Chapter Text
“Look sweetheart, I know you’re not as stupid as you look. Trust me, I’ve been in this business a long time—longer than I care to admit on a first date, and I can tell you: If you want to out yourself and go float around as a gay actor, then you might as well book yourself a one-way ticket back to Kansas. Okay? Is any of this getting through to you?”
Ian Gallagher stared back in shock, swallowing the man’s words slowly. His hands gripped the sides of the table, bunching up the expensive fabric under his fingers. Is this really fucking happening?
“I know you have your little project going for you now, and you’ve built up a name for yourself, but nobody gives a shit about your feelings, okay? You’re a pretty face. That’s it. As long as you stay pretty, stay fuckable, you can keep this up for awhile. But nobody wants to put some gay little fairy in a lead role. Men want to be able to get a beer with you, not have to worry about swatting you away from their dicks the whole time. Girls want to know you’re available. They want you for themselves. You cut off your female fanbase, you’re dead in the water. Trust me, no girl wants to fuck a gay guy. I know what I’m talking about, Ian.”
Ian could feel his pulse throbbing in his throat. He tried to slow his breathing, tried to unclench his fingers, but he couldn’t break eye contact with the older man sitting in front of him, and the man just kept going.
“Look, we’re out at a nice restaurant, an expensive restaurant thank you very much, on a night that’s not easy to just up and get a table at, let alone one with a view, so I suggest you stop your whining and start showing a little appreciation here, huh? Chuck said you knew what was what, so why not act your age, and start giving me something to work with? You’re a good looking kid, you’re what, 23? 24? Old enough to know better?” He leaned close to Ian, “How about you tell me all the things you want me to do to you tonight, and we’ll go from there. Maybe I can find you a role in one of my movies? We’ll see how hard you can work for it…”
Ian was out of his seat and around the table in a second, dragging the guy backwards by the collar, stumbling out of his chair and landing smack on the ground behind him. His head hit the hard floor with a loud thunk, and Ian landed a solid punch to his jaw. Barely able to breathe through the constriction in his chest, Ian panted towards his erstwhile dinner companion, writhing in fear underneath his tight grip, “I’m not from Kansas, asshole. I’m from Chicago.”
With that, he head butted the older man, rendering him unconscious. He stood up, grabbed his glass of water from the table, and downed the remains. The still surroundings caught his attention, prickling the hair on the back of his neck. He looked around at the stunned audience of shocked dinner guests and scandalized waiters. The silent tension suddenly unbearable, Ian smiled and cleared his throat. “Can I get a to go box?”
The manager approached the area, horrified, hands gesturing towards the splayed studio executive on the floor, mouth gaping silently. “No?” Ian asked innocently, “That’s okay. Dinner’s on him.” He turned and strode confidently out of the restaurant.
He’d already had a cigarette out and prepared to light it as he walked out the front door and into the waiting crowd of paparazzi and onlookers. This restaurant was a popular spot for higher paid celebrities and show runners, so to emerge into a million flashes wasn’t unusual. Ian knew they weren’t there for him, but the rage coursing through his veins told him he was about to be the high point of their night.
“Ian Gallagher! Ian! How are you doing this evening?”
“What brings you here tonight, Ian?”
“Who are you meeting with, Ian? Were you with your new costar?”
“Ian, we just heard the news that—“
He cut them off with a dismissive glance and a raised eyebrow, “That I’m gay? Yep. You heard right.”
There was a moment of silence, immediately followed by a steady hum of camera clicks. “Gay? Ian, did you just announce that you’re gay?”
“Is this this your first public confirmation of your sexuality?”
“Can you tell us who you’re dating, Ian? Ian!”
He took a long inhale on his cigarette, and looked right into the camera with the red tape and black “TMZ” logo on the side, “I’m gay. I LIKE fucking men, and I’m really fucking good at it. And unlike that coward in there,” he motioned towards the restaurant, “I’m not ashamed to admit it.”
