Staccato Heartbeat

by ariastarke

There's a boy sleeping in bed beside you, and you can still feel his nails digging into your back, his lips whispering across your collarbone, the steady rhythm of your bodies moving together. You can still hear him hissing in your ear: "This doesn't mean a thing, it doesn't matter." And you ache with how much it matters to you.

A/N: This fic was written in two days and I'm so damn proud of it, because look at all that I accomplished. . .I mean, seriously. The time frame of this fic spans one day from each of the four weeks in the first six months of 2015. You can even check the calendar, if you'd like to make sure, because God knows I spent a lot of time looking at that thing while writing this fic.

. . .

January 5, 2015

Ian Gallagher meets Mickey Milkovich in a dirty bar when he stumbles through the door, collapses into the seat next to Ian, and demands a beer from the old bartender wiping recently washed glasses.

Ian doesn't pay any attention to him. He doesn't even glance his way. But he is painfully aware of him sitting directly beside him, their thighs almost touching because these fucking bar stools are too damn close together and Ian wants to put some space between them. He does this often. He sits alone at a bar or a club and then a stranger walks in, an attractive boy who looks around his age, and sits next to him, and suddenly Ian is hyperventilating on the inside, feeling like he has to say something or do something. Because obviously there's a reason this stranger chose him to sit next to. Right?

Although, this particular boy is doing a fucking great job at hiding it, if he is looking to get something out of Ian. If he's being completely honest with himself, the people who sit next to him at those bars and clubs really don't want anything to do with him and it's just his own fucked up egocentricity that makes him think they do. The boy beside him seems to barely even acknowledge the presence beside him.

By the time he has a beer in his hands, Ian has calmed down and decided this boy doesn't really want anything from him. Though he wouldn't mind if he did. He was. . .handsome, for lack of a better word. Brown, nearly black hair slicked back with gel, pale skin, and shockingly blue eyes.

Ian cleared his throat softly and shook his head to clear his head.

"Mickey Milkovich?" The boy turns at the sound and is greeted by a tall man with greasy hair and dead eyes. "Haven't seen you since your dad was let outta jail," he says.

The boy—Mickey—shrugged. "Well, he's back in now," he said. He didn't seem very pleased to see this man who recognized him, but he wasn't waving him off. He was simply uninterested.

"For what?"

"Grand theft auto. Assaulting a police officer. Refusing arrest. In that order."

Ian drains the rest of his own beer and slaps a twenty on the counter top in front of him, standing up to leave.

He wraps his worn out coat tighter around him, shivering slightly from the cold and watching as his breath puffs out in front of him with each exhale.

"Hey!"

Ian turns around and sees the guy, Mickey, calling out to him as he jogged after him.

"What?" he calls back, feeling a spark of hope in his chest. Could he actually want something from Ian tonight?"

But Mickey only holds out a set of keys, dangling them in the air from the keychain. "Forgot these at the bar."

Ian feels disappointment settle in and nods, holding out his hand. "Thanks."

Mickey just acknowledges this with a simple jerk of his chin, and walks away, heading in the opposite direction.

Ian shakes his head and turns around, walking away.

January 11, 2015

Ian sees Mickey Milkovich once again six days later, in the same bar. When he walks in and unknots his scarf from around his neck, he catches sight of him sitting at the bar again, a shot glass in his hand.

Ian smiles a little to himself and sits down next to him, asking for a bottle of beer.

Mickey turns and he must recognize him, because there's a flicker of something in those blue eyes, but Ian just smiles at him before taking hold of his beer and taking a long sip.

Mickey takes his shot like it's water, looking as if it barely even affected him—not that Ian's looking, of course—and asks for another. He slides the glass across the counter and turns to Ian. "Don't forget your keys this time," he says.

Ian smiles again. "You remember?" he asks.

"Hard to forget someone with hair that looks like he rolled around in a fucking pile of paint."

Ian snorts at that and lets Mickey down his shot as it's given to him. As the bartender slides it back to him, Mickey catches it in the palm of his hand before it can get away from him, scoops it up, and drinks it all in one fluid motion.

Ian wants to die, but he just settles for sitting in silence next to Mickey Milkovich.

January 20, 2015

When Ian returns to work, he doesn't expect a party. He doesn't even expect his boss to realize he's back. For the first week or two of him working at the Fairytale, his boss had looked out for him, but it seems there's an expiration date to courtesy.

But what he really doesn't expect to see is Mickey Milkovich sitting down at the bar right as Ian's getting ready to leave and go home, either, but the world always throws some strange kind of curve balls every once in a while. It seems that the world really wants Ian to become desperate to fuck Mickey Milkovich. And now that he knows that in some kind of way he has a chance—he is, after all, gay if he's sitting in a gay bar—Ian is just eager to do what the world so clearly wants him to.

So Ian sidles up to Mickey and leans in close to his ear, pressing his chest against his back. He feels Mickey tense up against him, but he doesn't pay any attention to that. "Can I get you a dance?" he whispers in his ear.

Mickey turns around, mouth open and ready to say something, but at the sight of Ian, he pauses. He closes his mouth and leans back against the bar, turning to face him fully in his bar stool.

"You work here?" he asks.

Ian nods. "Dancer. Sometimes I do drinks." He puts his hand on Mickey's shoulder. "I'm clocking out now, but I could make an exception if you want."

"Fucking perfect."

Ian doesn't know if that's a good or bad thing, if Mickey's being serious or sarcastic, but he doesn't really get a chance to ask. Because all of a sudden, Mickey's getting up and sliding on his jacket. "I swear if you say a word about you seeing me here, I'll make sure to rip your head clean off your shoulders," he says lowly, spitting the words in Ian's ear. He puts a few bills on the bar's counter before walking out. Ian is left standing there, staring after Mickey as he stalks out. Ian quickly gets his coat on and wraps his scarf around his neck as he hurries out the door. He nods at his boss as he walks out, letting him know that his shift is over, and bursts through the club's door.

Thankfully, Mickey is right outside the door, lighting up a cigarette.

"Why'd you leave like that?" Ian asks, feeling a little breathless and reckless and so fucking lost. Mickey looks back around his shoulder and rolls his eyes when he sees Ian standing there. It suddenly hits Ian that Mickey doesn't even know Ian's name. This is only the third time they've seen each other, and Ian has never bothered to tell Mickey his name.

"Jesus, you don't fucking quit, don't you?" Mickey mumbles around his cigarette. Ian could take that as a compliment on most days, but Mickey is looking at him in a way that screams it's anything but a compliment.

Ian shrugs helplessly and his hands clap to his sides when he has no other purpose for them. Mickey just stares at him with that stupid cigarette in his mouth, puffing out the smoke without even taking it out of his mouth, and Ian has no other thought in his mind except that he wants to rip out the cigarette and kiss him. He looks around the street they're standing on. "Why'd you come here if you don't want anyone to find out you're gay?" he asks, daring to say the words. He raises his eyebrows in a challenge.

In a second, Mickey has Ian up against the wall, his forearm held up to his throat. "Say that again and I'm gonna kick your fucking ass, I swear," he threatened in a dark voice.

Ian pushes Mickey back, rolling his eyes. "Whatever. You know where I work, if you ever want to get together."

And with a small wink in Mickey's direction, Ian walks away from him and heads towards his apartment.

January 30, 2015

When Ian doesn't see Mickey for ten whole days, he worries that he really isn't ever going to fuck him. But fuck, did he think about it often. He thought about that moment when Mickey had him against the wall, what it would have been like if he had been kissing him instead of threatening him.

He thinks he would have liked it.

No. He knows he would have loved it.

Fiona is staring at him with a concerned expression on her face and snaps her fingers in front of his face. "Hey!" she says. "What's wrong?"

Ian jumps a little and looks at her, blinking. "Oh, um, nothing. I just. . .have a lot on my mind." Fiona's always known that that's basically code for 'I'm having boy troubles, help me even though your own love life is a fucking mess.'

"Who is he?" Fiona asks as she refills her glass of soda.

"Some guy I met at a bar," Ian says without hesitating.

"He mean something to you?"

"Not really. Only saw him three times."

"Sex any good?"

"Wouldn't know."

At this, Fiona laughs. "You haven't slept with him yet? You?"

Ian brushes off the comment. His promiscuity in his younger years hadn't been well-known within his family, but they never failed to throw it in his face when they had found out. "Fuck off," he shot back.

"Come on, I'm joking. Why haven't you had sex with him yet?"

"He doesn't want anyone knowing he's gay."

"How do you know he's gay?"

"Saw him at work. He's gotta be gay, right?"

"Well, unless he stumbled into the very gay dance club you work at by accident, I'd say he's as gay as they come."

Ian nods excitedly. "See, that's what I thought!" he explodes. "But then I ask him if he wants a dance and he just leaves. So I follow him and he fucking threatens me, telling me if I ever say a word about him being there he's going to kill me or whatever." He rolls his eyes and sits back in his chair, eyebrows furrowed and arms crossed.

"This guy got a name?" Fiona asks.

"Mickey."

"Maybe he's just scared to come out."

"Obviously," Ian says, looking at Fiona like she's stupid. But Fiona waves him and his snark off, drinking her soda silently as she thinks about her younger brother's problems.

"So if you ever see him again—"

"I highly doubt that will happen."

"—Tell him you'll keep it just between you two."

. . .

Ian barely gives Fiona's advice any thought as he walks to work, his head filled with thoughts of Mickey and his blue eyes and his rough voice and even rougher hands. He wrenches open the door to the club and disappears to the back, beginning the task of changing into the tiny golden shorts he hates but has to wear for work.

