian, he can’t curse Ian, and he can’t provide for Ian. He can only runs so many scams, and even then it’s barely enough to keep a roof over their heads. It’s not that Mickey doesn’t want to do all that. He’s a few months too late to keep his precious Gallagher as sweet and innocent as they first met.
Sweet and innocent has always been his time. Or, maybe, he’s lying to himself and he simply wants Ian. By now, he knows that he’s willing to do absolutely anything for him. It’s a freeing realization for him.
On the floor, there’s a fat faggot snaking his way to Ian like a slimy maggot. The sorry fuck licks the disgusting surface of ol’ Benjamin’s face.
Every single cell in Mickey’s brain tells him that this is exactly how things go in shitty clubs like this. If they’re willing to pay a under-aged minor to dance nearly naked in front of all these old queen, then a little backroom work won’t bat anyone’s eyelashes. Too bad for them that Mickey’s inner green monster won’t have any of that tonight. No one’s fucking touching his Ian, especially when he just got the redhead back. He’s moving before he realizes it.
“Those fingers go anywhere near that cock—” my Ian’s cock, “—Imma break ever’ fuckin’ knuckle on your hand,” he growls, shoving the fat fuck away. More distance is better for everyone’s sake. Ian’s job will be in jeopardy if Mickey not-so-accidentally kills the sorry faggot for trying to touch what’s his. “All fucking fifteen of’em!”
“Settle down, grumplefish” the queen tries to subdue him, “Anyway, a hand only has fourteen knuckles.” The asshole even waves those dirty paws in front of Mickey’s face.
Mickey surges forward. The intent to kills flashes in his eyes. “You wanna fucking die?” And, by fuck, he’s so going to do it just so the self-righteous motherfucker doesn’t so much as look in Ian’s direction ever again. Vicious fucking queens! Don’t know where to shut-up their stupid mouths.
On the offhand, he counts the number of knuckles on his hand.
Ian swoops down behind him. “You got invited to one of the after-hours with one of my regulars,” he says, but Mickey’s too distracted trying not to be distracted by the way Ian’s sweat-drenched body smells. The body soap he used is gone completely. There’s nothing left but pure Ian blowing to Mickey’s nose with every move.
“It’s fun,” Ian defends, “What’s wrong with fun?”
“Nothing unless it involves some fat faggot shovin’ his hand down ya—” the words die in his throat when Ian lean far too close. They’re far too exposed. “The fuck!” The little boy that Terry always caught doing shit looks around listlessly. It’s like the echo of Terry’s drunken slurs are always behind him—never leaving him alone.
There’s no Terry. The club’s light move wildly along with the music. It’s only Ian standing right in front of him with a smug look on his face, eyebrows raised as if daring Mickey to say all that shit out loud. Of course, Terry Milkovich isn’t here. The fucker’s rotting away in jail for all Mickey knows. Really, he doesn’t, which is part of why he’s so jumpy.
Yeah, they may be out in the open right now but so are a hundred other faggots with them.
Ian’s just looking at him like really looking at him. Mickey’s favortie Gallagher has grown up so much since he was a lanky thirteen-year-old boy in Kash&Grab. He’s broader and so much taller. The severe undercut reminds Mickey of the ROTC days. The tattoo on Ian’s side reminds Mickey of the days when he could barely sleep because Ian was missing. Then, that smile on Ian’s face reminds Mickey just how much he wants the boy in front of him.
He can no longer remember a time when Ian wasn’t constantly in his mind. All the time. 24/7. Ian’s got that look that simply pulls Mickey in.
Mickey’s only human after all. He goes for it.
They’ve never really kissed in public—not like this. There’s a couple of times when they leaned close, lips barely touching the other. There were times in the baseball field where they fucked in the dugout. This is completely different from all those times. This isn’t the fumbling of two teenage boys. The kiss they share is for men—two fully grown men knowing that what they have is simply… right.
It’s freeing.
Ian’s lips are puffy and rough; meaning, he isn’t getting enough water. It tastes a little bit like cherry lip gloss. The make-up and the uniform are there to rack-up his tips. Mickey likes it better when Ian tastes like burgers and beer. Ian’s got an Irish-tolerance which means that it’s pretty much up there in the sky.
Mickey cups Ian’s jaw. The sweaty flesh is cool yet warm under his fingers. He can’t get enough. The heat between their bodies rise. Mickey just wants to touch every part of Ian that he can. No doubt that Ian feels the same because his long fucking fingers are digging into Mickey’s nape and the other one worms its way down the back of Mickey’s jeans—into his crack.
“Fuck,” Mickey curses, because he’s hard in his fucking jeans.