He flipped off the camera, and walked away
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Once he was far enough away that he felt safe from cameras and microphones, he pulled the cellphone out of his pocket, and scrolled to find his manager’s contact number. “Chuck, you fucking asshole. You told him we were on a DATE? When were you planning on telling me that? You said it was a fucking business meeting, for a role. You stood me up AGAIN, and left me there with that creepy sack of shit. Well, you’ll be glad to know you won’t have to manage me anymore, because my career ended five minutes ago. Fuck you, fuck him, and don’t ever call me again.” He turned off his phone, and flicked his cigarette to the ground.
He hailed the first cab he saw, and told the driver, “Faultline, 4216 Melrose.” The driver laughed, and informed Ian that he knew the place well, punctuating his flirtation with a wink into the rear view mirror. Ian rolled his eyes, and shifted into the door, looking gloomily out the window.
He knew that his roommates would want him to join them at whichever dance club they happened to be frequenting at the moment, but Ian was in no mood to chat. He checked his phone to make sure it was completely turned off, and focused on making himself invisible. After the burning wreckage that was the last half hour, he knew he’d most likely flushed his career down the toilet. He had fired his manager, pissed off an extremely well-connected, influential studio executive, and publicly outed himself against the advice of almost everyone he knew.
If this was Ian’s last night as a successful actor in Hollywood, he was at least going to make it count. He was going to get laid.
Ian strode confidently into the bar, and took in his surroundings; the simple, familiar feel of the bar downplayed just how popular (and packed) the place was. Known for being on the masculine end of gay bars, one was far more likely to find tattooed, pierced, leather-clad bikers in this place than go-go dancers. It may look somewhat similar to the Fairy Tail, but it felt more like the Alibi. And that was just what Ian needed. He had a specific type, and this was his frequent stop for when he was looking to hookup.
Half an hour and several whiskey and cokes later, Ian felt himself finally start to unwind. He’d lost count of how many drinks he’d had, and was grateful to feel the stress melting away; the ache in his shoulders lessening with every glass he downed. As he reveled at the burning sensation in his throat, he scanned the room. He locked eyes with a slender, broad-shouldered man with his black hair slicked back, and a predatory smile. His full tattoo sleeved-arms were resting back onto the table behind him, a bottle in one hand, a pool cue in the other. Ian knocked back his remaining whiskey and threw a $50 on the counter.
As he approached his target, the man turned and headed towards the restroom, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure Ian was following. Perfect.
The music was just as loud inside the bathroom, but Rob Zombie’s “Superbeast” was hard to hear over the sounds of moans and thuds echoing from inside the stalls.
The dark-haired man placed his hand on the door to the last stall, opening it to the side, ushering Ian in like a valet to his own private ride. Ian bunched his shirt up into a fist, and slammed him hard into the stall door. “Anyone ever tell you you look like Mickey Milkovich?” He cupped his hand over the brunet’s bulge and licked his neck, from his collar bone to his jaw. The other man gasped and leaned into Ian’s touch. “You look just like Archie from Riverdale.”
Ian suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “Guess I had that coming.” He backed him into the stall and locked the door behind him. His hooked his fingers around the man’s belt and pulled him close. He nuzzled into his neck and ran his fingers through long black locks, tightening his grip and pulling his head backwards, exposing more of his neck.
The man opened his eyes, his gaze lingering on Ian’s bright red hair. “You really do look just like Archie, though. He’s so hot. I wish I could climb him like a tree. God damn, he’s so hot. I’m getting so hard talking about him.” Ian pulled back slowly, expression blank.
He released his grip on the man’s hair, and slowly moved his hands towards his own belt. “You’re hot too, though” the brunet said consolingly. “…Right”, Ian cocked an eyebrow and continued unbuckling. “You look just like him, or who’s that other guy, that other redhead, on that show that’s kind of like True Detective, but also kind of not? He’s hot too. Damn, what’s that show called?”
Ian cleared his throat, “Santa Monica Slaughter.” “Yeah, that’s it, that show. It’s a weird ass show, but that guy’s so hot. I’d fuck him, too. You look sooooooo much like him. Oh my god, you must get that all the time.” Ian placed a hand on the guys shoulder and guided him quickly down to his knees. He used his other hand to continue undoing his pants, and tried to focus on the grunts and moans coming from the stall next door. His dick twitched in response, and he could feel the alcohol coursing through him. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the man below him palm at him slowly.
