Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

cha-ching!

cha-ching! cha-ching!

“Oh, so you fuckers are alive tonight.”

They’ve been dragging their asses out there since the start of the stream. Lots of chat movement, but not nearly enough tip sounds ringin’ away for Mickey’s liking. All they needed was a little fire under them. Some motivation.

Ian with a mouth full of cock?

Now that shit is an excellent motivator.

cha-ching!

Mickey bites back a groan, making sure the camera’s getting the hollow of Ian’s cheeks as he goes for some serious upstroke action. 

It’s their first time doing this on the stream. The first time he’s got his dick out for-...he squints at the viewer number on the screen tilted toward him…-two thousand people - wait, Christ, is that normal? Is that a lot for a cam situation like this? 

Jesus Christ, he’s got his whole fucking dick out for two thousand strangers on the inter–

“–mm-... Fuck…”  

The silky slide of his dick slipping down Ian’s throat wrenches him back into sanity. Has him pulling himself together, even before all the responding cha-chings start trickling in because yeah, okay, they’re just as into Ian’s deepthroat game as he is.

Well, not just as into it.

Mickey’s got a clear and obvious advantage.

cha-ching!

cha-ching!

Ian pulls off his dick with a wet, raggedy inhale. He’s getting some air in his lungs. Flicking those sweet fuckin’ doe-eyes of his up to the camera as Mickey capitalizes on it and runs the pad of his thumb over his parted lips like he finds himself constantly doing.

They’re swollen. Pink. Slick with spit, a little surge buzzing through Mickey as they dip forward to lightly nudge against the head of his cock.

cha-ching!

Mickey catches on because he and Ian are getting good at that shit now - wordless communication - prompting their next move with just a look or a nudge. It’s like they’ve been riding the same horny wavelength when the camera’s rolling lately. And Mickey’s definitely not gonna question it. Especially when it’s Ian asking.

He pulls his hand away, but only so he can bring it down to hold himself at the base, and then slowly smear the tip of his cock across Ian’s lips.

It’s fucking filthy. Messy. Everything those TinselTown motherfuckers are clammerin’ for. Everything these motherfuckers are clammerin’ for. (Everything Mickey’s clammerin’ for, because fucking Christ is it hot, actually.)

cha-ching!

cha-ching! cha-ching! cha-ching!   

“Mhm…” he lazily baits, taking his time to trace every inch of those parted lips, “Fuckers like it dirty-dirty…” 

cha-ching!

Pervs.

They manage to pull around four hundred - on top of the wild six from the mad rush of their first stream. 

It leaves Mickey with a cool five Benjamins in his pocket, after they divide it down the middle. And for a second - when he’s being slid the crisp white envelope - he’s gotta give credit to how much of a boy scout Ian’s being about the split. He could be out here really dicking him with the cut - some sort of forty/sixty shit since he’s technically “the talent” or whatever. But he doesn’t. It’s clean down the middle. 

And Mickey’s five hundred bucks richer. 

The walk through Boystown is as crowded as it always is, even despite the low temps. It’s quickly approaching midnight, which means it’s just as quickly approaching his shift start. 

As he pulls up the unnamed string of numbers on his phone, Mickey tries not to think about how much work he’ll have to put in tonight, compared to how quickly he made that five hundred. Lots more work.

Significantly less head, too.

“...hello?”

Ian’s not used to seeing Mickey’s name on his caller ID yet, given the cautious way he answers. 

But Mickey pushes on all the same, phone pressed to his ear as he walks. “‘Ay Gallagher. Guess where they got me workin’ tonight.” 

There’s a pause. Some shuffling on the other end. “Hmm…” Played up consideration, and then: “Topo Gigio.”  

Mickey scoffs through his nose, but doesn’t fight the curl of his lips as he pulls his cigarette away to breathe out. “Cute that you think you’re so funny.” 

“Thanks.” Something shuffles around in the background of the call again. Not place-able. And then he can just pick up the voice of a little kid - her words too far off to understand, but Ian’s not muffled over completely. “Yeah, but you’re not even s’posed to be up right now.” 

There’s a moment of silence. 

Long. 

The image of a stubborn, puppy-eyed redhead standoff flashes through Mickey’s mind. 

And then Ian’s voice is coming back, no longer muffled. 

“I give up. Where ya gonna be.” 

The connections are already starting to snap together, but Mickey keeps walking. Keeps talking. 

“Fuckin’ Backtrack, of all places. My sorry ass was the only one who’d take it.” He pulls a drag, smoke joining his breath in the cold air in front of him. “Think I work with a buncha fag-bashers, man.” Like that’s a big fuckin’ surprise. 

A loud group shuffles past him on the sidewalk, big enough that he has to twist around them to avoid getting his ass flattened by an Uber. 

When he brings his phone back up to his ear, it’s just as a response is floating in.

“Red-light shift, huh…”  

Mickey can feel his face scrunch as he works that one out, the term taking a second to connect. Red-light. Midnight. Huh. “Guess so,” he says. “If that’s what all you fancy-feet motherfuckers call it.” 

Ian’s side of the call grows quiet again, but this time it’s different. No muffled chatter. No movement. Just silence.

Mickey sniffs, and then settles on stating what he’s already figured out. The entire reason he called in the first place. “Take it you ain’t workin’ tonight then.”  

Ian’s voice hums simply over the line. Short. “Mm-mm.”  

Mickey nods. 

Waits. 

Confirms, but just because his brain needs him to fill the empty space with something. “Watchin’ the rugrat.” 

“Yeah.” 

More silence. Growing more and more uncomfortable with every step he takes. It’s fucking painful, if Mickey’s gonna be honest about it.

“Alright well great talkin’ to you, Red.” It’s sarcastic and shitty, but it comes out of his mouth before he can reel it back in. 

And he doesn’t expect too much of a response anyway. Not with how whatever Ian wants to be saying right now is getting drastically censored by the kid hanging around him.

The brightly-colored Backtrack sign starts to cast everything in pinks as Mickey grows close enough. “Gotta go…”

“Okay.” Ian’s quicker with that one. And for a long while, Mickey thinks that’s all he’s gonna give him. But then, right before he can pull his phone away and end the call, he says it. “Hey. Do me a favor?” 

Mickey frowns, stomping out his cigarette. Now he wants to talk? “Depends.”  

He lets his attention gloss over the sign. Gives Ian time to get it out before he can’t hear a fucking thing over the noise inside.

“Keep an eye on Joey.”  

It’s got him pulling another face. Got a curl of something sour and ominous pulling at his gut. “Joey who.” 

But when Ian’s answer comes, it’s sure. More sure than anything he’s said the entire night. 

“You’ll know.”

At first, Mickey thinks he’s missing something.

The tone-shift between the fruity, poppy songs that were playing the last time he was here, and the steamy, sensual shit playing now is enough to give him whiplash, yeah. But he isn’t spotting any huge red flags. No obvious alarms pinging off in his head like Ian prepped him for. Mickey may be decent at his job, but if he’s supposed to be noticing something, he’s fucking blowing it. Hard.  

And then, after standing empty for almost an hour, the podium at the end is filled.

That’s when Mickey gets it. All of it.

Who Joey is.

What Joey’s like.

Why Ian flagged him as someone to keep an eye on.

Because apparently, this place slips into more of a steamy vibe after midnight - both in music and how the dancers approach it. And it takes Mickey all of two fucking seconds to realize that no one plays into that concept more than this kid on the end. 

It’s like he isn’t even associated with the rest of the dudes dancing next to him. Like he’s in his own little dopey world, his floaty, elongated movements drawing in men to his platform like an injured gazelle draws in hungry lions. 

It’s a fucked up thought. Disgusting, and he knows it. But it’s all Mickey’s brain can compare it to. Especially when no one else on staff seems to give a shit about the obvious hunt unfolding before their eyes.

Ian’s voice slips in and out of his head with the slow, heavy bass, and Mickey steps forward. Far enough away to not interfere with anyone’s money, but close enough that he’ll be within reach when a motherfucker tries to pounce. 

Not ‘if’. 

When. 

Because they’re all older. All should know better and do. Are all Jerry types, he realizes - the sour, familiar twist in his stomach finally getting a name - and one he fucking hates. 

They’re all starved - feeding off the attention Joey’s throwing down at them, an hour late but making up for lost time. And it’s the heavy-handedness of it - that’s what Mickey’s pretty sure sets it off so soon, the man closest to the platform reaching up to cop a feel around the back of Joey’s calf.

Mickey’s intercepting on a dime. Situational Instincts because even if Ian’s voice wasn’t floating around in his head, it’s still a fucking rule. You don’t touch the fucking dancers. Period.

“Hey.” He grabs the man by the wrist and wrenches it away from Joey, not taking any special care to be gentle. “Hands off before I break ‘em off.”

It’s more aggressive than it needs to be, but that’s not why the man fixes him with a look. It’s like he’s insulted. Like he’s shocked someone would call his predatory ass out like this. And it finally makes sense when Mickey feels it - the hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

“S’okay, I like it…” It’s Joey. Loose and close and pupils blown so fucking wide that if Mickey had any doubt before this that he’s coked up, this would do it. 

His hand is too warm through the material of Mickey’s security shirt. Clammy. 

But just as Mickey is about to point out how very not okay it is, actually, Joey’s moving. Taking the man’s hand with a smile. Tossing Mickey a light, “You’re new…” over his shoulder as he steps down off the platform and lets himself be led away. “You’ll learn…”

Mickey bristles, instincts screaming, Ian’s voice ringing, feet immediately pushing him forward to follow them, but it’s too many people. They’re too sneaky, slipping through the crowd like it’s second-nature to them.

He loses them way too soon and fucking hates himself for it. 

Winds his way through the bodies in the dark.