Ian pulls away, licking his lips like the devil. “Later,” he says with conviction before stealing a kiss then pulling away completely. “Later, I promise.” He goes back up to his stage. He doesn’t really dance. It’s more like he’s grinding the air and fucking and invisible Mickey on the platform. His little performance, of course, gets him a floor full of hundred dollar bills.
Mickey’s never too far to stop some idiot from trying to touch Ian again.
***
They arrive at the rich guy’s equally rich-as-fuck looking loft a little after midnight. Ian ran a mid-shirt from 4 to 11. They grabbed a couple of burgers, some pie, and a little back-alley romp before heading over. Of course, Mickey wouldn’t risk going into some queen’s lair with his hard-on still intact.
Everything inside is either wooden or gold.
“Woah,” Ian says, pointing outside the window. “Look at that view.”
Mickey’s eyes are darting about. Every second spent inside the posh abode makes him feel even smaller. This, he thinks, is what Ian deserves and not some high-school dropout like him. He licks his lips and almost tastes just how much the guy’s swimming in money. It’s in the air, all around them, choking Mickey with everything he could never provide—a better life far, far away from the Southside.
“What does this joker do?”
“He’s an engineer. Part time photographer,” Ian says, motioning to the pictures, “I think he took some of these pictures actually.”
Of—fucking—course, the guy did. There’s nothing but naked men photos lining up the wall in what people called quote-unquote are these days. It’s practically port right up on the living room wall. What’s missing is the raunchy over-done pornsite logos covering the men’s jewels. Nothing covers the men at all. Just shadows and shit.
“Oh yeah? What’s he fucking want you to come in, huh?”
As far as Mickey’s concerned, those are guys that Mr. Engineer-Slash-Part-Time-Photographer have either fucker or gotten fucked by. Ian’s is still far better than any of those so-called models. Mickey grins to himself feeling smug. As many men have tried and failed tonight, no one else is even seeing so much as fucking red pubic hair if he’s got anything to say about it.
Ian rolls his eyes, smile placating. “Aww, come on, not everyone wants something from me, Mick.”
Mickey thinks that’s a mother fucking lie. There’s no day man on this earth that wouldn’t want Ian. That’s next to impossible. But, before he can say as much, another voice interrupts them.
“Ian~,” the new guy practically sing-songs his way over. “So glad that you could make it!” Then, the fucker, straight-up goes in for a hug, which Ian folds into immediately. Mickey wants to punch the guy but he’s like the host of this shindig or some shit. So, he can’t. Not if wants to stay and guard Ian from all these queens.
“Ryan!” Ian says brightly. When he pulls back, his immediately turns towards Mickey. “Hey, this is Mickey.”
Ryan’s got a preppy smile, with his preppy clothes and preppy hair, extends his hand all friendly-like. “Delighted to meet you.” God, even his voice is freaking preppy as shit. It’s like he’s an older version of a catholic schoolboy who managed to wiggle free. Mickey just stares as his soft-looking hands and manicured fingers, but makes no more to touch it. “Can I get any of you a cocktail?”
At this point, Mickey’s willing to say anything to get rid of Ryan What’s-his-face. “Yeah, can we get a beer?” The next thing lil’ queenie spews is a bunch of useless syllables that go right over Mickey’s head like a cow over the moon. It’s some mumbo-jumbo about all that fancy-shit that he could never afford and much less care about. “How about beer?”
Ryan laughs awkwardly. “Right. Right. Could I be any more of a fag? One beer. Coming right up.” Mickey does not miss the way Ryan’s eyes drift towards the redhead. “Ian? You coming?”
Ian, the fucker, smiles right back. “Let’s see what you got.” Then, he fucking leaves Mickey in the middle of the red zone—out in the open in the gay wilderness with these faggots, queens, and homos all over the place.
Mickey doesn’t know where to stand. This isn’t him. This isn’t his territory. It’s the fucking Northside for crying out loud. Can he be any fucking farther from Trumbull? His stomach churns while he watches Ian disappear behind a corner with he-forgets-what’s-his-face’s-name. He’s just about to follow when another guy walks up behind him.
“You’re new. Hi.” The guy’s got glasses and a blue shirt.
Mickey doesn’t care for much else. He’s got enough to make-up nicknames in his head. “Hey.”
“Your here with Ian?” Glasses Guy asks, all civil and formal.
“Ya”
“Ahh,” Mr. Glasses laughs, “That’s great.” Mickey fails to notice the hint of jealously in the tone. Of course, this fucker’s got a thing for Ian. Mickey just about had enough of people fawning over the redhead tonight. “So, uh, what do you do?”
Really? That’s what the guy’s going to use as an introduction?
“I run a business,” Mickey answers inexplicably.
Glasses Guy presses on, “What kind of business?”