“You could be, like, his twin… but your chin is way bigger than his, though.” Ian tilted his head down and looked at the man incredulously. “Are you fucking kidding me, right now?” The man shrugged his shoulders and mouthed at the crotch of Ian’s boxers. Ian sighed, and let his head rest against the door behind him. He felt his pants drop to the floor, and the waistband of his boxers slowly made its way down Ian’s hips.
Just as his cock sprang free from the restraints of his clothing, the hands around him paused, holding the boxers in place against his thigh.
“Wait…” The man was looking up at Ian thoughtfully. “You’re Johnson?”
“You like it?” Ian grinned, and wrapped his hand around the back of the man’s head, pulling him forward.
“You’re Johnson? You’re the guy? You’re the guy from the show? Oh my god. Oh my god.” He jumped to his feet, and stared at Ian with large, animated eyes. “Do you know how god damn famous you are?” Ian blinked. “…What?”
“YOU’RE JOHNSON FROM THE SHOW! I’VE SEEN THAT SHOW! I’d know you from anywhere!” Ian stood there, taking in the moment, his neglected cock starting to flag. “It’s Watterson. I’m Watterson.”
In an instant, the man pulled out his phone and shouted, “Hey, YOU GUYS! I’ve got Johnson in here with me! Holy shit!” He held the phone out above them, aiming it downward, capturing them in their entirety. “Selfie!” He wrapped his arm around Ian’s neck, his image smiling brightly back at them from the screen, Ian’s half hard cock clearly visible.
“What? FUCK! No no no no, fuck, SHIT!” He shoved the man hard, pulling up his boxers frantically. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” The man caught his grip on the rail, and fumbled with his phone. “You almost made me crack my screen, bro.”
Ian flung the door open, tripping over his pant legs as stumbled forward. He leaned against the wall, catching his breath as he quickly pulled up his pants and fastened them around his hips. “Hang on, chief, let me get a selfie- my friends are never going to believe this!” Ian stood frozen in place, his feet glued to the floor, his heart pumping rapidly in his chest. His wide eyes followed the oblivious man’s movements as he snapped a photo of the two of them, this time- thankfully, just their upper torsos.
The man began to work his phone furiously, his brow furrowed. “Give me just a second, I have to upload this really quicky.” Ian’s eyes searched the lobby of the bathroom. It was filled with people, not a single one of them glancing in their direction. His left shoulder was pressed up against the back of a mohawked man wrapped up in the arms of another; their grinding distracting them from Ian’s horrified predicament.
The dark-haired man to his right was muttering to himself distractedly. “Just… met… Johnson… bitches.” He looked up at Ian. “You can still fuck me, I just need to… hang on, I’ve got comments already. Holy shit, they’re sharing it! They’re getting my face out there, and it’s with yours! YAAAAAAAAS! Yaaas, you bitches, spread it like wildfire.” He scrolled through the incoming avalanche of comments, too lost in his own world to notice Ian bolting for the door, slamming it shut behind him.
“…Who the hell is Watterson?”
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By the time the cab dropped Ian off at home, his bad mood had surrendered to hopelessness. This night had turned into such a shit show, he was almost impressed with himself. If there were any way to salvage his career at this point, he’d be hard pressed to find one.
He flipped on the lights, and called out for his roommates, but all signs pointed to him being the only one home. “At the clubs…figured.” He was relieved for the solitude; he was in no mood for conversation, and would’ve felt guilty had he snapped at his friends for showing concern.
By the time he made it to his room and closed the door, the tears were threatening to spill over. He took a few deep breaths and headed towards his Blu-ray collection. He sifted through the cases, considering his options. “Quadruple Punishment, Master of Vengeance, Impact: Vendetta…Extreme Termination…”
His fingers stopped at Infinite Overkill. Out of all of the movies Mickey Milkovich has ever made, Infinite Overkill had to be his favorite.
He studied the case in his hand, turning it over slowly. He dragged his eyes over full pouty lips, caressing them with his fingertips. Piercing blue eyes stared back at him, his expression vexed under smooth creamy skin and well defined eyebrows. His jet black hair was trimmed close on the sides, and long and slicked back on the top. He felt his pants get tighter, readjusting himself as he stared at the cover.