He's in the middle of dancing on the stage next to one of his coworkers when he spots a familiar face in the crowd. The couches that surround all four sides of the stage are filled up, and sitting right in front of Ian is Mickey, sprawled out on the couch like he fucking owns the place.

Ian holds Mickey's eyes as he continues dancing, watching at how careful Mickey is to keep his face expressionless. But he doesn't miss the subtle nod in his direction, a silent order to come to him. Ian does as he's told, and Mickey shoves a twenty in his hands.

When Ian is seated on Mickey's lap, he starts talking. "Changed your mind, huh?"

"What time do you get off?"

Ian cocks his head at his words, thinking of a thousand different innuendos to respond with.

Mickey rolls his eyes. "Just answer the fucking question."

Ian laughs softly under his breath. "Half an hour," he says, glancing at the clock hanging above the bar in front of him. He rolls his hips down sharply onto Mickey's, and there's a sharp inhale from the boy beneath him, making him smirk.

"Meet me outside after you get off. Your shift," he adds, forcefully removing Ian from his lap when the redhead smirks at him and walking out.

Ian goes back to the stage as he's supposed to.

But he doesn't stop smirking the rest of the night.

. . .

Mickey is waiting for Ian outside, just like he had promised. He has a cigarette in his mouth again and he's fiddling with a switchblade in his hands, barely even aware that he's doing it. But when Ian walks up to him, Mickey seems aware of the new presence and puts the switchblade away, folding it up and slipping it in his jacket pocket before turning to Ian. He looks conflicted, like he's having second thoughts about this sudden new situation he's found himself in. Even though he was the one to seal the deal, Mickey looks absolutely wrecked.

"I don't kiss," he blurts out.

Ian raises his eyebrows. "Excuse me?" he says.

"I don't fucking kiss," Mickey repeats, hissing the words quietly as someone walks past them. He makes sure that the man is well out of earshot before continuing. "Kissing, cuddling, I don't fucking do it. It's pointless and I just don't fucking like it. So if you've got a problem, you can just, you know. . .walk away and we'll never talk about any of this again."

Ian was at a loss for words. "You don't like kissing?" he says incredulously.

"No!" Mickey says loudly, sounding exasperated.

"But. . .why?" Ian loved kissing, to be honest.

"Because I just don't. So like I said. . ." He waved his arms as if telling Ian to run along if he couldn't handle that.

But Ian just leaned forward and took Mickey by the wrist. "Let's go to my place," he said casually before leading the way to his apartment. Mickey allowed himself to be dragged across the streets, looking down at the ground.

"My name's Ian Gallagher, by the way," Ian said, smiling. "You should know my name, at least, because I'm pretty sure you'll be screaming it pretty soon."

"Shut the fuck up," Mickey whispered, looking up at the dark sky as if he was already regretting this decision.

February 2, 2015

Ian tells Fiona he's sleeping with Mickey, and it's just sex. She laughs out loud when he tells her he doesn't kiss Mickey because he doesn't like it. "So what do you do?" Fiona asks, her lips trembling with the effort it takes to not laugh harder. "Do you just turn him around and fuck him into the mattress so you're not tempted?" Ian doesn't answer because she's fucking right.

Sometimes, when Mickey knocks on Ian's door, Mickey is kind enough to offer up a small smirk before shoving Ian against the wall and attacking his neck. But most of the time, they barely even manage a quick greeting before their hands are dipping below waistlines and fingers are tearing apart shirts. Mickey mostly just lets Ian flip him over onto his hands and knees and fuck him quick and hard, just the way they both seem to like it. But there's no intimacy, there's no closeness. It's just fucking.

Ian can't help but hate it.

Fiona's become something of his guide when it comes to Mickey. He goes to her whenever he has a question, or a story, or a complaint.

"I just. . .I don't get it!" Ian says one day, lifting his head up from his hands where he had been groaning just a few seconds before. "How does someone have sex in such an emotionless way? There's barely even any foreplay!"

Fiona is shocked. "None?"

"Some jerking off. Lube. That's it. Always, that's just it."

Fiona frowns. "That's just sad," she sighs. "You have to quit while you're ahead, Ian."

Ian knows she's right, but he's strangely reluctant to let it go.

. . .

"Evening, Firecrotch," Mickey says mockingly as he steps into his apartment, a cigarette placed between his smirking lips. He's already shrugging out of his jacket and Ian's fingers are fumbling to find the buttons on his own shirt as Mickey sheds his clothes with infuriating ease and speed, leaving Ian to stumble behind like the wonder-struck little boy he very much is. When he finally gets the shirt off his shoulders and leaves it to flutter harmlessly to the floor, Mickey's hand immediately goes to his dick, still covered by his jeans and boxers, and Ian's breath catches in his throat.

Quit while you're ahead, Fiona had said.

Fuck Fiona.

"Mickey," Ian breathes, and Mickey shushes him with a quick grunt that sounds vaguely like 'Shut the fuck up.' Ian has no choice but to obey, because he so knows that Mickey is not above leaving him like this, hard and desperate and wanting. He wants to punch Mickey for being so nonchalant about what they have here, but that would mean the thing coming to an end, and Ian does not want that at all.

Ian decides to not let all of Fiona's advice go to waste, so he refuses to let Mickey turn around tonight. Instead, he makes sure he's facing him tonight.

"The fuck are you doing, Gallagher?" Mickey says quietly, breathing heavily as Ian's hand attaches itself to his inner thigh.

"We're doing things my way tonight," Ian tells him, shushing him with a bite to his neck.

Afterwards, when Mickey's staring at the ceiling in Ian's room as he lies on his bed, Ian thinks that he might have won something tonight. He gets even more excited when Mickey pulls out a carton of cigarettes from his jeans pocket and lights it up, breathing in the smoke.

He's never stayed longer than ten minutes after sex, Ian realizes. This is good.

Mickey passes the cigarette to Ian and Ian accepts it gratefully, sucking in the smoke and thinking that this is probably the closest he'll ever get to kissing Mickey. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, makes his hands feel dirty, and clouds his mind with darkness. Suddenly, all he wants is to have Mickey get out of his bed and out of his apartment when usually, all he wants is to have him stay.

"I, um, have stuff to do tomorrow," Ian says quietly. "You should go."

Mickey is shocked. But he doesn't say anything. He takes his cigarette back and dresses quietly, settling back into their regular routine—It's been four fucking days, Ian, shut the fuck up—and is out the door within minutes.

Ian wants to punch the wall when he's gone.

February 11, 2015

There's not a day that goes by that Ian and Mickey don't have sex. It's always the same: Mickey shows up at Ian's apartment, they get rid of their clothes, they jerk each other off until they're ready to go, Ian prepares Mickey with the lube and gets the condom, they fuck, and then Mickey lies in bed with Ian—or they lie on the couch, or the floor, or the table, or wherever the fuck they decided to have sex that night—and they share a cigarette. Then Mickey gets up, unashamed of the fact that he's naked as the day he was born but too fucking scared to kiss Ian on the lips, puts his clothes back on, and leaves.

Ian sees Mickey every fucking night, and he fucks him every fucking night. So why does he always miss him?

"You're getting attached," Fiona tells him one day as she pours copious amount of wine into both their glasses.

Ian snorts. "I am not," he says, his words slurring. It's only one in the afternoon, but he doesn't care. It's five o' clock somewhere, right?

"Then why are you so upset about it?"

"Because. . .because he won't fucking kiss me."

"And you want to kiss him?"

"So badly."

"And you want him to kiss you?"

"So fucking much. More than I want to kiss him."

"You're getting attached," she repeats.

Ian shrugs. "I know," he says, and finishes off the bottle of wine.

. . .

That night, after Mickey allows Ian to fuck him hard and needy, Ian dares to ask the question.

"Will you ever let me kiss you?" he asks quietly, hesitantly. Fearfully.

Mickey doesn't even finish his cigarette. He crushes it into the ash tray even though there's still half left that hasn't been burnt out by the smoke and lighter sparks and gets up from the bed.

"Mickey—"

"I don't like kissing," Mickey says, his voice cold. "I told you that before, I told you that the very first night we ever fucked. And I told you that if you had a fucking problem with it, you could find someone else to fuck. That offer still stands."

"Why don't you like kissing?"

"Jesus," Mickey mutters, rolling his eyes up the ceiling.

"Just answer the fucking question, Mickey!" Ian says loudly. "We fuck each other every single night and yet all I've ever done is manage to give you a hickey and half a fucking hand job once in a while."

"Works for me."

"Well, it doesn't work for me."

"That's your problem, Gallagher. Not mine." Mickey goes to the door to leave, but Ian catches his wrist.

"Don't," he says.

Mickey looks like he might listen to Ian for a second before he shrugs him off. "Out of my fucking way," he says.

"Don't be so scared," Ian pleads with him. "Look, you can not kiss me all you want, but don't be scared of being gay."

"Say that one more time and I'm gonna rip your fucking tongue out."

Ian shrugs. "There's nothing wrong with being gay."

"I don't. . ."

"You get fucked in the ass by me every night. In fact, you fucking beg for it sometimes. You don't get to say you're not gay anymore, not to me."

Mickey shakes his head. "Fuck you, Ian," he says.

"Why are you so afraid?" Ian presses once more.

Mickey shrugs. "I got not other choice," he says finally, and it's the most Mickey's ever let Ian in, the most Ian's ever been allowed to see. He thinks of it as some kind of rare gift.

"Fuck, Mickey," Ian says. "Everyone's got a choice in this kind of shit."