Tries to find them, for what feels like hours, but it can’t be that long because he hasn’t gotten yelled at through his headset for leaving his post yet.

When it finally happens, the voice snappy as it fires off into his ear, Mickey reluctantly returns to his position against the far wall. 

He crosses his arms and wonders stupidly if any of the other staff caught them on their way. Realizes, with a churning in his stomach that’s both sour and relieved, that Joey is right back up on his platform. Right back to it. Floaty, elongated movements.

It’s like it never happened. Like he imagined the whole thing. And Mickey would actually start questioning his own fucking sanity, if it wasn’t for the bill tucked in Joey’s waistband where it wasn’t before.

When his fifteen minute break finally rolls around, Mickey knows exactly where he needs to go, the dark haired woman behind the bar already locking onto him with a smirk as he approaches.

“Heyyy, look who got suckered on board.”

Mickey answers that sentiment with the driest, fakest smile that’s ever graced his face. 

She’s the same bartender who was working when he was here last time. The one who was handing him pity-shots in solidarity. Rox, he gathers, from Ian’s constant chatter about her whenever Backtrack or that night gets brought up. 

Mickey shakes it out of his mind, pulling in the glass she slides across to him. 

He takes a drink, the swallow immediately loosening up the nerves.

Whiskey. Like last time. Good memory. “Joey always this much of a shitshow?”

Rox doesn’t look up from where she’s wiping up a spill from the counter. “Uh huh.” Like it’s not even something she notices anymore. 

But Mickey’s not satisfied. Mickey’s still wound, his scowl permanent. “And we’re all just s’posed to let that shit happen?” Because he definitely feels like a one-man show out there. That can’t seriously be protocol, right?

“Not ‘we’.” She flips the rag over for one more long wipe, and then tosses it somewhere he can’t see, her tone bitter. “I’m just the bartender.”

Mickey watches her move. 

Lets his gaze fan out to the rest of the club. 

The swirling blue lights. 

The sea of bodies. 

Joey, smiling and blissed out and heading for a fuckup so obvious that Mickey can see it before it’s even happened. “Gonna self-destruct like a motherfucker.”

Rox hums behind him, and it’s not unconvinced. 

But what she says next is heavier. Informed. Makes Mickey’s brain trip up in the most uncomfortable way. “You think he’s bad, you shoulda seen your boy Curtis before he got kicked off this shift.”

It’s got his thoughts stalling. “...Curtis.” Pulling together in the slow, heavy beat. Connecting, as Mickey turns fully to fix her with a stare. “Ian?”

His confusion must speak a thousand words. His surprise. Because Rox is taking one look at him and then clearly making some connections of her own, her voice dropping almost too much to be heard over the music. “...shit. He didn’t tell you yet, did he...”

Mickey’s scowling. He can feel it. Almost as much as he can feel the turn in his stomach. “Tell me what?” 

But, “Nothing. I didn’t say anything.” She’s backpedaling, grabbing the rag again even though the bar top is spotless. “Go make sure Joey doesn’t take a header off his spot, yeah?”

And then she’s disappearing to the other end of the bar, busying herself with a schmuck who’s already been served. 

It leaves Mickey alone. 

With his thoughts. 

A fate worse than death.

But his shift is far from over. The night is still young, with plenty of opportunity for disaster.

Mickey tries not to dwell on it.

Tries not to stew.

If Ian wanted to tell him about working and getting kicked off the red-light spot in the past, he would’ve. And he hasn’t. Yet. Or ever. It’s not something he’s offering to share.

So Mickey’s not gonna dwell on it.

Not gonna stew.

He’s gonna let that shit go.

And when red hair and big green eyes start to take Joey’s place as he runs through the night’s situation over and over again, he pushes it back into his brain as far as it will go.

Mickey gets to the Alibi first.

Slips into a booth.

Makes very minimal conversation with the chick who’s working - enough to pick out that she’s the Vee half of ‘Kev and Vee’.

And then he waits. Sits. Lets his mind wander as he waits for Ian to hurry his golden-retriever-ass up.

It’s been about a week. Not on purpose, just because. Schedules not aligning and that kinda shit, but a week all the same. 

Mickey doesn’t realize how bad he’s been wanting to see Ian until he’s sliding into the opposite end of the booth and it feels like there’s a goddamn heatwave in the ass-end of December, all warm smiles and warm looks and everything about him just warming Mickey’s entire stupid body up to the point of unrest.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

He’s insane for it. He knows that. But it is what it is.

“Forehead’s lookin’ less disgusting.”

Mickey blinks, unimpressed as Ian’s attention flits back down to meet his eyes. Asshole. “Yeah, thanks.”

He’s not wrong, though. It does look less disgusting. Fuck, half the time Mickey forgets he even got his brain bashed in - when the scab’s not itching like a motherfucker.

Ian gives him a little grin, teasing and paired with the feeling of his boot nudging between Mickey’s under the table as he keeps the eye contact. And when all of it pulls away at the sound of two beers being slid across the table, Mickey can still feel it.

“Well hey there - didn’t know it was you Mr. Angry Eyes was waitin’ on.” 

Ian immediately stands to meet her half-hug, sounding perfectly content to be in her orbit. “Hey Vee…” He sidesteps the Mr. Angry Eyes comment for a little TLC. And Jesus Christ, how well does he know these fucking people? “Twins doin’ okay…?”

“They’re fine.”

“You doin’ okay?”

“Mm - now that’s the million dollar question, ain’t it,” she breathes out, one hand resting on her hip. “Between those two, Riso, and the Alibi, I could use about a month to just pass the fuck out. And I mean dead-to-the-world passed out. Off the grid.”

Ian sits again, attention pulled to the glint of Vee’s hoop earrings as she shakes her head, but his boot nudging back between Mickey’s under the table. “I can watch ‘em.”

“I know you can, baby.”

“Just gimme the word.”

“That offer extend to Kev? I swear that man’s worse than the twins lately.” 

Ian laughs. 

Vee laughs.

Mickey wonders if he’s supposed to be laughing too, and suddenly he’s being bitch-slapped by some heavy deja vu.

What the fuck?

“Alright, well you two drink up. Holler if you need anything.” 

“‘Kay Vee, thanks.”

Mickey follows the nod. 

Adds his own, in the afterthought. 

Watches her walk away, and then takes in Ian’s big stupid face again after what feels like forever.

“Up each other’s asses, huh,” he notes, motioning between Ian and the bar. “All three-a you.”

It’s an observation that doesn’t seem to trouble Ian in the slightest, his answer easy. “Gotta be - I grew up with ‘em.” He says it after his first, long sip. After licking the foam from his top lip. “Neighbors, you know? Always around.”

Mickey watches quietly. Lets the concept sink in. Snags on the thought of how much of a fucking puppy Younger Ian must’ve been if he looks like this now. 

Back in the present, Ian’s laugh is short and on an exhale, his brows bunched. “Fuck’re you starin’ at…” 

“You, motherfucker.” 

“Why?”

“‘Cuz.” Mickey cranks off a stupified scowl as he brings his beer up to his lips. Since when does he need a fucking reason to look at someone? Dick.

But alright, the way Ian’s eyes soften the longer he holds their stare is way more than he originally signed on for. So yeah, fucking never mind, actually.

He takes another drink. Sets his glass down carefully, running the bottom of it over the cracks in the wooden table. 

The relief that comes from Ian’s attention lifting off him is only temporary. Because when he speaks again, it’s still light, but he carries each word very carefully.

“So I never asked, but uh… That Backtrack night go fine?”

“Yeah.” Mickey flicks his eyes up. 

Watches Ian flick his away when he meets them. “Yeah? Joey kept it together?”

It’s a question that Mickey’s pretty sure Ian already knows the answer to, given the fact he was the one who sent him off with the warning in the first place. So why he asks in that way doesn’t track. 

But Mickey can’t control that. He can’t read his mind. 

All he can control is his own self. And right now, he’s just gonna be honest. “Dude’s a fuckin’ mess, man.”

He can feel Ian’s gaze even out before dropping again, this time into his beer. “...yeah.” 

The silence that passes between them isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s noticeable. Weighed down by whatever is going on in Ian’s head on the other side of the table.

At the bar, a couple guys start yelling something unintelligible. 

Someone breaks at the pool table further back.

And then Ian’s speaking. 

“I mean… I’m sure you saw it, though... It’s a tough shift, ya know?” His tone has gone thoughtful. Fingers trace over the letters that’ve been carved into the table and painted over. “Got a lotta shit to deal with on that spot... Real easy to crash and burn if you’re not careful.”

He’s making excuses.

Mickey follows the trace of his fingers, the question falling from his mouth before he can stop for a minute and think it through. “That why you got kicked off?”

Ian’s fingers stall. 

Hesitate.

Curl toward his palm into a fist that’s loose but still very much a fist. 

And then, very carefully, his eyes lift up to Mickey’s. “Why do you know that.”

It’s not a question.

It’s a demand - guarded enough that Mickey can immediately feel his own misstep. Immediately feel the need to backpedal. 

Fuck. He was supposed to be minding his own business with this shit.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, hoping it’ll put a quick and definitive end to it. 

But all it does is ice Ian over. Draw him straight into himself, his eyes scanning the wood-grain of the table without seeing.

Brainwork, but the critical kind.

Fuck.

Mickey works his jaw where he doesn’t realize he’s been tensing until now, the thought of Ian slipping away into his own thoughts not one he’s willing to let happen right now.

“Rox told me.”

He says it plainly. 

Throws her under the bus without a second thought, and doesn’t even care about the way Ian’s eyes narrow at it, like he’s already forming words in his head to say to her. 

He doesn’t care. All he cares about is pulling Ian back up. Getting him to resurface. Keeping him afloat, even if that means he’s gotta do some groundwork. 