He slipped the disc in, and crawled into bed. He leaned back into his pillows, letting all other thoughts drift away as he watched bulging biceps, bitter scowls, and the sexiest round ass he’d ever witnessed saunter across his giant flatscreen. Slipping his hand into his boxers, he began gently stroking himself.
“You got somethin’ to say, fuckin’ say it to my face” Mickey spit, holding up an automatic rifle to the enemy’s chin, the man sputtering and begging for mercy in Mickey’s grip. Mickey slammed the butt of the rifle into the man’s temple, knocking him out cold. He twisted in place, using his previously unnoticed Taser Powered Knuckles on the man who was foolish enough to try sneaking up behind him. 950,000 volts collided with the intruder’s jaw, sending him flying backwards, catching the ground with the base of his skull.
“Fuck” Ian murmured, quickening his pace as Mickey swiped his thumb against his lip and poured the remainder of his flask across the two men lying limp on the ground, flicking the match he used to light his cigarette over his shoulder as he walked away, setting the area ablaze. “Reloading is overrated.”
Ian ran his other hand down his chest slowly, trailing down his chiseled abs and curving around the v defining his hips, caressing his balls, his other hand pumping frantically to the sight of Mickey biting and licking his bottom lip.
He was already close by the time Mickey’s character was in bed, thrusting his hips, groaning into the ear of some actress Ian was trying determinedly to ignore. “Mickey, fuuuuuck” Ian moaned, tilting his head back, pretending the sounds emanating from the man’s mouth were for him; that he was wrapped around Ian’s lap, thrusting himself onto Ian’s hard cock over and over.
He came into his hand, gasping for air. The last thing he saw as he passed out was the sight of Mickey, sweaty and exhausted, also struggling to catch his breath.
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He awoke to the sound of multiple blenders grating loudly from the kitchen.
As Ian made his way out to the kitchen to plead for mercy, he was halted in his tracks by the bright and cheery faces of two of his roommates. “Here’s some pain reliever for your hangover, here’s a glass of water, and here’s your chair.” He gestured towards the island where they were preparing their gross health-nut concoctions. “Sit and spill, Sweetheart.” Tyler’s eyes were far too fucking sparkly for 7am.
“Uh, thanks.” Ian swallowed the pills dry and chased it with water. “Can you fucking turn those blenders off, please?” Dylan reached over and halted progress on their smoothies, bringing his full attention back to Ian. “Ian, tell us EVERYTHING. Start from the beginning. Don’t leave out any details.”
Ian eyed his roommates suspiciously. “Where are the guys? Is it just you two here?” Tyler waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t try and distract us, this is important. I’ve been waiting all night to hear about this.” “Did you have your phone silenced?” Dylan looked genuinely concerned. “ I called you. We texted you a million times, Ian.” Ian reached into his pocket, just now realizing he’d left his phone turned off since he left the restaurant. “Oh, shit, sorry you guys. Lemme turn it on, and-“
Tyler snatched the phone out of his hand before he could register what happened, and stuck it down the front of his pants. He turned to Dylan, and winked, “If he’s had it off all night, it’s going to be going off for the next hour.” “You are so bad”, Dylan smirked, placing slow kisses along Tyler’s neck. Tyler looked up at Ian, “You keep your phone on vibrate, right?”
“I fucking hate you. I hate you both. Give me my fucking phone back.” Ian held out his hand impatiently, while the two men started making out in front of him. “I’ll dump both of your smoothies in the trash if you don’t-” Right on cue, the sound of Ian’s vibrating phone could be heard loud and clear from Tyler’s jeans. He gasped loudly into Dylan’s mouth, and Dylan looked playfully into his boyfriend’s eyes before reaching into his pants and retrieving Ian’s phone. He placed it on the counter, and flipped a bowl upside down to place over it.
“There, your phone is safe. First question…” “Did you meet him? What’s he like?” Tyler was already fixated on the conversation, as if the previous minute hadn’t happened. “Who are you talking about? That asshole executive I met at Vespertine?” Dylan gave Tyler an unmistakable told-you-so look, and Tyler shrugged in defeat. “Sure, Ian, let’s start there. Tell Tyler and I about your dinner at Vespertine that ended like this…” He pulled out his own phone, already prepared with a loaded and buffered video from TMZ.