Mickey shakes his head. "Not me," he says. "Look, Gallagher. . ." Ian remembers how not only twenty minutes ago, Mickey had been crying out Ian's name in desperation, clawing at his back and gasping for breath, but since he's not inside him anymore, that stuff doesn't count. Nothing real between them exists outside of the bedroom. "What we've got is fun, and it's fine. So don't fuck it up, alright."

Ian shrugs, shaking his head. "You're too scared."

"And you're too emotional."

"And you're too fucking attached to stop fucking me."

Mickey hits Ian, and it hurts. It's a quick punch, and it won't do any real damage, not really. He'll have a small bruise on his jaw but that's it. It'll be gone within a week. "Fuck," he hisses.

Mickey looks apologetic, but Ian knows better than to expect an apology from him.

He does expect it, however, when Mickey suddenly shoves him against the wall next to the entrance to the living room, rattling the picture hanging next to Ian's head, and begins biting and sucking on Ian's exposed neck. He was only wearing a pair of boxers; he hadn't planned on going anywhere after all. It was Mickey who was fully dressed, Mickey who was suddenly desperate once more, and all too eager to remove his clothes. Ian got rid of them soon enough, and all he was able to do was drag Mickey back into the bedroom and make sure he was looking at him the entire time he fucked him.

. . .

"I'm sorry for hitting you," Mickey says as he passes the cigarette to Ian.

Ian shrugs. "It's okay. Sorry for pushing you so hard." They trade again.

"Sorry for making you." Another trade of hands.

They don't say anything else as their personal makeshift feelings stick burns into oblivion.

February 19, 2015

If Ian had been a little less drunk, a little less hungover, he probably would have enjoyed the party a hell of a lot more. But as the music continues to pound its way through the song blaring through the speakers, all he wants to do is crawl into a hole and hide for a few years so he can sleep off this fucking hangover because this headache is hurting him like a bitch.

Mickey, at least, seems to find Ian's current state rather entertaining.

"Take some water," he says as he passes him a glass, knowing this is all his fault.

The night before, Ian and Mickey had hooked up in the back of the club Ian worked at, grasping at each other fiercely and biting at each other's necks and chests as the alcohol swimming inside their systems clouded their minds and judgments.

"This is all your fault," Ian groaned.

"You didn't have to keep on drinking just because I was."

"Didn't want you feeling left out," Ian said weakly.

Mickey laughed at that and shook his head. He knew Ian's hangover was his fault, but he couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for it.

It was just too damn funny to watch.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Mickey asked suddenly, surveying the boring party.

Ian looked up at him, his eyes wide and the headache dying down to a dull throb out of nowhere. Numbly and silently, he nodded.

Mickey led them out of the house, shoving a couple high on coke making out by the door out of their way as they made their way out of the house. "Let's go to your place," he suggested.

Ian nodded again, seemingly unable to do much more than that.

Mickey began walking, but Ian stopped him. "Should we get a cab?" he asked.

Mickey shrugged. "Whatever you feel like.

They called for a cab, and when the taxi car pulled up to the sidewalk, Mickey and Ian stumbled inside, feeling light and giddy from the alcohol and the pot they had smoked at the party. Ian tripped over his words as he gave the driver his address, and sat back into the seat to close his eyes. He didn't, though. He turned his head to the side to stare at Mickey, who was looking straight ahead.

"Here we are," the driver said ten minutes later, parking in front of Ian's building.

Mickey threw a few bills to the front seat before getting out of the car and pulling Ian with him. "Come on, let's go."

On the way up to Ian's apartment, Ian can't help but slump against Mickey as he walks to the elevator. He lives on the fucking eighth floor, he thinks bitterly. Why did he choose such a high floor to live?

"I don't know, Ian," Mickey sighs as they lean back against the elevator's wall, and Ian realizes that he said that out loud. He shrugs internally. It's better than saying that he thinks Mickey is absolutely beautiful when he's high and slightly drunk.

Mickey clears his throat and Ian realizes a little too late that he said that out loud, too. He curses silently and closes his eyes until the soft ding! signals they've reached his floor.

They stumble to Ian's door and Mickey helps him remove Ian's key from his pocket, unlocking the door for him and shoving the door open, collapsing against the door as they walk through and close the door behind them.

Ian turns to look at Mickey leaning against his front door, eyes wide and pupils nearly swallowing all the beautiful and vibrant blue of his irises. He steps closer, reaching out. "Come here," he says softly.

Mickey can't do much more than listen to him.

Ian latches his mouth onto Mickey's neck, sucking a quick mark onto his neck, listening to the soft sighs Mickey lets out as his tongue traces the skin of his collarbone, his neck, his jaw.

"Ian," Mickey says in a shuddering sigh.

Ian falls to his knees, unbuckling Mickey's belt and unzipping his jeans, popping the button and yanking them down with his boxers. He takes Mickey in his mouth all at once, and Mickey's knees buckle against the door.

Ian pins his forearm against Mickey's hips, keeping him upright as he blows Mickey slowly, turning him into little more than a whimpering and gasping mess. Mickey runs his hands through Ian's red hair, knotting it between his fingers and pulling softly. Ian moans at the pressure, and Mickey moans as well when he feels the vibrations shudder throughout his entire body until he comes in Ian's mouth.

Mickey tries to return the favor, but Ian waves him off. "Don't bother," he says sleepily, his eyes slipping closed.

The least he could do is bring him to his bed, so he helps Ian stumble to his bedroom and watches as he collapses onto the bed sheets.

"Are you joining me?" Ian asks, his voice high and innocent.

Normally, Mickey would call Ian out on his bullshit, but tonight, this isn't bullshit.

Ian actually wants Mickey to stay with him tonight.

The alcohol and the weed mixing together make him want to do nothing more than say yes, fuck yes, but he can't.

So he just strokes the side of Ian's face until Ian's eyes close fully.

"Sorry, Firecrotch," he says softly. "Can't tonight."

He closes the door softly behind him so he won't wake the peaceful sleeping form in the bedroom of the apartment Mickey's been to every single night since the first fucking time, the apartment he's become used to.

He knows it won't last.

He knows he won't let a day go by without seeing Ian until it's time to cut it off.

. . .

And when Ian wakes up only two hours after Mickey left him, at four in the morning, he reaches out to grab at the figure that isn't there, at the person who left him with nothing more than a soft goodbye whispered into the ear of someone who hadn't even heard him over the sounds of his dreams already coming to claim him for the night. When he feels nothing but empty sheets, he feels an equally empty ache in his chest, but goes back to sleep anyway because it's better than reality.

February 24, 2015

Mickey's taken to visiting The Fairytale on the nights that Ian works. Especially on the nights Ian dances instead of just tending the bar. Because while he does enjoy the free drinks Ian slides his way, he enjoys the free lap dances Ian graces him with much, much more.

"So."

"So?"

"How's your day been?"

"You're literally grinding your hips on mine and you want to make small talk?"

"My other customers seem to like it."

"Don't fucking talk about your other customers when you're doing this."

"As you wish."

"Shut the fuck up."

"I can get up and leave right now, if my presence is becoming a bother to you."

"Don't you fucking dare, Gallagher."

"My name's Curtis here, remember, Mick?"

"Well, I don't give a fuck if it's Queen Elizabeth over here. I'm calling you Gallagher and I'm telling you that you better not fucking stop."

"If you say so."

"I do fucking say so."

There's really no winning an argument against Mickey Milkovich, Ian soon realizes. So he just continues rolling his hips down onto Mickey's and reminisces about the first time he ever did this, smiling widely against his neck.

By the time Ian gets up, Mickey's positively red in the face from the obscene moves and noises Ian's been using against him.

"I'll meet you at your place later tonight, won't I?" Mickey said, making sure they're still on for later that night.

"And ruin a perfect streak of sex every night for almost a month?" Ian says, snorting as he stands up.

"It has almost been a month, hasn't it?" Mickey says, but Ian's already up and back on stage.

Mickey blushes red from embarrassment this time and stands up to leave.

. . .

"Do you ever think the weather is going to get better?" Ian asks as he tries unsuccessfully to light the cigarette perched between his lips. The sparks shoot up against his thumb and he grunts, jerking away from the lighter.

Mickey snorts, taking both the lighter and cigarette out of Ian's hands and lips, popping the cigarette between his own lips and trying to get the lighter to work himself. "Are you seriously going to talk about the weather now?" he asks as he throws the lighter to the side. "Fuck," he says disappointingly.

Ian shrugs. "Yep."

Mickey grabs his spare lighter from the pocket of his jeans that are lying by the bed and lights up the cigarette, puffing out the smoke before passing it on to Ian.

"It's February, almost March, and it's still fucking cold out."

Mickey sighs, clearly catching on to the fact that Ian will not be shutting up at any time soon, and rolls his eyes. "Well, you know what, Gallagher? We live in fucking Chicago, so get used to the fucking shitty weather."

Ian laughed, surprisingly giddy and energetic after sex. Normally, he was ready to fall asleep the moment Mickey left the apartment. But as long as Mickey was here, Ian would stay awake and he would make sure he wouldn't even close his eyes until he heard the door close as Mickey disappeared to his own home for the rest of the night, wherever that was.

"Fuck's up with you tonight?" Mickey asked curiously, taking in a long and deep lungful of smoke before passing it on to Ian.

Ian shrugged, pausing a moment before taking the cigarette out of his hands. "Dunno," he said. "Just. . .pretty happy tonight, I guess. Feeling good." He smiled knowingly at Mickey, letting him know he was the reason.

Mickey snorted and rolled his eyes again, stealing the cigarette right out of Ian's mouth and blew out little smoke rings in the air above him, watching them evaporate into nothing.

"I should go soon," Mickey said after a while. "Gotta be up tomorrow. My sister's coming to visit."