“What’s up with that, though…” he asks it carefully. “...huh? Somethin’ happen...?”

Ian’s jaw squares as he zones out into his beer. “Doesn’t matter.”

But it does. Every time he’s drawn in like this it’s when it does fucking matter. “Listen–”

“Fuck, can we not make this into a thing? Please?”

Mickey frowns. Feels Ian’s foot pull away under the table. Wishes he’d look at him, even though it’s hard to. “Who’s makin’ it a thing?” 

“You are.” 

“How? I’m just asking–” 

“It was two years ago. Why do you even care.” The exhaustion in his voice is more telling than any anger could be. The frustration. 

Mickey has about a thousand things he’s desperate to get out. A thousand things he wants to shake right into Ian’s brain until it sticks. 

Because despite the fact that he’s blowing it - their night - this time together after however many days - he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t been thinking about what Rox said all week. The connotations of it. The imagery. Everything that has to do with Ian crashing and burning all wrapped together tight. He’s been dwelling on it. Stewing.

Which is why it’s such a fucking lie when he says it, frown fixed like his downward gaze. “I don’t.”

This time, when the silence settles over them, it’s uncomfortable.

Thick.

Both of them sitting here, with too much to say and too much stubbornness in their bones to let themselves say it.

He can see Ian snag Vee’s attention at the bar, nodding and motioning vaguely without a word.

Can see some movement in his peripherals.

Can see the glint of the dim lights off Ian’s glass as he drains it, all the way to the bottom, before setting it back down onto the table.

It’s a first. Something Mickey’s never actually seen him do. But before he can comment on it, Vee appears with a sharp click of her heels - a sharp scrape of two fresh beers against the wood - an even sharper look of warning that she pins Mickey to the booth with, before disappearing again.

Mickey frowns.

He does his best to shake the feeling off. 

Watches as Ian takes a long, closed-eyed sip from his glass, but can’t shake the nag in his chest too. 

Fuck.

“I do care.” He forces it out. Forces himself to keep going, against every one of his instincts shouting at him to maintain. To not become one of those people in public. “I care. That’s why I’m fuckin’ asking.” 

Ian’s glass hits the table, his swallow so thick that Mickey can see it. “...I know you do.”

But then he finally looks at him. Big, glossy eyes.

And fuck, does Mickey wanna do something drastic.

“Look, Red… You don’t gotta tell me,” he says instead, the urge on the backburner for now. “But don’t ice me out the whole rest of the night, alright? Can’t stand that shit...”

Maybe it’s a selfish move on his part. Maybe he’s fighting off the flashback on the roof of their first Sigma function together - how royally he had fucked that connection attempt up and how solidly Ian had iced over until they both walked it off. 

But Mickey can’t go back to that. He’d rather toss himself over the railing than go back to moving around each other in that way - like he’s gotta keep it all at an arm’s length or it’ll kill him. He can’t stomach it.

And maybe he’s not the only one who feels it. Because slowly...very slowly...the tension winding around Ian on the other side of the table seems to loosen. Not all the way. But enough. Like the expectation to share had him strung up tight, and now he can finally breathe.

Mickey gets it. 

Holy fuck, does he get it.

Which is why when Ian talks this time, it lands different. No longer forced. No longer backed into a corner and gauging when to show his teeth.

He’s telling him because he’s decided to. 

“I didn’t have my shit together yet,” he says quietly, finger tracing the painted over letters, “back when I worked the red-light slot.” He’s working up to it. Gaze focused on the memories as they must play out for him in his head. “I didn’t get it...ya know…? Too high outta my fucking brain to realize shit was off up there...”

Mickey stays silent. Listens from his side of the booth, as Ian pieces it together for what sounds like the first time in a long time.

But he’s doing it.

“Cocky, coked up, and unmedicated,” he says as he lifts his beer for another drink, the small huff of a laugh he lets out afterward humorless...regretful. “Not a great combo.”

Mickey allows it all to slide into place in his own mind. Dots connecting. Bulbs flickering on. Lions circling into position. “So what…” He knows the answer but he asks anyway, carefully. “You pull a Joey or somethin’...?”

And when Ian answers, it isn’t what he expects - the accountability - the unpleasant ownership. 

“Joey’s pullin’ a Me.” 

It lingers... And sinks... And stays...Ian taking a long, long drink as it all falls into place. 

Because it makes sense now. 

As fucked as it is, Ian must see himself in Joey. Must take one look at his impending self-destruction and feel the aftershocks of his own, even years later.

Ian’s the blueprint and he’s not fucking happy about it.

Mickey sits back in the booth. Lays out his understanding so Ian can see that he gets it now. That he isn’t confessing all this shit for no reason. “That’s why you wanted me watchin’ after him.”

It’s well-received. A confirming but now dismissive shrug as he looks into his glass to say it, “Woulda been kinda nice if someone’d done that for me,” before glancing back up to Mickey, eyes glossy. “But since they didn’t… And since you were here now…” 

The sour tendrils of guilt slither around Mickey’s gut at the memory of Joey slipping out of his sight and disappearing into the crowd. He fucked that up, no matter how he looks at it now.

But if it had been Ian it would’ve been different. If it had been Ian, he never would’ve had the chance to leave the platform with how quickly Mickey would’ve been breaking hands and wrists and fingers. 

“Well...I’ll tellya one thing,” Mickey says, because he knows this for absolute certain, just the thought of it enough to make him see red. “If that was me workin’ back then, I woulda guarded the hell outta your high ass.”

Ian lets out a little laugh through his nose, his grin small and fond and grateful. 

And just as it dances across his face - as Mickey’s declaration sinks in - it slowly starts to drop, his brow furrowing and tears starting to well in those big sad eyes and wait, that’s not what Mickey was aiming for even a little bit. The last thing he wanted to do was make him cry.

Except, “Fuck,” Ian’s laughing through it, breathy, dragging a hand over his eyes and then down his face in a clear attempt to get his shit together. “And that...is why I space my fuckin’ drinks out…”

Mickey offers his own little tease of a laugh, but can’t come up with anything else. Doesn’t know what to say, exactly. Wants only to reach out and drag Ian’s tall stupid ass across the table and kiss him square on the fucking mouth, if they wouldn’t immediately get hate-crimed for it.

But that’s not an option. Not right now, at least.

And anyway Ian is talking again, thankfully, all his tears wrangled in and stuffed back down so he can say it, much more confidently. “Anyway, that was years ago. Got my shit together now.” His grin is back, even if it’s just the ghost of it. “No more hard stuff…got meds…fuck, I see a fucking therapist - a therapist, Mick.”

Mickey throws him a brow furrow of support. “What’s that shit like.”

“Fucking sucks,” he laughs, his smile widening into something grossly endearing. “Makes me talk about traumatic shit like every fucking week.” ‘But it’s worth it,’ is what he wants to say. Mickey can hear it on the tip of his tongue. Can see it in the relief in his eyes. Instead he says, “I’m good now. You know, compared to then.” And it should sound like he’s trying to convince Mickey, but it doesn’t. He’s not trying to convince anyone. He believes it. With his whole chest. “I’m good now.”

The urge to crash their mouths together until one of them can’t breathe hasn’t left Mickey once - hasn’t given him a moment of peace since sparking to life. But...

“Good,” he says instead and he fucking means it, lassoing Ian’s boot back between his own and pulling it closer under the table.

Ian lets him. Lets Mickey keep them there, hidden away but joined together, the corner of his mouth curling fondly as he keeps the easy eye contact too.

And it’s just sappy enough for Mickey to have to rough it up a little, dragging his beer over to himself with a raised eyebrow. “So… Name’s Curtis over there, huh?” 

Ian falls into place in their back-and-forth without missing a beat, his deep breath shaky but getting better. “Videos too…” he says, his brows raising as he tacks the last bit on, “which you would know if you watched any of our shit…” 

Mickey hums. Takes a drink. Swallows with a sharp breath between his teeth and a doubtful head tilt. “Dunno man… Curtis…? Way too straight a name for all the gay shit you get up to.” 

“All the gay shit we get up to,” Ian corrects. And then his eyes flick up, locking onto him and not letting go. “We.”

Mickey can’t stop the smile that grows across his face - full in its commitment. 

Because yeah, actually. 

“We.”

Ian is fucking wasted.

They stay and sit and bullshit and he cuts himself off soon after, but the three empty glasses looming beside him are enough to register in Mickey’s head. 

Maybe it’s because he’s never seen the guy finish even one. Or maybe it’s those offhanded comments about spacing his drinks out and his meds and all that. There’s just something about it that’s got Mickey’s brain flagging it. Pinging it. Wondering if he should be butting in and saying something, like that’s even his place to be doing.

But Ian is grown. 

Ian knows himself. 

And Ian is fucking stressed - the burden of putting in all that emotional work clearly what’s driving the consistent back-and-forth of his glass from the table to his lips. He’s just stressed and he’s looking to get the weight off and Mickey is so fundamentally familiar with that concept that he doesn’t say anything. 

He minds his own fucking business and slips down the road with him, a couple more beers even after Ian has stopped because Mickey is grown too. Mickey knows himself. Mickey is fucking stressed and he’s looking to get the weight off and before he knows it, he’s standing outside his front door, keys jingling around in his hand like he’s never seen them before a day in his life.

He’s done this bar-to-front-door trek too many times to count, but always alone. Always by himself.

The company is new.

Mickey turns the keys around in his hand and squints in the dark, his porch light gone out last week. But he’s only half-committed to finding the right one. The rest of his mind is fully occupied - swimming, pleasantly, in the feeling of Ian pressed all along his back…solid and warm where he noses into the crook of his neck like Mickey’s not trying to fucking do something here.

