It's dark, and the body beneath him is writhing as his tongue paints Picasso along the skin.
"Fuck, Ian, don't st-...ugh." And then the body underneath him is shuddering and clutching at the sheets and it makes Ian smirk. There's a silent kind of power that comes with being able to render someone useless with just your tongue.
The hands below him are grasping up at him and pulling him in for a kiss. The motion makes him falter; his mind needing to be warned that the lips seeking his aren't the ones whose taste is branded onto his tongue.
After a breath, he brings his lips to touch the awaiting ones below him, and is greeted with a groan and more grasping hands. Not wanting to be a completely selfless lover, Ian flips the man beneath him over and begins trail his tongue down the track of knobs until he licks the spot that makes the spine arch.
"Ian, go. I'm good. Come on. Get on me."
The words are frighteningly familiar and Ian freezes as he enters the man with the arched back and sour lips. Something behind his eyes rattles again, and the boy beneath him is suddenly marked in tattoos and dirt and demanding that Ian move.
Ian shakes his head quickly, to get rid of the rattling, but the movement only shifts the focus, and all he can see now are blue eyes hidden behind focused brows, a head thrown back, neck exposed, and hands gripping. It's like a re-enactment of his favorite scene from his favorite movie, and if you didn't know what you were looking for, you could mistake it for the original.
But Ian has memorized every scene from a time when the boy under him had been full of tattoos and sweat, to know that the space just below the jaw that is currently clenched beneath him won't fit his nose and will smell too sweet and cigarette free.
And the skin – even though the skin below him is flawless and clean, Ian has never felt dirtier.
"Shit, Ian. That was great." The man, James, has collapsed on his side and is biting his lip in satisfaction. His skin is unmarked and his hair is perfectly dishevelled and if Ian hadn't spent the last year and a half trying to find the cure for the agonizing ache that happened every time his heart beat in his chest, this man in his bed next to him would be perfect.
He is perfect, and for a moment Ian feels guilty. Because this man with a steady job and handsome face likes holding Ian's hand in public and just last week kissed him on the subway for no reason at all. He is perfect and Ian knows that his twelve-year old self would have been ecstatic to have someone like James want to be with him.
But somehow, now it's the slightly broken things that hold the most beauty to Ian.
"Ian. I have something to ask you." There's a curiosity in James' voice and it makes Ian weary. It's too late for this, and he refuses to open his eyes.
"Hmm?" It's as non-committal of a sound that Ian can muster.
"My parents are having their 65th wedding anniversary next weekend. Their friends are hosting a party up in the Hamptons. I was wondering if you wanted to come."
Ian doesn't know what to say. Because it's barely been two months with James and it had taken Mickey light years longer to even consider looking at him in the eyes when they fucked. And here was James asking Ian to meet his parents with the same nonchalance one would have when placing a food order.
But because he already feels guilty about fucking James with his face pressed hard into the pillow, just so he didn't have to look into eyes that didn't reflect the sky, he agrees, "Of course. What should I get them?"
"Just come. I really want you to meet everyone." James' face is illuminated by the blinking neon of the vacancy sign outside and Ian can see his teeth through his smile in the dark. It bears a striking resemblance to the Cheshire cat.
"Ok."
As Ian turns around and faces the door while James lies next to him staring up at the ceiling, he tries to remember the last time he craved wrapping his arms around another body after sex. It certainly hasn't happened with James.
"Jesus, Ian, I didn't realize how many cracks were in your ceiling before. We should think about moving you out of this apartment. I don't know how you live like this. You're lucky I like you so much." His voice is chiding and carries a slight undertone of judgement.
Ian refrains from responding, the overwhelming feeling of apprehension numbing him to sleep.
"What you wanna fuckin' cuddle Gallagher? What are we, a couple of bitches? Nah, get off me man."
Mickey's already wound up again and antsy so soon after sex, and Ian doesn't know whether to find it endearing or sad that the only time he can get Mickey to relax is when he's pushing himself into the older boy.
Mickey tries to push past Ian to reach for his pack of cigarettes on the bench, but Ian doesn't back down easily, at least not this time. He holds his ground, and presses his body into the curve of Mickey's spine. His head finds the space that he thinks- no, he knows- was designed just for him, and places a soft kiss against the sensitive skin beneath Mickey's ear.