Ian froze. "I think that's the first time you've ever mentioned your family. I didn't even know you had a sister."

"Yeah well, she doesn't leave here anymore, so don't expect me to start talking about her all the time day and night."

Ian is reluctant to let Mickey go, and he can already see him getting himself ready to stand up from the bed. Mickey sticks the cigarette back into Ian's mouth, and he accepts it gratefully but wraps his arms around Mickey's chest, pulling him back down against him. "Stay," he whispers as he drags his lips down Mickey's back, nearing his ass with every passing second.

He can feel Mickey tensing up. "Ian," he says, "what are you doing?"

Ian shrugged. "Never tried it before," he whispered raggedly as his lips ghost over Mickey's lower back. "We can do it now."

"Is this how you're gonna try to get me to stay a bit longer?" Mickey asks, his breath hitching as Ian's tongue delves into his ass cheek, shuddering and relaxing onto his stomach.

"God, Mickey, just shut up for a second and enjoy this for a minute."

Mickey was shaking a little, his hands clenching into the bed sheets underneath him. "I never. . .I never even payed you back for that blowjob a while back," he said quietly.

Ian shook his head. "Forget about it," he said.

"Am I ever gonna get to return the favor?" Mickey asked, trying to keep conversation going so he could gather his thoughts.

"Do you want to?" Ian challenged.

Mickey froze, but he knew his answer right away, even if he was frightened to say it. "Yes," he said finally, his voice wrecked. "So much."

Ian nodded, his nose stroking the curve of Mickey's ass ans his tongue dipping back down once again. "Okay. Whenever you want, then."

Mickey let out a sharp exhale. "What if I want to do it now?" he said, forcing his eyes to stay open.

Ian paused, but his tongue was still inside Mickey. "You want to blow me right now?" he said finally.

Mickey managed to nod.

"I'm literally desperate to put my tongue in your ass and you want to blow me right now?"

". . .Yes."

Ian sighed against Mickey's hole, sending shivers up Mickey's whole fucking body, and leaned back. "Okay."

Mickey flipped their positions so Ian was on his back and he put his hands on Ian's shoulders, pinning him down and straddling his waist as a look of fierce determination settled across his face.

"It's not a fucking army mission, Mick," Ian said, rolling his eyes and laughing. "It's just a blow job."

"Shut up, Gallagher," Mickey said. "I've never. . ."

Ian stopped laughing. "What?"

Mickey shrugged it off, but Ian sat up, and suddenly their faces were just inches from each other, lips barely a breath away. If Mickey just leaned in that much. . .he'd be kissing Ian Gallagher.

"You've never given a blow job?"

Mickey sighed, feeling a red heat crawl up his neck and over his face and ears. "Never got one before, either, until that one time you did it," he admitted, not meeting Ian's eyes.

Ian scoffed. "Well, Jesus," he said, "no problem. I'll help you through it."

"You'll. . .what?"

"I'll help you through it. Y'know, guide you or whatever."

"You wanna guide me through my first time giving a blow job?"

"Yeah."

"Are you some kind of expert on how it's supposed to be done? How many have you given?"

"Enough."

"How many have you gotten?"

Ian grinned lasciviously. "More than enough."

Mickey really has no choice but to take his word for it. Ian is, after all, out and proud.

"Okay," he says finally. "Help me through it."

And, God, does he help him through it. The moment Mickey has Ian's cock in his mouth, Ian is absolutely and totally at Mickey's mercy. Ian's hands tangle in Mickey's hair, messing up the hair gel he always has in there.

"Fuck, okay," Ian gasps. "Now just—just—fucking move your mouth—like that—u-up and down and then—yes!" Ian cries out as he slowly moves his hips, bringing them up to Mickey's mouth.

Mickey realizes that giving head is something that he likes. He likes the feeling of a cock in his mouth, and he likes to be able to bring Ian down to nothing more than a needy and greedy mess. Something Mickey is more used to feeling like when they're together.

Not that he ever minds, Mickey thinks as he licks up Ian's length as he continues instructing him. He likes the feeling of Ian taking control.

It's just that now that knows what kind of power a simple blow job can hold, he's eager to do it again, and again. . .and, yeah, maybe even again. And as he's listening to Ian's directions, listening to what he's supposed to do with his tongue and his throat and his hands, another thought strikes him.

What would it be like to ride Ian Gallagher? The thought knocks Mickey's brain around his head for a few seconds, rendering him motionless. Ian grunts underneath him and Mickey suddenly remembers what he's in the middle of.

When Ian comes, he warns Mickey and tells him to get off him, so Mickey listens. He doesn't really think he's ready to swallow yet, not when he's just started. Ian seems to agree, because he smiles lazily at Mickey when he's officially spent.

Mickey gets Ian a tissue and Ian throws it into the trash can next to his dresser when he's done wiping the mess of come off his chest. As he watches the redhead move, Mickey wonders again what it would be like to ride Ian.

"What are you thinking about?" Ian asks as he rejoins Mickey on the bed.

Mickey shrugs. "Nothing important, really."

"Oh, really?" Ian says, quirking an eyebrow.

Mickey is so full of shit and both he and Ian know it.

But he lies again anyway.

"Yep. Nothing important."

Ian lets it go for the time being. "How'd you like giving head?" he asks instead.

Mickey blushes. "I. . .I liked it, I guess."

Ian grins. "Some people do like giving blow jobs." He laughs softly. "Do you have an oral fixation waiting to be discovered, Mickey?"

Mickey's blush burns even brighter. "Shut the fuck up, Gallagher, or I swear I won't ever suck your cock again."

Ian laughs even louder. "Well, you basically answered my question with a positive yes."

Mickey shoves him in the arm and grabs another cigarette from his pack.

Ian takes it out of his hand the moment it's lit up and takes the first drag, giving Mickey a shit-eating grin the entire time.

March 1, 2015

Fiona asked Ian what was so special about Mickey, and Ian couldn't answer.

"I mean, you've been sleeping with this guy since January, and he won't even let you kiss him. . .What's so great about him?" she pressed when he refused to speak.

Ian shrugged. "I don't know. . .he's not special, really." That was a disgusting lie and Ian knew it; he thought Mickey was so special. "He's just. . .he's a good fuck and he doesn't feel like complicating whatever it is that we have with some kind of relationship or whatever." He wanted to cry as he said the words. All he wanted from Mickey was a real relationship. "He's not complicated. That's why I like him."

Fiona didn't like his answer very much. In fact, she hated it. Her own love life had been a hot mess the moment she dropped out of high school in her junior year to take care of the rest of her younger siblings after their mother, Monica, left them and their father, Frank, continued to ignore his fatherly duties.

She had never had enough time to date regularly. Most of the time, it was just random hookups in the back of cars, or hushed sleepovers in her room. Whenever any of her five younger siblings mentioned someone they were interested in, Fiona adamantly pushed them to pursue their interest. She always said she gave up a lot to take care of them, and while she would never change her decision if given the chance, she wished she had someone to be with.

Ian hated whenever she pulled that card.

It wasn't that he was scared to ask Mickey to become exclusive. Because even though he was absolutely terrified of the idea, he already knew what Mickey's answer would be. It would a flat-out no, and then he would stop coming to his apartment because things would get too awkward and then Ian would be right back where he started, not getting laid regularly and feeling lonely in his apartment every night by himself.

When he told this to Fiona, she simply snorted and shook her head. "Well, you'll never know until you try," she said. But Ian refused to listen to her. He had tried to ask Mickey why he wouldn't kiss him, and it ended in a fight. A fight that was fixed with sex, but a fight nonetheless. What would happen if he asked to be in a relationship? What kind of a relationship is one without kissing?

"Jesus, you really know how to pick 'em, don't you, Ian?" Fiona sighed.

Ian nodded. "Yep," he agreed, "I sure do."

March 10, 2015

The first night that Mickey didn't knock on Ian's door was the first night Ian truly realized how desperately and irreversibly attached he was to Mickey fucking Milkovich.

No text. No call.

No fucking explanation.

He went to bed that night feeling confused and lonely and he wanted to call Mickey up right now and ask why he didn't come over that night. But that was clingy and clingy was bad, especially when it came to a person like Mickey. Ian loved clingy, at least, when it had a balance. He loved knowing someone wanted to know where he was and why he hadn't called, as long as they gave him space. But Mickey didn't even want to share anything personal with Ian.

He hated it.

March 15, 2015

"Haven't seen you in a while."

"Yep."

"Where were you?"

"Dad needed some help taking care of some business."

"That all the explanation I'm gonna get?"

"Yep."

"Take off your fucking clothes, Mickey."

March 23, 2015

"My dad's Terry Milkovich," Mickey said one night, high on some weed that he had gotten earlier that day and drunk on cheap wine in Ian's freezer. "He asks me to collect money from his drug business sometimes."

Ian grunted, and didn't give any other answer. He acted like that little piece of information didn't affect him. But it meant a lot to him. Was Mickey beginning to open up to him? He doubted that this simple sentence meant Mickey was going to pour his soul out to Ian and hand it over just like that, but it could be a start. And so what if Ian was deluding himself? He wanted it with Mickey.

"That's nice to know," Ian said.

"Just thought you should know that's why I wasn't here those few days."

"It's okay."

"Okay."

"Hey?"

"What?"

"Wanna fuck again?"

"Sure."

And when Ian took Mickey in his mouth two minutes later, he thought to himself that he was getting pretty fucking close to everything.

April 2, 2015

"Mickey?" Ian asked after a few minutes of silence.

"What?"

"Are you fucking anyone else?"

Another brief moment of silence.

"How could I be fucking anyone else? I'm here every fucking night."

Ian grinned into the dark.