“Christ, man…” Mickey huffs out, but it’s more breathy than huffy. More intoxicated than irritated. He knows, in the back of his mind, that he should be more annoyed than he is that he’s got Clifford The Big Red Dog sniffin’ all over his neck while he’s trying to concentrate, but fuck… 

He can feel Ian’s lips quirk into a dopey smile, his breath hot and wet as he murmurs something into his neck.

Yeah, Mickey doesn’t catch even a little bit of that.

“Whass’at, mumbles…?”

One of the hands on his waist slides up to sneak under his coat - under his longsleeve - under his undershirt to spread palm-down over his bare stomach and–

“Jesus-...” his ice-cold fingers shock Mickey, make him slink away from them altogether, “...big-ass paws…” shrugging Ian off of him for some goddamn space for once, “...fuckin’ handsy drunk…”

It’s a new experience for Mickey.

He’s seen him pleasantly high in his living room. Seen him stoned off his ginger ass on edibles at Backtrack. But he’s never seen him drunk. This shit is brand new.

He’s gotta say, though, it’s not the worst thing in the world.

With some space to actually function, Mickey thrusts the right key into the lock and finally gets his front door open with a push.

They step inside and shuffle around each other and he’s locking back up when the touch returns, snaking around his body like it never left. 

Jesus Christ, this guy…

Mickey huffs out a little exhale, but allows it. Even lets his eyes close with the warm, velvety rush of Ian leaning back in to nose up the side of his neck again.  

God…

“Fuck’re you sniffin’ me for…”

Because he can hear it. Feel it, against his skin. The way Ian breathes him in, like Mickey’s what’s gotten him drunk, not the beer. “...smell good…” he murmurs into his skin, voice low and easy. “...always do…”

It’s almost a little alarming how mindless it is. How uninhibited. Ian’s always just said shit, but this… 

Mickey swallows, fighting down the way his heart is starting to pound uncomfortably hard in his chest. “...like a fuckin’ puppy…” 

Golden retriever motherfucker…

Bambi-eyed bitch…

It’s got that dopey smile blooming again, right into Mickey’s neck in the most endearing way. And just as Mickey’s sure he’s gotta do something drastic to stop it, Ian’s teeth are scraping down his skin and fucking biting - hard enough to hurt and absolutely hard enough to get his dick’s attention and–

“Fuck-...” Mickey ducks away from it again, but he can’t hide the laugh it pulls from him this time. Especially when he twists around in the cramped space and Ian’s just fucking grinning down at him with that cute fuckin’ face – God help Mickey’s smitten ass. “Christ, you’re annoying.”

It has absolutely no sting, and neither does the shove, Ian clearly seeing through the dramatics but graciously following it back for the sake of making space.  

He almost makes it too. But sure enough - straight outta some sorta romcom shit - the fucker’s shoe snags on something and backwards he tumbles.

Mickey lurches his arms out to catch and Ian lurches his arms out to grab but there’s too much space between them. Too much distance from the shove. 

His ass hits the floor first, and then his back, and then his shoulders, the back of his head falling on his own with the rush of air from his lungs.

And fuck. Mickey can hear his grin. Even before the winded giggles start to bubble up from his lumpy form. Smiley motherfucker.

“Fuck’s sake…” Mickey murmurs, but starts his approach anyway, his boots heavy against the floorboards.

He steps over Ian’s legs and reaches a hand down because okay. He holds a good amount of the blame here. And the last place he needs Ian’s dopey, drunken ass is passed out on his living room floor when he could be warming up his bed instead.

So when Ian’s brain seems to register the help up, he goes for it, grabbing Mickey’s hand. 

But nothing can ever be that simple. Not when it’s Mickey and Ian. 

So Mickey should really see it coming, but he doesn’t. 

The slip of Ian’s hand up his arm. The grab. The tug. The world as Mickey knows it, turning on its head and coming in hot as he stumbles to the floor too, just enough of his balance still online to get his free hand flying out - bracing himself against the hardwood - stopping himself from tumbling on top of Ian and crushing him with his full weight. 

It’s a head rush of massive proportions. 

Has Mickey’s brain doing a little loopty loop before settling into something light and airy alongside the breath of Ian’s laughter. 

Because it’s closer now. 

Ian’s closer now.

Ian’s looking up at him, eyes crinkled and sweet and amused and dancing over every inch of Mickey’s face in the dark. 

And Mickey-... 

His head’s too fucking sloshed for this. Heart’s too fucking full. Brain’s too fucking crowded with it all - the same shit over and over again. 

Ian.   Ian.   Ian.   Ian.

A hand reaches up to hold him by the side of his neck…

Slowly and clumsily slides to his cheek…

Stays there, clammy as the smile melts from Ian’s face and he just stares…big green eyes…filled with constellations…

“...can you swim...?”

...Mickey’s brain snags... 

Head tilts, as he lets out a huff of a laugh that he can hear, but can’t feel over the lurch in his stomach. “...what...?” 

Because Ian’s staring. 

Clammy hands.

Mouth moving but voice light years away. 

“...d’you know how...?”

Mickey can barely hear it over the atmosphere rushing past his ears. He almost misses it.

But he doesn’t.

It lands. And sinks. And swirls - lurking-lingering-lasting and uncomfortable.

He moves against it before it can sink in anymore, their coats swishing together as he pulls himself up and off of Ian and then reaches down for him again.

Ian grabs his hand.

Lets Mickey pull him up like he should’ve in the first place.

They make it this time.

Mickey falls asleep and into a dream.

He’s floating in between the star clusters.

He blinks.

And exists.

And floats.

Held up, but by what…

Suspended, but for how long…

And in the back of his brain, he can hear the leak. The steady trickle.

Drop.

Drop.

Drop.

Joey isn’t working the next time he’s scheduled at Backtrack.

The relief that floods through Mickey is selfish and he knows that, but it makes everything just so much easier.

He doesn’t have to prioritize his attention because no one else seems to give a shit.

He doesn’t have to keep Joey in his sight at all times.

And most importantly, he doesn’t have to think about Ian in his place, years ago, cruising for self destruction as everyone watches him go down.

Except that he does anyway.

Winter has officially hit Chicago.

There’s no snow to work their entire lives around yet, but temps have plummeted into something nasty enough to turn the whole sky gray. 

The 7-11 isn’t too far from Mickey’s place, so they should be fine as long as they stay on task.

Ian’s breath puffs out around his face as they make their way down the sidewalk, calm but with purpose. “Guess who’s havin’ a thing at his penthouse this weekend?”

Mickey sniffs, the corners of his mouth already crooking downward at the thought. “Gross.”

“Yep.”

“Fuck that.” He pulls the crinkled pack from his coat pocket and slips a cigarette between his lips, mumbling around it as he cups a gloved hand to light up. “Fuckin’ hate that Jerry motherfucker…” 

It pulls a laugh from Ian, more warm breath and rosy cheeks. “Yeah no shit - why ya think you didn’t get an invite?” 

Mickey fixes him with a look. Dead-on. “That’s not fuckin’ funny.” 

He takes a drag and then lets it go, his gaze fanning out in front of him. 

Everything is so muted. So gray. Nothing to shift his attention from the swirl of discomfort in his gut. “You ain’t seriously goin’ to that, are ya?”

There’s a pause. 

And then Ian’s speaking up. “Why not?”

It pulls Mickey’s attention to him on a dime, his brows furrowing as he gets ready to unleash exactly ‘why not’.

But Ian just grins. Plucks the cigarette from Mickey’s fingers. “Not even gonna be a big thing,” he says, and then faces forward again. “Just a few people.” 

It should be reassuring and it absolutely is not. Not even a little bit. 

Mickey’s blood is icing over and it ain’t because of the dropping temps. 

“The fuck - that’s even worse.” He snatches the cigarette back before Ian can take a hit and does it himself, forcing some heat back into his chest. Fuck, he doesn’t trust that motherfucker Jerry as far as he can throw him. “Shit’s got red flags wavin’ all over the goddamn place - you gotta see ‘em, right?” 

Beside him, Ian lets it go for a moment. He just walks, clouds floating out around him as he lets out a slow breath. 

And when he speaks again, it’s more serious. Experienced. “Look… Jerry sucks, but shit like this is important. You gotta shmooze to get what you want with these people, ya know? Higher pay, and whatever.”

Mickey lets out a huff of disbelief. Resists the urge to shake his head at the concept. “Schmooze…”

“Yeah Mickey, schmooze. You don’t get shit handled by being an unapproachable asshole.” 

Ouch. 

Alright, that’s a direct and accurate hit.

But still. They keep straying from the point, here. “C’mon man, seriously? Shit’s such a crash-and burn situation, it ain’t even funny.” 

As much as Ian plays into the whole Golden Boy routine, he’s gotta see it too. Less people means more facetime with Jerry. More opportunities for him to glue himself all over Ian like a fucking dog. More pressure to engage and get fucked up and take whatever the fuck he gets offered and-...

The silence that’s wrapped around Mickey only connects when he registers the empty space next to him. The gap.

Ian’s stopped walking. 

“This is actually about the red-light thing,” he says from behind him. “...isn’t it.” 

When Mickey turns, Ian is in the middle of the sidewalk. Hands stuffed in his pockets. Eyes fixed and mouth pressed into a careful line until he says it - already decided. 

“You don’t think I can handle myself.”

Mickey rubs at his nose - sniffs away the quickly growing discomfort. “Did I say that?”

But Ian just shakes his head, the upward pull of the corner of his mouth bitter as he looks away. “Didn’t have to.”

When he starts walking again, he passes Mickey without so much as a glance, his boots crunching the icy ground.

But Mickey’s reeling him back in on autopilot. Grabbing his hand. Realizing, later than he should, that this probably isn’t the best place for this so he slips into the narrow alleyway, bringing Ian in after him and only turning to look up at him when they’re hidden away enough.