Ian cringed as he watched himself walk closer to the screen, and announce “That I’m gay? Yep. You heard right.” Ian’s phone buzzed continuously under the bowl secured under Dylan’s arm. He hadn’t had his phone on for the past 12 hours; he could only imagine how many people had been trying to get ahold of him, let alone the social media notifications he was bound to be swamped in after a video like that made its rounds.
The image of himself onscreen exhaled a cloud of smoke, and turned his head so that he was looking himself in the eye. “I’m gay. I LIKE fucking men, and I’m really fucking good at it. And unlike that coward in there, I’m not ashamed to admit it.” He flipped off the camera, and walked away.
“Okay, first of all, Ian, we are SO PROUD of you. You know that, right?” Dylan smiled sincerely at him. Tyler leaned over the counter, “I’m fucking JEALOUS of you, Ian. How long, HOW LONG, have I been trying to out myself? Dylan and I practically dry hump each other in our interviews, and all it takes is one ‘leaked’ story about how I’m dating some mystery girl, and people buy into it. Just like that!”
Ian winced at the implication, “If you want to be out, just come out. If your rep is leaking more bullshit, just denounce it. Tell everyone you’re gay. And stop pretending to date girls just because they tell you to. You don’t see me with a beard on my arm, do you?” “Bitch, you’ve been out for less than a DAY. And I am SO MUCH GAYER than you are.” Ian huffed, smiling at his ridiculous friend. “Why, Tyler, you got a scorecard you wanna compare to mine?”
“Second, Ian, you need to dump your asshole manager. Chuck is the worst. I’m guessing that he set you up with another houseboy-owning closet case under the guise of a business meeting, right? Like last time?” The phone kept buzzing and buzzing away under his arm. Dylan shifted, moving all of his body weight onto it. “Third, I don’t know who this particular fuckboy is…” He held up a photo of Ian with last night’s almost-conquest from Faultline, “But your soon-to-be ex-manager is having a field day playing down the guy’s claims that he was blowing you in the bathroom in front of everyone. How drunk were you?”
“He didn’t blow me… he wouldn’t shut up long enough to try. And we weren’t doing stuff outside of the stall or anything, Jesus… what’s Chuck saying?” Dylan ignored the question with a smile as bright as they had worn the moment he stepped into the kitchen. “Fourth… Ian, you say you’ve had your phone off all night, right?” The three of them looked down at the vibrating bowl containing Ian’s cellphone. “Right. So, your phone’s been off, and you haven’t heard any… news of any sort?”
Tyler starting jumping up and down in place, squealing. Yes, squealing.
Ian sighed, dropping his head into his hand. He couldn’t bear to open his eyes. “How bad is it?”
“Ian, you know how you were saying they were trying to find a replacement for your old costar who’s in rehab now, the guy who played Johnson? …Have they told you who your new costar is?” Dylan already knew the answer to that. Had Ian heard the news, he would’ve tracked them down at Fubar and spent the entire night crying tears of joy into their shoulders.
“Nah,” Ian lifted his head up, eyeing his bouncing, peculiar roommate inquisitively. “Tyler, what the fuck?”
Dylan leaned forward, “Ian, take a look at my news feed.”
Ian read the screen, and reread it. He sat in his chair, stunned into silence. “That’s not real.”
Dylan read directly from the screen. “As of eight hours ago: ‘Mickey Milkovich joins cast of Santa Monica Slaughter for upcoming second season’”, he looked up at Ian to gauge his reaction before continuing, “…’Joins Ian Gallagher in smash AMC hit’…it continues on, if you want to read the article.”
He placed his phone on the counter in front of Ian, who didn’t move, didn’t even blink.
Tyler jumped into his lap, nearly knocking them both backwards onto the kitchen floor. “IAAAAAAANNNNN! You’re going to be working with Mickey Milkovich! You’re going to have to tell me all about his dick. I’m serious, I need details.”
As Ian looked at the vibrating bowl containing his phone, with what must be an endless number of messages to respond to, he couldn’t help but think…
…This was the best day of his entire life.