“Hospitality,” is all Mickey can come up with. He’s moving from side to side, weight at the balls of his feet. Ian still isn’t back. Is the fucking kitchen in Narnia or something? Ian should be back by now. Mickey’s itching to go follow them but he ain’t no clingy-fag. No, he isn’t. He’s going to wait right here.
“Oh nice, what realm?”
No, Ian’s hasn’t come back yet, and this guy’s starting to get on Mickey’s nerves. He turns to look at the guy, straight in the eye. “I’m a pimp,” he says seriously. The guy’s staring at him like he’s making some sort of weird joke, and is waiting for the punchline. They hold staring match for a couple of seconds after that.
Glasses Guy chuckles a bit. “What, you’re serious?”
Mickey just moves his brows even higher, nodding uncertainly.
Glasses Guy positively beams. Then, he starts spewing mouth-vomit. All that educated shit. Half of it—hell, all of it, Mickey doesn’t even understand. What part of ‘pimp’ did this guy not understand?
“You got a card?”
“No, he doesn’t” Ian cuts in before Mickey can say anything. One of his hands curl protectively over Mickey’s bicep, tugging him back, while the other is curled around the neck of two sweating beer bottles. He plants himself between the pair. “He doesn’t fucking have one. Why don’t you go talk shop somewhere else, huh? He ain’t what you’re looking for. Just go, Trent.”
Glasses Guy’s eyes go wide. “Ohh—kay, just making conversation, Ian.” He leans to the side a bit to catch another glimpse of Mickey. “He didn’t say that you were…”
“Go. Away.” Ian says again, more firmly this time.
Glasses Guy—aka Trent—raises his hand in surrender. “Okay. Alright. Leaving. Make sure you mark you territory on that though because I’m not the only one with a pair of eyes tonight. Fresh meat always draws in the sharks.” Ian makes a growling noise from his throat that makes Trent scurry away.
“Hey, man,” Mickey sighs in relief because Ryan didn’t come with him. “What’s up with that?”
Ian’s eyes are blazing when he turns around. “Five minutes,” he says slowly, anger rising with every word that passes his lips, “I leave you alone for five minutes and you’re suddenly Mr. Popular, chatting guys up like of’em Russian girls you keep at Alibi, Mick. Really, five minutes, man. Just five!”
Oh, Mickey realizes with a startle, Ian’s jealous. That makes him feel a little bit powerful.
“Ayy, that’s what ya get for leavin’ me the fuck alone.”
From blazing, Ian’s eyes turn murderous. Mickey’s only seen that look once before, and that was before he outed himself in Alibi to his father. Something about it is viscerally hot. It quakes him down to his bones. He’s always been fucked-up in the head like that—getting off on power, on getting caught, on every fucking thing that involves Ian fucking Gallagher.
“Bathroom,” Ian all but growls. He grabs Mickey’s wrists and hauls them down various corridors—further, and further away, until the crowd’s a distant memory. Mickey doesn’t think about how and why Ian knows his way around the apartment. He can’t really think right now when Ian pushes him into a bathroom and slams him against the door, lips attacking at his bare skin.
“Fuck,” he moans, grabbing Ian’s head with both hands, spreading his legs, and lifting his chin to grant him better access. The beers fall to the ground with a clutter. Mickey pulls himself away just to see the bottles roll away unbroken. He sighs in relief. At least they won’t have to watch out for broken glass if things become horizontal.
Ian’s on him like a man starved—hands moving everywhere, one hot and the other cold. He nips, licks, and sucks, every patch of naked flesh that he can reach which means Mickey’s neck and collar would be covered with bruises and love bites before dawn. His legs press insistently between Mickey’s parted thighs, pushing the brunette hard against the door.
“Can’t. Fucking. Leave. You. Alone.” Ian snarls against Mickey’s ear, breath hot and damp. “Not gonna give you to them, Mick, you’re mine.”
Mickey can’t form words. They’re all stuck in his throat while Ian plays him like a fiddle. Sex has always been sex for them—angry, jealous, all-consuming. It’s the thing that got them together and will always be there to stay. They’re both shit with words. At the least, Mickey knows he is shit with words. Ian can be articulate when he wants too.
Growing up the way he did, feelings are only a weakness. Weaknesses get exploited or destroyed. That’s part of why he never wanted to admit—out loud—what he knows he feels for Ian. It’s special in a way that fairytales make everything alright in the end. Tough luck. They’re living in Chicago. There’s no fairies here to determine their fate except them.
“Not giving you to anyone else, Mick,” Ian says again. It’s like he’s on loop, or on repeat.
Mickey grabs him by the hair and pulls, “Not going anywhere, Firecrotch.” He tugs Ian into another searing kiss. Ian’s lips are hot and full of saliva. It’s messy and uncontrollable—just like them. Hands tugs at Mickey’s pants and Mickey tugs at Ian’s. They’re both desperate to get the other one undress. It’s like a game to see who can move faster.