April 6, 2015

The first time Ian met Mandy Milkovich was a total accident. He had been walking down the street going back home and then, out of nowhere, he almost collided into Mickey's chest.

"Oh. Hey, Ian," Mickey said.

"Hey, Mickey."

The girl standing next to Mickey was looking between the two of them, obviously waiting for Mickey to be polite and introduce the two of them. But at the sound of Ian's name, her eyebrows perked up. "This is Ian?" she asked, curiosity coloring her tone.

"This is Ian," Mickey confirmed.

"I'm Mandy. I'm Mickey's sister."

Ian shook her hand. "Nice to meet you."

He knew Mickey had a sister. He often talked about her, too. He knew she had left Chicago when she was nineteen and was now living in New York, but came to visit Mickey whenever she could.

"What are you doing for the rest of the day, Ian?" Mandy asked, waving off Mickey's warning look.

"Um, nothing, I guess?" Ian said.

"Great. You're coming bowling with us."

He snorted. "You go bowling?" he asked Mickey.

"It's her idea," Mickey mumbled, glaring down at his shoes.

"No, it's not," Mandy said. "He always wants to go bowling whenever I come to visit."

Ian really doesn't have any other choice but to go bowling with Mickey and Mandy. And when they get to the bowling alley and he sees Mickey start to play, he realizes why he wants to go bowling with his sister.

He's surprisingly skilled at it.

Mandy, Ian soon comes to realize, is a much lighter, bubbly version of Mickey. She's a little rough around the edges, a smudge of the Southside that New York will never be able to wash away. But it seems that in the three years she's been living away from home, she's managed to rid herself of most of the dirt and grime that Chicago will spill on you if you live in the wrong part. She's just as blunt, occasionally rude, and crude as her older brother. Ian can see immediately why they get along so well.

When the clock's hands inch nearer to eight, Ian stands. "I have to go to work," he announces.

Mickey looks up at him from his chair and Mandy turns, the bowling ball in her hand forgotten. "Well, it was nice meeting you," she says, smiling at him.

Mickey waits for his sister to go back to the pins still standing down her alley, and stands up. "I'll meet you after she goes back to my apartment for the night," he promises.

But Ian doesn't want him to sacrifice a night with his sister. "Don't," he says, a gentle smile gracing his lips. "Spend time with your sister."

He doesn't even care that he won't get to see Mickey until tomorrow night.

April 16, 2015

When Mickey walks into Ian's apartment, he won't shut up as he finds Ian in his bathroom, washing his hands. "I swear to God, Ian, Mandy won't shut the fuck about you. She's like in love with you or something. I keep telling her your gay, but she just keeps flipping me off and then—hey, what the fuck?!"

Ian gabbed Mickey's waist and pinned him against the sink's counter by his shoulders roughly. "Mickey," he says lowly, "fucking kiss me."

Mickey freezes underneath Ian's hands, and then he shoves him back. "Fuck you, Gallagher."

"Shut up," Ian hisses. "Just. . .kiss me, okay?" He knows his voice is throaty and hoarse and he sounds desperate and needy but fuck it, he is. "Just. . .just this once, alright?"

"Why should I?"

"Because we've been fucking nonstop for four fucking months and you haven't kissed me once."

"I don't like kissing."

"Bullshit."

"Excuse me?"

"I think you do like kissing," Ian said, his lips finding Mickey's collarbone as his hand goes down below his belt. "I think you like it a lot, but you're just too scared of the intimacy." His mouth moved across his chest and up to that little part of skin where his neck meets his shoulder, and Mickey let out a deep, choked exhale. "But we've been doing this for four months. You don't have to be scared of the intimacy with me." He sucked on his jawline and moved to the corner of his mouth.

"Ian," Mickey warned in a low voice.

"Yes?" Ian said, his lips forming a grin against his cheek.

"Ian, stop."

Ian gripped Mickey's hips and spun him around sharply so they were both facing the mirror. "Look at you," he whispered against the back of Mickey's neck. "Fuck, look at you."

He didn't even bother taking off his clothes. He just took his cock out of his pants and boxers and shoved Mickey's jeans out of the way so he could slide into him.

Mickey's knuckles were turning white from gripping the edge of the counter so hard, his breathing labored and his eyes locked on their reflection in the mirror as they fucked.

Soon, the visual of them together became too much and Mickey turned his head right as Ian leaned forward so his head was rested against Mickey's neck. When he felt Mickey turn, he raised his head and their lips were so fucking close to each other, and fuck if it wasn't the sexiest moment of Mickey's whole life. His tongue traced his bottom lip unconsciously, eyes on Ian's own mouth, and leaned in just that little bit more so their lips were barely brushing against each other.

Ian grunted and leaned forward the rest of the way so their mouths met completely. And the moment they kissed, Mickey let out a soft noise in the back of his throat and came. Ian followed soon after, panting heavily.

He let go of Mickey, stumbling back a few steps. He watched as Mickey picked up his jeans and fished for his cigarettes and lighter. Instead of only taking out one, he passed one to Ian and kept one for himself.

"I'm sorry," Ian said, his breathing still ragged. "I shouldn't have kissed you."

Mickey lit up his cigarette and smacked Ian's hand away when he tried to take it from him, instead lighting it up for him.

"'S'okay," he shrugged, blowing out the smoke.

Ian was shocked. "I-it's okay?" he stuttered.

Mickey shrugged again. "Yeah."

". . .Do you still like me?" Ian asked quietly.

Mickey laughed. "Yes, I still fucking like you."

"Can. . .Can I kiss you again?"

Mickey took a deep breath and looked up at the lights on the bathroom ceiling. "Sure. Why not?"

When Ian smiled brightly, Mickey pretended not to notice.

April 21, 2015

"I have a confession to make."

Fiona looks up at Ian, her brow furrowed, and Debbie turns in her kitchen chair to glance over. Lip pretends not to hear. He just continues sipping his beer and playing with Liam. Carl doesn't even turn around.

"What is it?"

"I'm thinking about adoption."

Fiona drops the pot she's pulling out of the cabinet.

Ian knows it was a bad idea to bring it up here, now, but he can't help it. He's been thinking about it for the longest time, desperate to have some kind of constant presence in his life. And he'd always had a soft spot for kids. Why not help out a little baby who was abandoned by his or her parents before they could even form a single thought in their head? He would never be able to have kids of his own, and adoption was the only option he could think of. He was twenty-two, he was single, and he was lonely. He had finally been able to admit to himself; he was lonely, and he had been for a long, long time. It was time he did something about that. And all of the relationships he'd tried to pursue since he was a teenager seemed to be met with dead ends every fucking time. It was time to search for an option that was more permanent.

"Ian."

"You're not serious, right?" Lip said, looking over at Ian darkly. "That's a dumbass fucking move, you know that, right? You work as a dancer in a gay dance club. You work nights and only get home at three. You have no boyfriend to help you watch him."

"Lip, shut up," Fiona said. "Ian. Have you thought this through?"

Ian let out his breath. Honestly? No, he hadn't thought much past the loneliness part. "I'm. . .alone, Fi," he said quietly.

"And you think adoption is the right way to fix that, when all the things Lip is saying is true, even though he was an asshole about it?"

"I'm alone," he repeated.

"What do you think that guy you've been seeing would think, hm?" Fiona asked, crossing her arms over her chest and raising her eyebrows. "You think he'd like the fact that you're jumping into adopting a kid and therefore completely affecting your time together? Remember when I got custody of you guys, and me and Jimmy got into that fight because I didn't bother asking how he felt about it?"

"You and Jimmy were different."

"We were living together and he was still upset."

"Exactly. It was different."

"You guys aren't even official."

"I want to be."

"It's been four months, Ian."

"Fuck you, Fiona."

"Don't be upset with me because you're seeing how stupid this decision was."

"I don't want to be alone anymore!"

"So don't."

Ian could hear her hidden meaning loud and clear. Forget Mickey. Tell him it's time to call it quits. That he wants something more permanent and meaningful, something that means much, much more than a nightly fuck. That he wants to be with somebody who will spend the night with him, that will kiss him shamelessly, that will tell him he loves him. Someone who will want to look into adoption one day with him.

He knew he should do it.

He didn't want to.

. . .

That night, as Ian rolled off of Mickey's back, sweating and taking in deep and ragged breaths, he thought of what Fiona had said. He thought of how Mickey refused to give him what he so desperately wanted, what he needed. Ian was, quite frankly, sick of waiting for Mickey to decide what it was that he wanted. For the love of God, he couldn't even say he was gay! And he so clearly was, or Ian was simply imagining how much Mickey loved it when Ian's dick was in his ass.

"I think we should stop this," he mumbled, even before Mickey managed to get the cigarette out of his pocket.

Mickey froze as his fingers closed around the small shape of his lighter. "You what?" he hissed, not even turning back around to face Ian as the words left his mouth. He couldn't bear the thought of facing him now.

"I don't think we should continue sleeping together," Ian said, his voice a pitch louder this time as he grew more confident in his words. His hands were shaking but he couldn't stop thinking of Fiona's advice.

"But. . .why?" Mickey asked, and if Ian hadn't spent the past four months sleeping with Mickey and spending time with him, he would have said the tone of his voice was nearing desperation.

"Because I want more than a fuck every now and then."

"You have that," Mickey said. "You have a fuck every fucking night, Gallagher."

"I want more than someone only calling me by my first name whenever we fuck."

Mickey didn't have a response to that.

"Jesus, Mickey," Ian said when Mickey refused to talk. "It's not like I don't have fun with you. Because I do I have so much fun with you. But it's only when we fuck, because that's the only time I'm with you. Except for that one time I met your sister, and even that was completely by accident. You won't even say you're gay, and that's just too—"

"I'm gay," Mickey choked out.