“Needya to get somethin’ straight here, alright?”

Ian blinks down at him, clearly scrambled from the sudden shift, and then focusing in with a nod all the same.

But it’s careful. Leery.

Mickey has to shut this shit down before it can spiral. 

“Listen. Does it make me fucking insane to think about you ‘n all that red-light shit? Yeah. It does. And it’s fuckin’ gonna - for I dunno how long.” 

Ian’s jaw squares, his gaze starting to slip.

But Mickey’s not done. 

He tosses the cigarette onto the ground so he can reel him back in by the shoulders. “But…” he keeps them on course, “does that mean I think you’re helpless? Can’t fuckin’ handle yourself like a big boy?”

Ian’s eyes settle back onto his. Searching. Answering. “...no?”

Mickey squeezes his shoulders through his jacket in confirmation, “No.” and even in the shadows of the alley, he can see his words taking root.

Ian swallows and it’s heavier than it should be, his lips pressed together. “I have my shit together, Mick.” And this time, it’s to convince.

All at once, Mickey can feel the pull. The lasso, tight tight tight. “I know you do.” 

He lets out a breath that’s far too pent up, the clouds rising between them. 

He knows. He knows. But that’s not what this is about. 

“It’s Jerry’s predatory ass I’m worried about,” he finally says. “You might have your shit together, but who says he does?” 

He can see it catch. Snag, in Ian’s brain and in Ian’s eyes.

Mickey struck a chord.

Behind them, someone hurries past on the sidewalk, their voice echoing off the walls as they yell into their phone. 

It drags Mickey back into the here-and-now. The alleyway. The twenty degree weather.

He huffs, chest finally beginning to warm again as he mumbles it up to him. “M’gonna fuckin’ kiss you.”

Ian’s nose is red. Brow furrows just the slightest bit. Like he’s a little taken aback by it, “Okay…”

But Mickey leans up. Smooshes their lips together. Allows himself a second to close his eyes and take a heady breath and then he’s pulling away - shouldering past Ian and back out onto the sidewalk.

It’s colder out here.

Windier.

He fishes into his pocket for another cigarette.

It’s insanity, but with everything else going on, Mickey almost forgets about the guns. Like it’s just a tier too low on his Pressure Pyramid to remember until he’s being forced to. 

The universe gives him Thursday and Friday to chill the fuck out - something he appreciates with every fiber of his being. 

And then he gets the late-night text from Iggy.

It’s specifics for their next handoff. Location. Product. All in code so not just any motherfucker out there can figure it out and intercept. 

It’s their routine. Mickey’s supposed to be giving him the go-ahead.

What he sends back instead, is this.

gotta talk to you. on my way over.

“The fuck d’you mean you’re done …?”

“I mean what I fuckin’ mean. You heard me, didn’t you?” Mickey hasn’t even sat down yet. 

He’s tensed - speaking down at where Iggy’s sat up to the edge of the ratty green couch in his living room. 

He could’ve led into this with way more finesse. A softer hand. But the day Mickey wastes elegance on his brother is the day his soul departs from this fuckin’ earth. More than a concussion and more than an AK-47 to the face. He’s gonna have to be fucking dead.

And anyway, Iggy doesn’t need it. He’s reacting the exact way he did in Mickey’s head when he ran through this conversation on his way over here. 

He’s not pissed. He’s not feeling betrayed. He’s blindsided.

“Where the hell’s this comin’ from, Mick?” He scoops the TV remote off the arm of the couch and cuts it off without looking. Plummets them into silence, except for what he says next. “This ain’t ‘cause of what happened last time, is it…? With the-...” he motions up toward his own forehead.

Mickey works his jaw in irritation, but stops himself from snapping. Even stops the eye roll. As if he’d turn tail and run because of something like getting knocked out for a few seconds. 

He rounds the couch and sits, resisting the urge to reach up and run his fingers over the once-broken skin. He’s in the final stages of healing. Ready for the next step, in more ways than one.

“You ‘n Colin’ll be just fine without me.”

Iggy tilts his head to protest, “I dunno–”

“For Christ’s sake-... Have some fuckin’ confidence, wouldya?” 

Who again is the older brother? 

The lamp light is low, and it casts everything around them in a haze. But even still, Mickey recognizes the trademark uneasiness etched in Iggy’s brow. It’s like they’re back at the old house. On the old couch. Waist-deep in trying to throw together a game-plan for them and Colin and Mandy before it’s too late, too caught up in survival mode to worry about fixing a furrowed brow.

It’s Milkovich tradition. Follows each and every one of them, as they’ve aged and moved on. Giving themselves away because they can’t keep a straight fuckin’ face.

Kinda like someone else Mickey knows…

“You tell Terry…?”

It’s a question that’s potent enough to bring him back down into the moment. This house. This couch. “Nah, not yet.” It’s a different set of problems with different stakes, and Mickey’s just gotta keep reminding himself that. As many times as he needs to. “Plannin’ on it.”

Iggy nods, attention settling on the open baggy of weed on his coffee table, his tone almost playful. “How’s that shit gonna go…” 

And honestly, Mickey doesn’t mind it. It’s almost refreshing, being able to laugh about him now, no matter how bitter. “Guess I’ll fuckin’ see, won’t I…?”

That’s all he can say. 

And they both know it.

A chunk of time passes between them then, but it’s familiar silence. Familiar breathing space. And it comes as no shock whatsoever that it’s Iggy who finally breaks it, his couch springs groaning as he leans back into it with a long breath out.

“Damn… Gonna be wild not to run with you anymore, bro.”

But he’s smiling.

And it’s enough to pull a smile from Mickey too, finally letting loose his eye roll. “Yeah, you’ll live.” 

Eventually, the TV gets flicked back on, drenching them in cold, ever-moving light.

Mickey’s eyes settle on the screen but don’t watch. Don’t retain. He looks without seeing, his slowly revolving thoughts keeping him miles away. 

He’s gonna have to see Terry soon. Gonna have to bite the bullet. Before the next run.

It’s not that he’s worried Terry’ll say no.

Terry can’t say no.

Mickey is a grown-ass adult now - he’s making his own decisions and making his own moves and that gun shit ain’t one of them anymore. So he’s not worried about that.

He just…

Fuck. Thinking about seeing him at all is enough to get Mickey’s skin crawling in the most unsettling way. Like the second he steps in front of him, it won’t feel like he’s a grown-ass adult anymore.

But he will. He has to.

Get in, get done, and get out.

“...‘ey,” Iggy mumbles somewhere half a state away. “...you want a hit’a this…?”

Mickey slips his attention over to where his brother has lit up, the smoke rising steadily from the tip as he holds the joint out over the coffee table.

Fuck. Yes he does.

Mickey leans over to grab it from Iggy’s fingers, just as the buzz of his phone starts to go off against his ass cheek.

Jesus, can he catch half a break, please?

The joint slips between his lips as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and glances down at it, brows pinching together in irritation all the way up until he reads the string of numbers on the caller ID.

Oh.

“...'ey, Red,” he mumbles around the joint. He takes a hit and lets it out while he passes it to Iggy, the couch springs squeaking as he sits back against it to rub a hand over his eyes. “This important or can I hitchya back in the morning...?”

Because as much as talking to Ian would probably benefit him right now, Mickey’s not exactly trying to chat him up in front of his stoner big brother. And he doesn’t wanna go sit his ass outside in the cold. Even if actually, he really does wanna talk to him, now that he thinks about it… Except he’s not getting an answer, so what the fuck.

“Red?”

The other end is quiet, something brushing and muffled over the mouthpiece. 

And when Ian speaks, it’s close. Small.

“…you were right.”

The slow, bleary way his words fall has Mickey frowning. Has his heart plunging into his gut with uneasy confusion. Has him locking onto the clock on the wall, his brain slowly pulling all the pieces together until it makes a picture that leaves him sick to his fucking stomach.

11:45. 

Saturday night.

Guess who’s havin’ a thing at his penthouse this weekend?

Fuck.

Mickey stands so quickly he gets a headrush. Completely misses how Iggy’s attention snaps to his sudden movement. Can’t hear anything but his blood rushing and icing over in his ear drums.

White noise.  

Static.

“Where are you?” He went to it. Ian fucking went. “What’s his fucking address?”

“...I dunno.” His tone is dazed. Not upset, just… “I’m… super high…”

Mickey grabs his coat off the back of the couch, speaking clearly into his phone - “Go outside.” - then tucking it under his ear so he can throw his coat on and lock onto Iggy at the same time - “I’m takin’ the car, where’re the keys?” He zips up and then holds his phone again because Ian didn’t fucking acknowledge that. “You hear me, Gallagher? Go outside.”

“Am already...”

“Who the hell’s that?” Iggy’s standing now. Concerned now.

And all of Mickey’s words are fucking rushing out of his mouth because - “Boyfriend. Keys, Iggy.” His brother rears his head back a little, and Mickey will only realize why when he looks back on what he just said. But right now he’s tunnel-visioning. Damn near blacking out. Reaching his hand out and snapping at Iggy because Christ! “Where are the fucking keys!”

It forces Iggy into action, scrambling somewhere toward the kitchen.

Mickey’s brain doesn’t track it - too occupied with stuffing his boots on as he keeps his phone pinched tight between his shoulder and ear. “What’re you on?” he asks clearly. “What’d he have you fuckin’ take?”

The silence that follows is so frustrating that Mickey wants to slam his phone into the floorboards until it shatters.

But.

“...nothin’...” comes Ian’s slow, wispy train of thought. “...just pot… …brought my own shit, ya know…?”

It should make Mickey feel better. It does. Kind of. But only a little bit. 

Mickey straightens from his boots, Iggy only halfway through presenting the keys before he snatches them out of his hand and pushes out through the front door.