Whoever said Mickey isn’t a cheat is probably lying. He bites on Ian’s lower lip.
“Oww, Mickey, what the fuck?”
“Ah-hah!” Mickey exclaims in triumph, hand diving into Ian’s boxer before the redhead could get another word out. “So fucking wet. Thought I cleaned this shit up when you came earlier, huh? Got your boxers all messy again. I said I ain’t cleaning-up after yous, right?”
Ian laughs, deep and loud. It echoes through the large bathroom. “I wanna fuck you again. Got lube?”
“Tch, no.” Mickey snorts. Ian’s face deflates like a puppy but then it’s Mickey’s turn to laugh. “Still fucking wet from earlier. Think that’s enough?”
Instead of answering, Ian manhandles Mickey around to face the wall. He plants his whole body against Mickey’s back, pressing Mickey hard against the wall. He does all the work from there—pushing the jeans down Mickey’s knees along with the boxers, hiking Mickey’s shirt up, then plunging two fingers into the hole he’s fucked sloppy only a few hours ago.
Of course, Mickey’s warm and wet inside.
“Oh, yeah.” Both of them groan at the same time.
Ian’s got no finesse when he slides inside. Mickey doesn’t even complain for the lack of prep. He loves the burn of Ian forcing his way into his tiny hole. Knowing that he will feel it in the morning drives his lust and arousal even higher. Ian wraps his hand around his middle, and he can’t help but just hold onto the strong tan arms.
Mickey bites his lip.
“Let me hear you, Mick,” Ian whispers behind his ear. “It’s fucking acoustic, Mick. When the hell are we going to fuck in another place like this, huh? Let it out. Lemme hear your noises.”
Damn him. Damn Ian and that husky voice that’s like witchcraft. Mickey’s completely under his spell. On the next thrust, Mickey cries out loud. It rips from the very core of his being, echoing thunderously in the large bathroom, head banging loudly against the door. At the moment, he doesn’t care for all the world to hear him—not anymore because he’s connected with Ian.
“That’s it, Mick,” Ian encourages, “More.” His thrusts get stronger.
“Gallagher, fuck!” Mickey shouts, hand hitting the door so hard that it shakes. “Ian, fuck, give to me, yeah? Yeah!” He’s yelling and screaming, and Ian’s right behind him, urging to be louder and louder. Mickey loses himself in the scent of Ian’s skin, the heat pressed against his back, the fingers wrapped around his cock stroking him in perfect timing with Ian’s thrusts.
It’s like the whole fucking world narrows down to just them.
Knock. Knock.
“WHAT?!” Mickey growls like a feral animal. “The fuck you want?” He knows that the voice is somehow familiar.
“I, uh…”
“Ow, fuck! You psycho!” Mickey hisses touching the shoulder that Ian just bit. “You a fucking animal now, Gallagher? Damnit, fuck—fuck, fuck, fuck!” The annoyance melt into even more moans as Ian shifts them down and hits Mickey right where he sees stars. Pleasure shoots up his spine, making him tremble. Suddenly, he can’t move, he can’t speak, all his high-functions narrow down to feeling the cock sliding in and out of him.
Everything else is forgotten.
They both shout each other’s names at completion.
Ian drops down to the floor with a wet thump. Mickey goes down within.
Mickey squirms on Ian’s half-hard cock. “Come here,” he says, face angling to the side. His other hand grabs Ian by the back of his neck and hauls him. In. Their kiss is lazy as lazy can get. Their bodies cool down from the exertion. Mickey feels the tiny droplets leaking out his creampied ass. He really doesn’t mind it anymore. It’s Ian.
“Hey,” Ian says, nosing at Mickey’s jaw when they part. “Think Trent heard us?”
Mickey rolls his eyes. “Who? I don’t know, fuck, think what’s-his-face heard us?”
It takes Ian a minute or so to process who Mickey’s talking about. He snort-laughs. “It’s Ryan.”
“Tch,” Mickey shrugs. “Don’t ruin the afterglow, man.”
***
Outside the door, unknown to the lovey-dovey couple outside, the house music has mellowed into a soft soothing jazz. A parade of gay men line-up in the corridor, listening to them get into part two of that afterglow—Trent and Ryan included.
“Think they’re together?” Trent whispers to Ryan, arms crossed in a huff. “Because if they aren’t. The guy with Ian totally going to bang me into next Saturday.”
Ryan hides his smile. “Knowing Ian, the guy’s he’s with isn’t doing the banging.”
“I’m versatile!”
Ryan huffs. “Really, Trent, you’re not.”