"Congratu-fucking-lations," Ian said bitterly, flinging the blanket to the side and sliding out of his bed, naked and pissed off. He grabbed his boxers and yanked them up, and went over to his drawer to pull out a clean shirt. He was just finished pulling the hem down when he felt cold fingers grip the sides of his waist from behind. He sighed, his eyes closing and his head tipping back. "Mickey, fuck," Ian said. But Mickey didn't even respond. One hand went up his chest and the other traced the outline of Ian's cock through his boxers.

"I'm gay," Mickey said as he stood on his toes to kiss the side of Ian's neck. "I'm here," he continued as his lips moved lower. "I've kissed you. I've let you fuck me. I've let you meet my sister." He dropped to his knees and pushed on the small of Ian's back so he was leaning over the dresser. "I've given you blow jobs and I've let you fuck me in your bed, your kitchen, your dining room, your bathroom, your couch, even in the bathroom of the fucking club you work at."

"You don't talk about your past to me."

"Fucked up childhood."

"You only let me meet your sister because I ran into you guys on the street and she wouldn't take no for an answer from you."

"I guess it was fate."

"You don't believe in fate."

"I guess fate sure as fuck believes in me."

"Shut the fuck up, Mickey."

"You started this whole thing."

"I'm not going to fuck you again, Mick."

"Fine. Then I'll fuck you. You wanted change, didn't you?"

"Not that kind of change."

"Ian."

"Mickey."

In the end, Mickey doesn't fuck Ian. He does, however, end up rimming him for the first time, and afterwards, Ian switches their positions so Mickey is against the dresser and Ian is on his knees and he blows him, slowly and lazily, until Mickey is a writhing and panting mess underneath him. Ian lets Mickey grip his hair tightly and guide his movements and Mickey lets Ian tease him until he wants to throw Ian off his body so he can finish off the job himself. But he knows that no one is going to fuck him like Ian can, just like no one can rim him or blow him like Ian can. And it's that realization that pisses Mickey off the most, even as Ian takes as much of Mickey into his mouth as he can and strokes the rest with his hand. Because he's finally beginning to see, clear as day, that Ian fucking Gallagher has ruined every other man for him, and he doesn't know whether or not he's sure if he's pissed off about that.

May 2, 2015

It rains hard on the second day of May, and Ian knows that summer is finally coming. Whenever there's a huge rainstorm like right now, he knows that spring is finally letting up, giving way to summer, and Ian has a few months of sunshine and heat before Chicago descends into eight months of bitter cold and sharp winds, of wearing scarves and hats and thick wool jackets and coats. He hates winter but winter in Chicago always lasts way way longer than he feels it should. So he makes sure to take advantage of summer as much as he can, when it comes around.

"There's no fucking way I'm gonna be able to go home in this," Mickey says as he peeks out Ian's curtain. Ian is barely listening; he's too busy studying the curve of Mickey's ass as he stands, naked and bare, in front of his window to observe the weather that night. The rain started right in the middle of their fucking, and in the heat of the moment, neither of them had noticed. They only realized it had been raining, and raining hard, when a particularly brutal snap of thunder rolled through the sky and alerted them to the storm's presence.

"You could spend the night here," Ian suggested.

Mickey had never spent the night with him before.

"I'm not having a fucking sleepover with you, Ian."

Ian had been expecting that, he had to admit.

"I'll sleep on the couch."

He'd be cold, but if Mickey spent just one fucking night in his apartment, he wouldn't even mind.

"I'm not gonna kick you out of your fucking bed, Ian."

The concern warmed Ian's heart, but he wouldn't dare say that to Mickey.

"Well, then, we'll sleep on opposite sides of the bed."

He had no doubt in his mind that his subconscious would slowly gravitate towards Mickey throughout the night.

"I'd rather walk through the rain to get home."

He didn't even have an umbrella, or a jacket with a hood on it.

"Just stay here tonight."

He couldn't even hide the plea in his voice.

"Fuck, Ian, shut up," Mickey groaned, walking back to the bed and shoving Ian to the side so he could get into bed with him. Ian couldn't even hide his grin as he moved over to the other side of the bed while Mickey curled into the bed, wrapping the blanket around himself. He didn't close his eyes, though, he just kept looking at Ian, who stared right back at him.

"Oh, fuck off, Ian," Mickey mumbled when neither of them broke the staring contest, finally looking down at the space between them, his eyes fixating on the blue sheets underneath him.

"I'm not going to force you to engage in pillow talk or anything. . ." Ian trailed off as Mickey let out a groan, obviously annoyed that Ian had started talking when all he wanted to do was get some sleep.

"Ian," he said. "Shut up."

Ian laughed, a smile flicking the corners of his lips upward. "I'm just saying," he says, laughter still evident in his voice. But as he quiets down, the mirth in his eyes dim down. "I'm just saying," he begins again, "that I'm happy you're here."

Mickey doesn't respond for a long time. He just continues looking at Ian without answering, and for a moment Ian thinks he won't. But Mickey's hardly ever disappointed Ian in anything other than his unwillingness to commit to him in any way other than sex. "Yeah, well," he says, "anything for you, Firecrotch."

And when Ian has to turn around to face the wall so he won't look at Mickey as a huge smile breaks across his face, he thinks that this is what he had been hoping for the whole time.

May 3, 2015

There's a boy in Ian's bed, and all he wants to do is kiss him.

He wants to press his lips against his, drag it out long and slow until they're both breathing heavily and gasping for air as their bodies move in a slow and languid rhythm. He wants to wrap his lips around his cock, make the other boy shudder and sigh with want and need and absolute fucking adoration and love. He wants to press his own cock into his hole, turn him so they're face to face the entire time, so he can see the expressions play out on his face as Ian makes his break apart under his very own hands.

Mickey's eyes blink open, blearily looking around to see where he is. And when he turns to find Ian staring at him with a look of wonder on his face, he knows the feeling of dread and regret should be creeping up on him any moment now.

It doesn't.

"Morning."

"Morning, Gallagher."

"The rain's stopped."

"Wonderful."

"I can make you breakfast, if you'd like?"

"You know how to make eggs?"

Mickey is in someone's bed, and all he wants to do is stay here for the rest of time.

May 12, 2015

Ian doesn't want to admit it, but he's definitely got a thing for Mickey Milkovich. Like, a thing that's bigger than a crush. Fuck, it's so so much more than a crush, but he doesn't want to admit it.

He wonders if this is what love feels like. Love, real and honest love for someone who isn't your family, shouldn't feel so painful, like your heart is falling down to your stomach whenever you see them for the first time that day. Love shouldn't make his palms sweat and his skin itch, like he's self-conscious of every fucking move he makes. Love shouldn't make him feel so scared.

Ian knew lust. He felt it with Kash, he felt it with Ned, he felt it with all the boys he'd hooked up with in the past. He'd even felt it with Mickey, in the beginning. But he had a feeling he never felt real love.

Now that he was sure he had, he was positive he wanted it to go away. For someone who spent his whole life chasing love, chasing some kind of feeling everyone was so hesitant to give out except for his family (Hell, even they were reluctant at times, when their own hearts could only survive so much pain and heartache), Ian was never sure what love felt like. And now that he'd finally caught up with it, he wanted nothing more than to sprint past it, leaving it in the dust.

But love had one hell of a grip, and it was just as reluctant to let Ian go as it had been reluctant to find him in the first place.

Mickey Milkovich was not someone Ian Gallagher wanted to fall in love with. He was rude and he had no manners, he swore at the most inappropriate of times and even more whenever he was especially frustrated. He had a nasty habit of smoking more than five cigarettes a day, especially right after he had a good fuck with Ian. And sure Ian wasn't one to talk since he'd been smoking since he was fourteen, but lately he'd found himself getting more and more addicted to the taste and smell of cigarettes that constantly lingered on Mickey's skin than the taste and smell of the actual smoke. He was insensitive, never giving a damn about what everyone else was feeling, though he seemed to be capable of showing some kind of positive emotion towards the right person (Mandy was one of those, and sometimes Ian liked to delude himself into thinking he was one of those people, too). He dealt hard drugs, stuff Ian would never really want to touch. Then again, he swore to Ian that it was only his father's business that he occasionally took part in whenever he asked for his son's help and he really didn't have any interest in anything other than really good weed.

But most of all, Ian doesn't want to love Mickey because Mickey refuses to love him back. He won't give Ian what he so obviously wants from him. He flat-out refuses it. And Ian doesn't know if he's ever going to be able to come to terms with that, if he's ever going to realize that Mickey really doesn't want to be in a real relationship with him. Love just keeps on making his head spin, making him believe that yes, one day Mickey will love him back because how could they go on for this long without feeling anything more than lust and desire for the other?

Hopeless romantics, Ian decides, should not enter friends with benefits relationships with other people. They should not have fuck buddies. They should not resort to casual and meaningless sex. Because it always means more to them. They always want more. They always want more than what the other person is willing to give, and think that in the end, everything is going to end up working out in their favor. They think that they'll live happily ever after with the person they met in a dirty bar and did nothing but fuck for five months.

Love is a bitch, Ian thinks to himself as he watches Mickey sleep noiselessly next to him. He had begun sleeping over whenever he comes to Ian's apartment too late, and is too tired to walk home after they finish their round of sex for the night.

Ian tries to keep himself from thinking it means more than exhaustion on Mickey's part, has to hold himself back from spitting out the words to Mickey that he wants to say. He feels like he'll burn out if he doesn't say it soon. But he also knows that if he says that he loves Mickey, he'll never talk to him again. He'll pick himself up and walk right out of Ian's apartment without a backward glance to the boy who loves him more than he should. And it's that realistic part of Ian, the part that keeps Ian grounded, that keeps him from blurting out the words.