“I’m comin’,” he says, even though he's moving blind. “Need the address. Street name. Fuckin’ somethin’.” Please.

His breath clouds around his head in the freezing air, and it only makes him get to the car faster - the thought of Ian out in this right now too. 

Motherfucker.

“…Alexa…send location…”

Mickey stuffs himself into the car and slams the door behind him, losing time but present enough to register how badly he wants to pull this man into his arms. “It’s Siri, Ian - you got a fuckin’ iPhone.”

But yeah.

Good.

Send the location - that’s exactly what he needs.

“...Siri send my location please…” … “…Mickey…black heart emoji…” … “…yes…”

The car rumbles to life underneath him and burns rubber before the text even comes in. Before his brain can snag on that last part. Before the bile can rise in his throat because fuck… He fucking said this was a trainwreck waiting to happen - why the fuck did Ian go to this– 

His phone finally buzzes with the message - a location link that he immediately plugs into his GPS as he blasts through the stop sign at the end of Iggy’s street. 

“Twenty five minutes out.” Fuck, that’s a long time. Even knowing he’s gonna cut it to at least fifteen with how he’s driving. It does nothing but make Mickey sick all over again. “You got a coat?”

Some more shuffling. Like his question has reminded Ian to put his hood up or something. “...mhm…”

And that’s all well and fine. But there’s still that lingering threat. The one that makes Mickey grip the wheel a little too tightly. “That motherfucker gonna follow you out?”

Because he doesn’t need the whole story to put this shit together. To know Jerry’s predatory ass was pushing Ian enough that he kept smoking so he could keep his cool. Just like Mickey said he fucking would.

“Nah… High as a… …uh…” He’s straying. Voice in and out as it floods the inside of the car on speaker. “Tried to fuckin’...come in the bathroom with me…”

A laugh floats in after that. Short and breathy on the line.

He…

He’s laughing.

And Mickey feels like he’s gonna puke. “You know that ain’t fuckin’ funny, right?”

His eyes track the cars coming up so he can maneuver around them. So he can keep knocking off mile markers. So he can focus on fucking anything at all besides the image of Ian trying to slide the door shut between him and Jerry while still trying to save face. 

Because if he thinks about it, he’s gonna see red for real. He’s gonna do something he shouldn’t. He’s gonna shift priorities and make sure that motherfucker never sees the opportunity for anything ever again.

It’s not fucking funny.

But… “It is…” Ian says… “Gotta be funny… ...so I don’t cry, ya know…?” He sounds closer. Like he’s pressing his phone up snug against his face, forced smile and all. “Fuckin’...ugly crier…” He’s straying again. In his head. “No one, uh… …no one wants a-...ugly crier…” 

Mickey works his jaw against the stress. 

Loosens his grip on the wheel. 

Takes a breath. A real one. 

A long one in, and a long one out. 

“...Mick…?”

It lassos around his heart and tugs, from miles away. Has Mickey running a hand down his face to steady himself even more before saying it. “Not an ugly crier…” 

The pause is as nonexistent as his belief of that. “Mm…”

“You ain’t. I seen you cry.”

And when Ian laughs again, it’s heavy. Ominous. “Nooo no no no…” Like Mickey can’t even begin to understand what he’s talking about. 

Like Mickey ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

It’s got the sour swirl churning in his stomach so bad that he chances a look away from the road and onto the passenger seat floor. 

Just in case. Because he’s not stopping. He’s not pulling over. 

An old 7-11 bag or a mostly empty Big Gulp or something.   

“So fuckin’ tired…”

His attention falls back onto the route on his phone. It’s shortening at record speed, but still not quick enough. “I know,” he says. “Almost there - don’t fuckin’ fall asleep on me.”

“Mm…” Contemplative… Like he’ already floated into the first layers of a dream… “Wanna fall asleep on you… …-sleepover…” Six minutes, which means three minutes. “Sounds so fuckin’ good right now…”

Mickey squints at the street name on his phone and the street name coming up and takes it quicker than he should. It’s got the tires screeching. A dead giveaway in a neighborhood like this, but–

Ian yawns. 

Loud.

“...fuck…”  

“Yep.” He turns onto the final street and Mickey’s head’s on a fucking swivel. “Stay up.”

Because he needs him active in this. There’s no doubt in his mind that in all this time, Ian’s roamed away from the location he sent at the start. 

The street is well-lit, bouncing bright light off the buffed chrome of the expensive cars lining the curb outside one particular condo. It’s gotta be where Ian came out of. 

Mickey slows his speed to a crawl. Scans the sidewalk between the cars with careful eyes.

“I’m here - tell me you didn’t wander off to another fuckin’ street.”

He keeps rolling forward. Keeps his head on a swivel. Keeps looking, despite that nasty bile that’s starting to rise in his throat again from the silence he’s getting.

“You hear me?”

It finally gets a response. A brush of fabric against the mouthpiece and a long exhale that crackles on the line and a groggy: “...huh?”

And Mickey is just about ready to start losing his shit for real - so close, but still too far - when he finally sees it. Between the Bentley and the BMW. The street lamp gleaming down onto that familiar olive green coat, otherwise lost in the muted tones of the grass.

It’s Ian. Laid out. Arms spread and knee bouncing, slowly but surely.

Fucking finally.

“Hey,” Mickey shouts through the open passenger window, and for a second it feels like his heart is gonna leap from his throat and straight out of his mouth with it. “Gallagher!”

It’s got Ian stirring, sitting up with a grimace of a head rush. It takes a second for him to open his eyes. Like he’s still fighting it off. But then he leans forward, squinting into the window.

All at once, Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck his heart is doing. All he knows is the anger is starting to simmer again - stew - a feeling he’s more familiar with than he should be. “Get your high ass in here. Now.”  

It must be obvious enough in his tone for even Ian to pick up on, because as soon as it lands, his eyes are closing again. And then he’s pushing himself up off the curb with a heavy breath that fans out into the crisp air.

The click open of the door and the sway of the car as Ian collapses into the passenger seat next to him should make Mickey feel better. 

Giving him a quick lookover to find no immediate, obvious damage should make him feel better.

Peeling away from the row of clean-cut condominiums and back into the dark of the side roads should make him feel better but it doesn’t.

It doesn’t.

He’s got Ian and they’re back in their orbit and Mickey doesn’t feel any fucking better.

“What happened.” It comes out of his mouth and all he can hear is anger.

Violence.

Empty, heavy space as Ian says nothing.

Mickey looks over. Frowns, at the sight of Ian curled up against the door, arms crossed and head dipped low to bury the bottom of his face in the collar of his zipped up coat.

It should be enough that he’s here. That he’s safe. It should be enough.

It’s not.

“You gonna talk to me?” He needs to get the anger out of his voice. “Hey,” he reaches over to grab Ian’s arm and ruffle him into answering. 

It’s light and supposed to be sympathetic but Ian’s eyes are still closed as he paws him away with a tired grumble.

And fuck. He knows Ian’s exhausted and he knows Ian’s high out of his brain but Mickey needs this. Needs to know. “Jesus, Ian - talk to me. He fuck with you?”

A long stretch of silence settles over them. Nothing but the rush of the street passing underneath them. Ian sniffs, the cold still coming off of him in waves as he buries his red nose further into his coat collar. 

But then, without a word, he shakes his head.

No.

No one touched him.

It should make Mickey feel better.

“Gimme your phone.” 

“M’fine, Mick-” 

“Gimme your fucking phone.”

The anger in his voice isn’t going away, and it needs to. Bad. Because Ian’s only said two words to him, but he can still hear it seeping over. Contagious. Spreading across the small space between them and slipping into his words too.

“...you’re pissed…”

And Mickey still can’t reel it in. “Yeah, I fucking am.”

A beat. Heavy. 

Then… “I fucked up.”

It’s a question, as much as an observation. 

Ian’s waiting for confirmation. 

Waiting for him to agree.

Mickey pulls up to the red light and lets his eyes fall shut. 

Self restraint. Control. A steady hand. He needs it all right now, like he needs Ian to be tucked away and asleep. Like he needs Ian to let him process. Like he needs Ian to not throw himself into obvious red-flag situations - fucking desperately - more than anything else.

Mickey swallows. Thick and uncomfortable behind tightly pressed lips. 

It’s not all Ian’s fault.

It’s not all Ian’s fault.

But still.

“Why’d you go.” 

He has to ask it. Has to stop himself from replaying their conversation in the alleyway like it’s gonna give him the answer itself. Like he already knows - did, as soon as Ian said it.

He needs to hear it from him now. “You tryna prove somethin’?”

From the passenger seat, Ian huffs from his nose. Another laugh. A cover-up. Mickey doesn’t have to see his mouth to know he’s not smiling under there.

The red that’s washed over him flicks to bright green.

Mickey gives it another second. And then he’s looking back to the road, swallowing the lump rising in his throat to the tune of the car rumbling beneath them.

For a while, he just drives. Grips the steering wheel. Mind both swimming and checked out entirely. Pieces of their conversation in the alleyway. The glint of a gold watch. Everything half-pieced together, but tapering off when the full picture becomes too much. And then he’s just driving again. Just zoning out. Focusing on the fact that he’s got Ian and they’re in the right orbit and things are okay, even if every fiber of his being is telling him that it’s not.

It’s okay.

Ian’s okay.

And he has to start making decisions. 

“Hey…” He slips a look over. Ian’s head has fallen forward even more, his eyes closed. “Need your phone…”

Ian’s head lolls with the sway of the car, his breath coming heavy, but also so peacefully that for a second, things seem normal. Like they’re just taking a drive. Like Ian’s just gotten sleepy and fallen asleep. 

They’ve never ‘just taken a drive’, but maybe they could…?