When Mickey wakes up a few hours later, Ian is making eggs in the kitchen. He walks over to Ian and slaps his ass as he passes by him to get a glass out of the cabinet and pour himself some orange juice. Ian jumps a little, flicking a bit of under cooked egg off the spatula at his jerky movement and landing on Mickey's big toe.

"Jumpy this morning?" Mickey asks as he wipes off the egg and washes his hand.

"Just a bit. Didn't get enough sleep last night."

"How come? I thought you were just as worn out as I was."

Ian grinned despite the thoughts running through his head. "Sex doesn't turn all of us into zombies."

Mickey grinned right back at him and his eyes fell on a small orange bottle. "What's that?" he asked, jerking his chin to the bottle of pills.

Ian looks over at the bottle and sighs. "My, um. . .my pills."

"Pills?" Mickey asks. "For what?"

Ian clears his throat. "Ah, bipolar disorder."

Mickey's eyebrows creep up his forehead. "You're bipolar?" he asks.

Ian is comforted by his tone. It isn't shocked, or disgusted, or judgmental. It's just curious.

As if he's wondering why he didn't know this about Ian after spending the past five months with him.

"Yeah. Found out when I was like seventeen."

"Jesus. Well, are you supposed to take your meds now?"

"After breakfast," Ian says.

Mickey nods, more to himself than to Ian, and lets Ian continue cooking them breakfast.

After they finish, he takes it upon himself to place the pills in front of Ian with a glass of water before giving him a smile as he walks out the door.

May 18, 2015

"I think things are changing."

Fiona shakes her head, pursing her lips as she stares at her younger brother disapprovingly. Seeing him, looking so hopeful and bright and fucking happy with somebody who won't give Ian what he deserves just about kills her. But she can't say she's much better, because she can't bring herself to tell him that Mickey is toxic for him, that Ian needs to quit whatever fucked up relationship they have.

"Are they?" she asks, feigning interest.

Ian nods excitedly. "Yeah. He's kissing me regularly. Not like, when we aren't fucking, but still."

Fiona hums in acknowledgment and flips the page in her magazine.

"I think I might tell him I love him."

Fiona slams her magazine shut.

"No," she hisses. Ian is clearly taken by surprise, but Fiona couldn't care less. "Jesus, Ian, he's destroying you. He's ruining you and you don't even realize it because you've fallen in love with him!"

"But Fi—"

"No!" Fiona shouts. "I can't watch you like this anymore! It's been five months. And he's given you nothing! Fuck, we haven't even met him! He comes to your apartment and you fuck and you share a cigarette and then he's gone."

"He sleeps over now," Ian mumbles. "He kisses me. He doesn't care saying he's gay anymore. He hasn't fucked anyone since me." His voice is shaking and his hands are shaking and fucking everything is shaking, but he can't fucking help it.

"Ian. . ." Fiona says softly, her voice suddenly dropping from a scream to a low and desperate whisper. "Don't do this to yourself. Don't give yourself away to someone who won't even give you a fraction of himself." She wants to say so much but she knows Ian is already tuning her out. "He doesn't deserve you, Ian," she tells him. "He doesn't deserve half of you."

"I've already given him all of me."

"Then you need to take it back."

"I can't," Ian says. "I'm his. That's it. I'm his."

May 27, 2015

Ian has thought about this a lot. Telling Mickey he loves him, that is. He's thought about all the different ways he could do it. He could shake him awake gently and whisper it in his ear. He could say while he's deep inside him, thrusting and moaning Mickey's name in his ear, slipping those three words in between the broken sounds he lets escape his lips. He could say it right when Mickey wakes up. He could say it a million different ways and rehearse it a million different times, but whenever Mickey steps into his apartment, Ian remembers that no, Mickey doesn't want to be with him and no, Mickey doesn't love him back. So he just turns Mickey on his hands and knees and fucks him hard.

"You don't fuck me like you used to," Mickey comments one night.

Ian furrows his brow. "What do you mean?"

"You haven't made me face you in a while. You just turn me around and get right to."

He's right. Ever since his talk with Fiona, Ian hasn't been able to stand the sight of Mickey while he fucks him.

"You also don't let me blow you anymore."

That's also true. Seeing Mickey with his mouth full of Ian's length, blue eyes locked with his as he strokes him with his tongue, is sometimes even worse.

"Did I do something wrong?"

Ian crumbles. "God," he breathes out. "Fuck, no, Mickey. I didn't know you wanted me to fuck you like that."

Mickey shrugs, but Ian sees the look in his pale blue eyes. "It's no big deal," he says, but Ian hears the crack in his voice.

"Come here," Ian says, beckoning Mickey closer.

And when Mickey moves closer without question, Ian knows that even though Mickey doesn't love him, he feels a hell of a lot more for him than he did in the beginning.

June 6, 2015

Summer can get almost as unbearable as the winter in Chicago, but Ian loves it. He loves being able to get up at six a.m. and go for a run, burning off all his energy so he can reward himself with a long and hot shower when he gets home.

Mickey, on the other hand, hates it. He makes his hatred known as he comes storming through Ian's apartment one day at four in the afternoon, startling Ian, who's sprawled out on his couch flipping through the channels mindlessly. Mickey slams the door shut and starts unbuttoning his shirt, swearing and cursing the entire time. Ian just continues looking at him curiously.

"Mickey?" Ian asks, raising his eyebrows as he watches Mickey mutter unintelligibly as he continues undressing until he's wearing just his boxers. When he's done, he walks over to Ian and kicks his feet off the couch so he can sit down.

"It's fucking hot," Mickey says.

"I know."

"Like. . .it's really fucking hot."

"Why are you here now?"

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No."

"So don't ask stupid fucking questions."

"Jesus, Mick. Just tell me why you came here."

"It's hot."

"And?"

"You have a nice air conditioner. Mine's fucking broken."

"I didn't know that."

"You've never been to my apartment."

"That's not my fault."

"No, I wouldn't."

"So come over sometime."

"Are you inviting me over?"

"Fuck, Ian, yes, I'm inviting you over! Now, do you have cold beer?"

Ian doesn't stop smiling the entire time Mickey sits on his couch. He gets Mickey a cold beer and smiles even wider when Mickey says 'thank you'. He never says thank you, and to say it after such a small gesture is a thing that makes Ian's heart squeeze in on itself. He sits back down next to Mickey, a lot closer than they were before, and begins looking through the channels again.

"Did you come here for sex?" Ian asks.

"Fuck," Mickey says, "no. Is that really what you think of me?"

Ian doesn't know if Mickey's being sarcastic or not, so he doesn't answer.

It doesn't take long for Mickey to realize Ian isn't sure what to say.

He leans over and takes Ian's chin in his thumb and index finger, turning him to face him. "No," he says more seriously before pressing his lips to Ian's.

Ian is frozen but he's soaring inside.

He can't even lift his hands to tangle themselves into Mickey's hair before he's pulling back.

There's a comfortable silence that spreads between them as they watch television and drink beer, but Mickey breaks it with a question a few minutes later. "Do you think I can stay here for a bit until my air conditioner is fixed?"

Ian isn't able to do much else other than lean over and kiss Mickey, pushing him back into the couch so he's on top of him and his arms are on either side of Mickey's head, caging him in.

When he pulls back, he's breathless and smiling. "Yes," he says. "You can."

June 13, 2015

Mickey needs a new air conditioner and he doesn't seem to want to buy one. Ian has no problem with that. He loves having Mickey all to himself. For the first time since they started this thing, he feels like he's achieved some kind of balance with Mickey Milkovich, and he would like to keep the balance for as long as he can.

"I mean, a brand new air conditioner is a lot of fucking money," Mickey complains one night as he and Ian share a pizza for dinner. "And then I have to pay people to fucking install it because my father taught me how to deal drugs and snort a line of coke, but didn't fucking bother to teach me anything useful."

"What was your dad like?" Ian can't help but ask.

Mickey doesn't answer for a long time, chewing slowly as he thinks of his answer. "Well," he says, "he doesn't know I'm gay."

"Why not? Mandy knows, right? And your brothers?"

"Yeah. But they wouldn't kill me for it."

"Come on, Mick."

Mickey glares at him. "He caught me fucking another guy one time a few years back, you know," he says in a conversational kind of tone.

"And?" Ian asks, ripping his crust in two and popping one of the pieces in his mouth.

"He beat the shit out of both of us." He cocks his head to the side as he notices Ian's eyes flicker up towards him. "And then he hired a prostitute to 'fuck the faggot outta me'."

Ian has nothing to say.

He can't say anything without letting the pity he feels leak through his voice, and he knows Mickey hates pity.

So when he and Mickey finish their dinner, he clears away the box and throws away the paper plates they were eating off of. And then he walks over to Mickey, who's still sitting at the table and finishing off his bottle of beer, and grabs him by the collar of his shirt pushing him gently against the wall and kissing him roughly. One of his hands loosen itself from his shirt and takes his hair in his hand, moaning into his mouth. Mickey responds immediately, fumbling for something to put his beer down on, and settles for the bookshelf to his right. His hand automatically goes to Ian's crotch, but Ian smacks his hand away, pinning them up against the wall as he continues kissing him. Mickey is left breathless when Ian detaches their mouths and starts moving down his jawline to his neck and then lower, lower, until he's unbuckling Mickey's belt and pulling his cock out of his jeans and boxers.