Mickey stuffs down the swell of his heart and carefully fishes a hand into Ian’s coat pocket. 

The universe throws him a bone for the first time tonight, because his fingers brush the hard edges of his phone right away. He slips it out. Throws a look quickly up to the heavens when he sees that not only is there no number lock to fight through, but there’s an address saved into the Home slot in the GPS.

They’re ten minutes away. 

Back of the Yards.

Familiar for Mickey, but not in the way that his brain would ever put Ian there.

He’s not sure where he was imagining him this whole time, but it wasn’t Southside.

There’s a disconnect.

Mickey drives.

By the time they’re pulling up to the apartment building, it’s almost one in the morning.

The car stills beneath them when he turns it off, and it’s only a matter of time before that 1am cold starts seeping in. So.

“...‘ay…” he reaches over, gently nudging Ian’s arm. “...c’mon…”

Ian stirs with a long breath in through his nose, eyes still closed but his brows scrunching together as he lifts his head. He definitely already feels it in his neck from how he was sitting.

Mickey braces himself for the cold, and then pushes out of the car, the chill working down into his lungs as he rounds his way to the other side and pulls open the door.

Ian’s still sitting. 

Still breathing heavily from his interrupted sleep, his hand dragging over his eyes.

“C’mon,” Mickey says again, a little more insistence behind it this time as his breath practically crystallizes in front of his face. “Fuckin’ freezin’ out here.”

To his credit, Ian swings his legs out of the car and stands up on his own, no matter how wobbly it may be. But that’s about as far as his high, sleepy self allows.

They make it up to the door with Mickey’s help. And this time, he doesn’t even bother asking, slipping his free hand into Ian’s pockets to find his keys.

It takes several tries. Too many. Key after key as Ian’s weight slouches into him, but not in the cute puppy way this time.

“1G, yeah…?” he asks when they get inside and into the much warmer hallway. 

He feels like he’s been doing this forever.

Like this night has dragged on for at least a week.

He needs this to be over.

Ian nods against him and Mickey can feel it all happening. How it sways Ian’s whole body. How it throws off their momentum and suddenly Ian is letting out this exhausted exhale, his weight pulling off Mickey to slowly start him on a slide down the wall next to the door.

Ah, fuck. “Nope - Ian.” Mickey abandons the keys for a second, more insistent on keeping Ian upright. “Don’t sit - not here.”

“M’tired…” 

“Yeah, I know.” Mickey grits through the awkward weight distribution, his arms hooked under Ian’s armpits. “Bed only– hey, don’t fuckin’ whine at me.”

But it’s a losing battle and he knows it. Knew it from the second it started. So when Ian slips down the wall anyway, perfectly content with his spot, Mickey can’t do anything but toss his hands up in frustration.

Fine.

Alright.

What the fuck ever.

At least he didn’t have to drag his giant ass up the stairs.

Across the hallway, a deep, territorial bark sets off from behind the door, their noise clearly to blame. 

It’s a big dog.

Mickey tries all the keys quicker. 

Almost misses the feeling of Ian’s hand wrapping loosely around his ankle.

It feels like it takes hours, but then he’s pushing the door open. Getting Ian up. Pulling him against his shoulder and maneuvering them inside and even with the added stress of lugging him around, Mickey can’t overlook the little punch to the gut from how surprisingly small the place is.

It’s a one-bedroom. Small kitchen joined up to a small sitting space with a couch. 

Mickey doesn’t know what his brain has been imagining Ian living in all this time, but it isn’t this.

The dog is still barking across the hall - more muffled now - but it keeps Mickey moving. Keeps him on a steady track to the bedroom off to the left. Constant forward motion and he doesn’t turn the light on because he still feels fucking sick.

Small bedroom. The unmade bed creaks with the bounce as he slumps Ian off his shoulder onto it.

“Sit up,” he murmurs. And he guesses he just has to be absolutely fucking exhausted to not sound angry anymore. 

Ian does as he’s told, his eyes closed but arms moving to help as Mickey gets his coat off of him. Then his button-down. Then his undershirt, his skin so warm from being under all the layers that Mickey almost forgets about the cold.

And then Ian reaches out, his fingers icy against him as he blindly starts fumbling with the button on Mickey’s pants.

Mickey frowns. Helps his hands away. “This ain’t that.”

Frowns even harder at the unmistakable relief that spreads as Ian groans softly, eyes still closed as he falls backward onto the mattress. “...oh, thank god…”

Like he’s just been freed from it.

From expectation.

It makes Mickey wanna puke and he doesn’t even fully understand why.

Instead, he drops to his knees and pulls Ian’s boots off. Peels his jeans off. Slings his feet up onto the bed and grabs the thick comforter at the end so he can throw it over him.

He feels like he’s moving on autopilot but it’s working. It’s getting shit done. It’s bringing him out into the kitchen and squinting into the harsh light of the almost empty refrigerator and grabbing one of the water bottles from it.

It’s reminding him to stop off at the bathroom. To raid the medicine cabinet. To wince against the squeak of the hinges as he scans through everything in the dark until he sees the ibuprofen. 

He grabs it. Shakes it to make sure there’s enough left. Almost closes the cabinet before his eyes snag on the pill organizer on the bottom shelf. 

He grabs it too, giving it a little shake, the only rattle coming from inside the blue Sunday AM and Sunday PM boxes on the end.

Saturday’s empty. Must’ve taken them before he went out.

Mickey slides the organizer back onto the shelf and closes the cabinet, out into the hallway before his reflection can swing into view.

When he steps back into the bedroom, Ian’s already asleep again. 

Mickey sets the pills and water bottle down on the nightstand without waking him up. 

He’s familiar with that particularly uncomfortable feeling of cotton-mouth after a night of heavy smoking. Enough to be second-hand dreading it for him. Sympathy pain, or whatever the fuck. Much more tolerable than a hangover, though. Or the comedown from something harder. 

Mickey blinks, and he finds himself reaching out - pulling the comforter up over Ian’s bare shoulders and then lingering for a second. Hesitating. 

Floating.

Something warm floods through Mickey’s chest. He smooths his fingers over Ian’s skin until he’s holding his cheek, and this time it’s not on autopilot. 

This time he’s here.

He’s absorbed. 

He’s aching, his chest compressing in on itself as he brushes his thumb over Ian’s cheekbone.

It’s light enough not to wake him. 

Present enough to have Ian’s lips parting, his face so fucking relaxed and at peace that it almost feels wrong.

Why does it feel wrong.

Mickey drops his gaze. Drops his hand. Drops the feeling, letting his feet carry him out into the living room before he starts to lose it.

He collapses onto the couch with a sigh that practically burns his lungs, his coat tossed to the side and hand immediately coming up to rub soothingly at his eyes.

It’s over.

Ian’s fine.

Ian’s asleep.

Ian’s safe.

It’s over.

ding!

Mickey’s stomach flips, the hand rubbing over his eyes stilling as he slowly turns to the sound…muffled…ringing out from his coat pocket.

Ian’s phone.

Mickey stalls. …waits. …weighs it, in his head. 

He’s never heard that sound and had it be something good. He’s never, not once, heard it and seen anything but disappointment on Ian’s face. Or irritation. Or worse. 

He shouldn’t. 

…he shouldn’t. 

But this isn’t over.

Mickey steels himself, and then reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out Ian’s phone and taking in the message from the notification screen.

It’s just one. 

One text.

First time in years and you skip out early? Thought we were past this, Ian.

Mickey’s stomach swirls - nasty and ugly and unforgiving. And he doesn’t know why he does it, because he already knows the answer. But he looks up at the sender anyway, all of it compounding into that irritation that he thought he left in the car.

Mickey works his jaw against the need to do something drastic. Feels the hot flush of anger up the back of his neck and across his face. Shouldn’t - he knows - he knows - but opens up the message anyway, thumbing through the last texts between him and Ian with disgusting, morbid curiosity.

A lot of them are invitations. Dates. Times. Locations. Expectations that Mickey doesn’t need to understand Sigma to know aren’t Sigma-related.

Free Wednesday? Roanoke - 8pm. I’ll send a car. 

It’s from three weeks ago. Answered almost immediately by Ian. 

can’t sorry :(

Mickey scrolls backward. To two weeks before the Roanoke invite.

Sponsor’s wife is showing at Addington next few weeks. Come with - it’ll be inspiring. 

Ian’s taken a little more time to answer this one, but barely. A good half hour. And then:

work’s been kinda wild this week. i don’t think i can make it sorry.

Another swerve. Kind, polite, but a swerve all the same. 

Mickey can’t help but notice how second-nature it reads. Like Ian’s been at this game long enough to know what to say. To decline, but stay safely within Golden Boy range.

He huffs. 

He rubs a hand over his eyes.

He should stop, but he’s already opened the floodgates. 

How’s it feel to be front page?

This one’s from the beginning of December.

Again, almost no down-time before Ian’s answered.

like i deserve a lil something extra :)

That you do. Giving payroll a call later today.

Mickey feels his brows rising at Jerry’s immediate fold. 

He’s seen Ian wrap a guy around his finger from across the room, but this. It’s uncomfortably impressive. Golden Boy at it's finest. Cute when it benefits him. 

He’s got it down to a fucking science.

New video is pulling views like I’ve never seen. You two really got it.

The loud shuffle of blankets from the bedroom pulls Mickey’s attention up. Has him watching, brain swimming, just able to make out the movement of Ian turning over and hunkering back down in the darkened room. 

So much of Mickey wants to just go pass out next to him. Curl under and disconnect.

But there’s too much of him that can’t let this go yet. That’s clinging, leading his eyes back down to the phone screen, his thumb swiping down quickly.

It brings him all the way to the top. Their first messages. Almost three years ago - something Mickey can’t find a way to wrap his brain around right now. 

It starts as it always does - as it always has, apparently - with Jerry. But Mickey is quick to spot the difference three years make. The tone shift - Ian, bright-eyed and surprised by the extra attention from so high up. New and eager to please. 

He doesn’t get it yet. 

Plans for this weekend? Headed to Cabo for some quick R&R.  

cabo?? holy shit are you serious 

Cute. There’s an extra ticket with your name on it. Consider it a welcome gift.

The way Mickey’s brain immediately floods with images he doesn’t want to see is troubling. It forces him to push on. To note, very clearly, the difference in response time.

Because it takes a long time for Ian to answer. Like he’s actually trying to work out the logistics in his head. The possibility. 

And when he does, Mickey’s almost embarrassed by how much relief he finds in it - something that happened three fucking years ago. Mickey wasn’t even in the picture, but the thought of Ian going to fucking Cabo with a motherfucker like Jerry-... 

got a family thing this weekend i forgot about :(  

Push it back. 

can’t :( sorry lemme know next time  

Suit yourself. Ticket’s yours if you change your mind.

Maybe someone was in Ian’s ear about it. Maybe there was a voice of reason worming its way into his starry-eyed consciousness.

Or maybe there really was a family thing.

Mickey scrolls forward. What’s done is done. If he thinks about it any more, he’s gonna drive himself insane. And he’s got this sinking feeling in his gut that he ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

Getting the yacht out tonight.

Several weeks after the Cabo invite. Several hours between it and Ian’s answer. Like he’s thinking again. 

can my friend tag along?  

Is he as pretty as you? 

gonna have to see for yourself ;)  

The next message is an address and info, but Mickey’s vision is blacking over a little - blurring, with more images he doesn’t wanna fucking see. 

And he should stop. He should disengage. Because he’s angry and he feels sick and he wants Golden Boy Ian back who keeps Jerry at a carefully crafted arm’s length but he isn’t here yet. He hasn’t figured it out. This Ian doesn’t know, and it’s like watching a fucking car crash, and Mickey can’t figure out how to look away.

So he keeps scrolling.

Feels disgusting, but keeps scrolling.

Passes over a bunch of things he doesn’t wanna see and stops when he’s reached about two years ago and fuck…it doesn’t take long to realize he should’ve kept going.

manager doesn’t like that you guys came tonight. 

Ian’s the first to text. It’s late. About 4am.

Jerry answers all the same.

Now why would that be? Pretty sure we pumped more $$$ into that club than they pull in a week.  

Mickey’s brows draw together as he reads over it again. 

The club. Backtrack?

idk. im just supposed to tell you not to come back.  

Message received. I’ll just have to book you for a housecall for another dance. 

It’s too much to process. Too much of a punch to the gut. More images - flooding flooding flooding. 

Mickey swallows down the bile that’s rising in his throat. Rubs a hand over where his heart is pounding so hard in his chest that he can feel it through his shirt. Scrolls, to the very next message. Ian first, again. Two days later.

hey jerry you got a minute? HR just called and im freaking out.

It’s like a fucking stage show. A tragedy - years of it condensed and playing out in front of him in just a few short minutes. The dramatic irony of it - Mickey feeling absolutely disgusted as he watches Ian start to slowly connect the dots…finally catch on…realize, no longer bright-eyed, what it is that he has to do.

You’re deleting our conversations like I told you to, right? 

yeah of course

Fucking liar.

He knows.

He gets it now.

Drinks after the meetup? You pick the place.  

can’t sorry 

Mastro’s - 7 tonight 

can’t sorry 

Maple and Ash opening this weekend

can’t sorry

Mickey can practically fucking see it - Ian’s arm slowly extending outward - keeping him at a distance. It’s rusty. Doesn’t have the finesse he has now. But it’s happening.

Still working? The boys and I made some heavy numbers today - could use a reward. 

Ian doesn’t answer.

In fact, Ian doesn’t answer for an entire month. 

It’s radio silence, finally coming back around again to answer that he’ll be at a meeting with payroll.

Mickey’s lungs ache. He breathes out, realizing how keyed up he’s grown in these last few minutes.

When he flicks his gaze up, his eyes come to rest on Ian’s darkened face in the bedroom again. He should go slip inside. Disconnect. Disengage. From all of it. 

But he’s angry.

He’s so. fucking. angry.

And he’s finally reached his high water mark, his thumb scrolling their messages back toward the beginning. 

He almost makes it. He’s so close. 

And then his eyes snag on the familiar word. The one that started it all.

think i found a guy for the POVs 

You move fast! Knew you could do it. Got a good feeling about him? 

think so. letchya know. 

It’s Mickey. 

They’re talking about Mickey.

How’d the demo go?  

Three days later.

Ian doesn’t respond.

Just saw the final product. You know how to pick em!

Two days later.

Ian doesn’t respond.

Videos pulling crazy numbers. Great job, Ian!

:) 

Cancel whatever you’ve got planned for tonight. Drinks are on me. I’ll send a ride.

Ian doesn’t respond.

And Mickey needs a fucking cigarette.

He tosses Ian’s phone down onto the coffee table, finally disconnected, and it should feel better. 

He throws his jacket on. Steps outside on the sketchy looking balcony. Feels the shockingly cold wind against his heated face and he should feel fucking better.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes. Once.

It’s Iggy.

get him?

Mickey breathes out a long, steady stream. Smoke and breath and tension.

It’s over.

For real, this time.

got him.

When Mickey stirs awake, it’s to the sound of pills rattling against plastic containers. 

When Mickey stirs awake, he finds himself on the couch. No pillow. No blanket. Just his coat.

When Mickey stirs awake, the first person he sees is Ian. And suddenly he doesn’t give a fuck about the couch or the crick in his neck or anything else. 

“How ya feelin’...?”

Ian moves from the hall to the kitchen. Bedhead and boxers. 

“Fine,” he mumbles. “Just had to sleep, like I said…”

Mickey sits up to the flow of the kitchen sink flipping on and off. Water bottle refill. Something so normal and yet Mickey’s grown to associate it with one specific person.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes. Cracks his neck. Tries to fight back a yawn but loses out in the end, just as Ian rounds the coffee table to fill the now empty side of the couch.

Mickey feels like he should say something.

Knows he should say something. 

But it’s early. He…thinks. And they’re both clearly emotionally drained. And honestly, he doesn’t even know what the fuck he would be saying, if he were to open his mouth, so…

He’ll wait. 

He’ll give it some time. 

Or none, it seems, because the universe is done throwing him a bone. Which means when Ian plucks his phone from the coffee table, it’s very obvious that Mickey forgot to close out of the texts. It’s very obvious that he’s probably still back a few months too. It’s very obvious he read through them - uncomfortable realizations and all.

But…

Ian just looks. Quietly. Lifts his gaze up into empty space - connections in real time - and then lets it settle over onto Mickey without a word.

He’s not even mad. 

Not upset.

He’s just exhausted. Deeply, deeply exhausted.

And Mickey can’t blame him, just as much as he can’t deny all the digging he did last night.

“Had to figure out how to move around him, ya know…?” Ian finally says, his voice scratchy from smoking as much as he did. He turns away to set his phone down. “Keep myself out of his shit…”

And it’s then that Mickey can finally start to hear it seep in. The disappointment in himself. 

Even through the little half-smile. “Finally figured it out. Or-... Well… I guess I thought I did…”

Mickey frowns, tired as fuck, but awake enough to know exactly what he saw in those texts last night. “You did,” he assures, because he did. Painful as it may have been, Mickey saw the transition with his own two eyes. “He’s the fucking problem, Ian. Not you.” He doesn’t know how many times he’s gonna have to fucking say that, but he will. Until it sinks.

Beside him, Ian hums. Allows it. Turns, and looks at him with those big, glossy eyes that’ve fucked Mickey up since Day One.

“Thanks for comin’ to get me,” he says.

And all at once, Mickey thinks it’s gotta be the stupidest thing that’s ever left his mouth.

Because fuck… “Course I was gonna fuckin’ get you…” He frowns, reaching out to pull him in by the arm until he’s slouched against him.

It’s new. Not something they really do. But Ian’s body sinks into him like it’s second nature, like he belongs there, his arm wrapping around Mickey’s middle as he closes his eyes and breathes out.

Mickey slides his hand up his forearm…squeezes gently up his bicep…over his shoulder until he’s carding his fingers through all that soft pretty red hair. 

He can feel the hum against his chest. The hold around him tighten. Ian’s voice, quiet as he murmurs it into Mickey’s shirt. “...I give a fuck about you…”

Something in Mickey’s rib cage skips a beat, his words from the blackout getting thrown back at him, but in the most gentle, affectionate way. 

He can’t help the little huff of a laugh - corny motherfucker - Ian’s head bobbing with the wave of it. Because Christ…

“Yeah…” he quietly agrees, “...give a fuck about you too…” and then stills his fingers so he can bury a kiss in his hair. 

It has Ian’s hold slipping. Has him noticeably processing. And then his head is turning against Mickey’s chest until he’s blinking up at him.

It’s seeking. 

Wanting.

Flutters to Mickey’s mouth and then back up. 

And it’s all so point-blank - so up in his face - that Mickey never stands a chance, the hand Ian reaches up to fit around the back of his head gently leading him down until their lips meet.

But Mickey leans into it. 

Slips his fingers back through Ian’s hair.

Is fucking floating, straight up in the atmosphere, as Ian lets go so he can turn over and lie back down, burying his nose in Mickey’s shirt this time.

He’s floating, but the swallowed-away sob from last night is starting to rise in his throat again.

He’s held up, but by what…

Suspended, but for how long…

Because even as he sits here, Ian wrapped up safe in his arms, in the back of his mind he can hear it. 

The floodgates have finally burst. 

And the water is starting to rise.