He takes him into his mouth and Mickey lets out a sound that reminds Ian vaguely of someone choking on something, but he can barely be bothered with that because his only focus is making sure Mickey feels good. He strokes whatever he can't fit into his mouth with one hand and takes Mickey's hand in his other, lacing their fingers together. And yeah, Mickey would normally kill Ian for trying to pull that kind of shit with him, but he doesn't bother doing that tonight. Because, after all, he's allowed Mickey to invade his home, eat his food, and. . .well, Ian gives damn good head.

When Mickey finishes in Ian's mouth, he leans back with a very pleased grin on his face as he sees Mickey's dazed expression.

When Mickey gets his breath back, he starts to reach for Ian's shoulders so he can bring him up to kiss him, and Ian lets him. Their lips meet in a slow and sensual dance, tongues lazily twirling around each other and fingers running through each other's hair. No pulling, no tugging, just stroking. Hushed sighs fill the room and hands wander slowly down each other's bodies. Mickey tries to get at Ian's own cock, but Ian won't let him. He shakes his head against Mickey's mouth, letting out a shuddering sigh.

"No," he protests. "That was for you."

He leans back, separating their lips and taking great pleasure in the flushed and ragged look on Mickey's face. Mickey feels utterly shocked. For him? Because his dad hit him for being gay? That sounded weird and it made Mickey want to take it back, telling Ian about it, but he also feels. . .warm. Safe.

"Just. . ." Ian pauses. "Don't come to me with some kind of daddy kink. Because I'm sure it would be hot in theory, but I don't think I'd pull it off very well."

Mickey stares at him for a second or two before bursting out into deep laughter.

The sound comes from somewhere deep within Mickey, the kind of laugh that rings out true and honest, and it makes Ian smile like a madman.

"Stop looking at me like that, asshole," Mickey says as he makes his way to Ian's bedroom.

Ian follows him without question. "Or what?" he says, the smile on his face taking out the threat in his voice.

"Or I won't have sex with you for a week."

"Oh, please," Ian snorts. "You'd break after a day."

"Wanna bet?" Mickey challenges, raising an eyebrow.

. . .

They both break at the same time, when they wake up at three in the morning and find each other's bodies in the dark of Ian's room.

June 18, 2015

Life without Mickey is strange and lonely. He was only with him for a short time, not even a month, but it did things to Ian. It made him used to Mickey's constant presence, made him feel lighter than he had been feeling in months. Ever since he had realized that what he felt for Mickey was no longer lust and desire, or a strong fondness for him, but honest love, Ian had been feeling sick to his stomach and uneasy. Having Mickey living with him eased that ball of nerves inside him, made him feel safe and secure. He felt like Mickey really did want to be with Ian for a bit, especially in those few special nights when they wouldn't fuck. They would just lay in bed facing each other and Ian would trace his fingertips over Mickey's bare chest, causing him to shudder and eventually lull him to sleep.

But now that Mickey was no longer living with him, that same lonely feeling was creeping back up.

So when Mickey knocks on Ian's door on the day Ian has a day off and Mickey sure as hell knows it, the smile that breaks across Ian's face is wide enough to split his face in two.

"Jesus, Ian," Mickey said as he entered Ian's apartment. "Stop smiling like a freak."

"Happy to see you," he says nonchalantly.

Mickey pauses on his way to the living room, turning back with a quirked eyebrow. "Are you?" he asks, his tone light and playful and not at all like Ian would normally expect from him.

So Ian decides to take advantage of it and walks over to Mickey, wrapping his arms around his waist and pushing him against the wall. "Yep."

"Why's that?"

"Missed you since you're back in your apartment."

"My offer still stands."

"To come over?"

Mickey shrugs. "Air conditioner is working again. Don't see the harm."

"I'd like that," Ian says, smiling again.

When Mickey sees it, he rolls his eyes and pushes Ian back so he can walk away from him.

But Ian is quick, and he takes Mickey from behind, causing him to grunt in surprise.

"Jesus, Gallagher," Mickey sighs.

"Shut up," Ian says.

And Mickey listens because Ian's hand is inching towards his crotch and he doesn't want to distract him from that.

. . .

"We haven't smoked after sex in a while," Mickey realizes as he pulls out his pack from his discarded pair of jeans along with his lighter. He pops it in his mouth and lights it up, sighing in relief as he exhales the smoke.

"We haven't," Ian agrees as he takes it from Mickey's mouth. "Maybe we should quit."

Mickey snorts. "Nah, man. Been doing it too long to quit."

"People say the same thing about heroine."

"And they always relapse."

"People say the same thing about exes they loved too much."

Mickey looks over at Ian with hooded eyes. "And they always relapse," he repeats, his voice hushed.

Ian kind of hopes that, if they ever have some kind of fucked up version of a breakup, they'll relapse.

He knows it'll be painful and it'll hurt even worse than the first breakup, but he still kind of hopes for it.

June 23, 2015

Ian likes Mickey's apartment.

He likes it a lot more than he should, and he knows it, but fuck, he likes it here.

"Kitchen and dining room, living room, bathroom. . ." Mickey points out each room as they pass it, and when he reaches the last door at the end of the hall, he turns to Ian with a sly glint in his eye. "And most importantly, bedroom."

Ian gives him the same smirk Mickey is throwing in his direction and reaches behind Mickey to shove the door open, leaning forward as he does it and pressing his lips to Mickey.

They stumble backward into Mickey's room, throwing belts across the room and unbuttoning shirts clumsily all the way to the bed in the corner of the room.

"Have I ever told you my bed has a special power?" Mickey asks breathlessly as Ian attacks his jeans, fighting to get the button open.

"What's that?" Ian asks, and his voice is just as wrecked as Mickey's.

"It's guaranteed you'll have the best orgasm of your life in my bed," Mickey says cheekily.

Ian rolls his eyes at the cheesiness of his joke but kisses him anyway. "Wow, that's fantastic," he says, desperate to have his lips on Mickey's once again as he pushes him back on the bed.

And yeah, maybe Ian has a pretty damn good orgasm, but it probably has more to do with the way Mickey sighs his name when he comes.

. . .

Later that night, when they're watching the sparks of Mickey's cigarette die out at last, Ian is nearing sleep when a voice calls him back to consciousness.

"I fucking love you."

And he isn't sure if it was him or Mickey who said it, but he's already sleeping before he can think about it too much.

. . .

When Ian wakes up, Mickey is staring out his window, naked and smoking a cigarette. Ian stretches and rolls onto his side to prop his head with his elbow and look at Mickey.

"You're up," Mickey says without turning. His voice is shot to hell.

"Yeah," Ian says.

"I'm sorry about last night."

"Don't be," Ian says. But on the inside, he's fighting a war with himself. It had been Mickey who said it. Mickey said he loved him. Mickey loved him. "God fucking dammit, Mickey, don't be fucking sorry."

Mickey turns to look at Ian with a furrowed brow. "What?" he says, the word sharp and biting. He looks confused and upset and the hand that's holding the cigarette is shaking badly.

"Don't be sorry for saying you love me," Ian says slowly as he stands up from the bed, the sheets falling away from his naked body. "Don't be sorry for loving me, please."

"Why?"

"Because I love you, too."

"I don't want to," Mickey says.

And yeah, that should hurt, but Ian knows it's because of his dad, because of the years he spent hiding from himself.

"That's okay," he says.

"It shouldn't be okay," Mickey said. "You should hate me for that."

"Please," Ian snorts. "We've practically been dating for the past three months."

"Fuck off," Mickey said.

Ian kisses Mickey, and Mickey responds immediately, and that's how he knows he and Mickey will be okay.

. . .

Later that day when Mickey and Ian finish breakfast, Mickey sits by himself on the couch and Ian joins him.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Why not?"

"Because I already said it," Mickey says. "Isn't that enough?"

"More than enough," Ian responds, running his fingers through Mickey's hair. Mickey shudders into the touch and Ian smiles softly.

"I love you," Mickey whispers. "I love you. I fucking love you and it scares me."

"Why?"

"Because I spent my whole life believing I shouldn't love. That I shouldn't be loved. That I didn't deserve it."

"I love you," Ian said.

"Why?"

"Because you're rude and you're inappropriate and you smoke too many cigarettes a day and you've got those tattoos across your knuckles that I'd love to kiss if you'd let me one day. Because you're Mickey Milkovich and I'm Ian Gallagher and we spent six fucking months doing nothing more than fucking but the entire time. . .we were just coming together."

"Way to sound fucking cheesy," Mickey mutters, but Ian sees the smile ghosting across his lips.

"I love you," Ian sighs again and Mickey leans into the sound, eyes closing and his head dropping to Ian's shoulder.

"Are you gonna keep wanting me?" Mickey asked, nerves flying through his voice as he spoke.

"Of course I am, dumbass," Ian snorts.

"Good," Mickey says, avoiding Ian's eyes as he begins playing with his long fingers. "Because I don't think I'll stop wanting you."

. . .

If you got to the end of this fic, thank you so much for reading the whole thing! I'm sure you'll feeling pretty tired, and if you're anything like me, pretty damn emotional. (Then again, I get emotional over, like, everything, so don't feel obligated to feel emotional.) This fic was written in a short amount of time, but damn, I cried eight thousand times while writing it. I want to personally thank Halsey, Lana del Rey, and Lorde because I listened to every single song by them in a playlist on my Spotify. I also want to thank the playlist Fuck Yeah Feminism by rachb97 on 8tracks because I listened to that, too, in the final hours of writing this, for some reason? It has nothing to do with the fic, but it really got me writing, so thank you!

And thank you to every single person who read this until the very end. Jesus, you guys are great. I hope you liked it, and that you tell me you liked it in the comments below!