Ian can't be sure if the ragged breath he hears Mickey exhale isn't just his imagination.
"Come on man, get off me. I brought us something we could smoke." And then the moment has passed, and Ian is left with nothing but cold and empty summer space between his arms.
It's the worst kind of empty that Ian has ever felt, and he's trying to wipe the disappointment from his face, when an arm suddenly appears around his waist. The skin is hot and the weight of the limb anchors his flittering pulse back into something steady. He's so warm and Ian knows it can't just be because it's summer. It's a warmth that arrests his movements and slithers through – It's too warm.
Ian's too warm and unexpectedly awake and the arm wrapped around his waist does not lead to tattooed hands. He can understand the feeling Dorothy must have felt when she made it to the end of her yellow brick road.
The skin isn't pale enough and the feeling is all wrong. And now Ian is not only too warm, but irritated as well. He climbs out of bed, louder than he should and makes his way into the bathroom.
He reaches to open the cabinet where bottles stand like soldiers ready for inspection. He chases the pills down with a palm full of water before he makes his way into the kitchen, where Mandy is already pouring two cups of coffee.
"James stay over last night?" Ian can tell she's trying to come off as casual, but it sounds more disapproving than anything.
"Yup." He doesn't miss the way her eyes roll and her head slightly shakes. "What is it Mands?"
"Nothing. I didn't say anything." But her eyes are holding something sad, and it makes Ian wonder if she'll ever admit to him that she knew about Mickey.
"Doesn't look like nothing."
"Drop it Ian. It's nothing."
He's about to retort, when he hears his phone ring in the bedroom, and then just as clear as the ringtone had been, he hears James' voice float from the bedroom, "Hello, this is Ian's phone."
"Oh, hello, I'm sorry this is James. And may I ask who is calling?"
Mandy's eyes have doubled in size, and Ian is sure his face mirrors her expression. They're both standing at the counter faces frozen, and unsure of how to approach the situation, when James walks into the kitchen with Ian's phone.
"Morning babe! Some girl named Fiona is calling for you, should I tell her you'll call her back?"
Ian doesn't miss the incredulous look that takes over Mandy's face. She had never been very good at poker.
"No, I'll take it." And before James can say another word to him, or Fiona, Ian swipes the phone out of his hand and walks towards the door, "Hey Fi, sorry about that."
"What the fuck was that? Do you have a personal assistant that I don't know about Ian? I'm all about you and Lip getting out of the Southside, but I'm your sister, and I will not be put on hold."
Ian can't help but smile. Even after all of this time, Fiona refuses to acknowledge that she is more than a sister to him and his siblings – instead insists on acting like she is still like one of them and not some volun-told matriarch of their family.
"That's James, Fi. He's just a guy I've been…seeing, I guess."
"Oh. Weird. Why was he picking up your phone?"
"Me and Mandy were wondering the same thing."
"Hmm. Sounds like a real keeper Ian," Fiona's sarcasm isn't lost on Ian, but he decides to let it go.
"How're Liam and Carl and Debbie?"
"They're good; they're excited to see you over Christmas. You're coming home right?"
"If I can afford the tickets, I will Fi." He had missed last year's Christmas, albeit he had missed a lot of last year. Last year was simply fragmented memories held together by cheap scotch tape.
"Ok. Lip's coming home too. He was accepted into that Graduate program at MIT for after he finishes his degree, did he tell you?"
"No, we haven't spoken in a few weeks." Ian could taste the lie bitter on his tongue. They actually hadn't spoken since the hospital nine months ago. Lip had been furious, his hair wild from his hands constantly combing themselves through it.
"Well you can talk to him when you come home. You should bring Mandy too."
"Ok, I'll let her know." It is still odd to him, having Fiona so accepting of a Milkovich, but he figures she is just grateful that there is someone there to live with him – to look out for him.
"How are you today bud?" And then the routine question. Ian's not smiling so easily anymore.
"Good."
"Ian."
"I'm good Fi."
"I can do this dance a lot longer than you Ian."
"I'm good."
"FIONA – Just wait, Ian – Debbie, I'm on the phone, stop yelling. – IS THAT IAN?! – Yea, Debbs-HI IAN! – Debbie, jesus, stop shouting – BYE IAN. FIONA I'M LEAVING, I'LL BE HOME LATE, GOT A DATE." And with that Ian hears the door slam and Fiona let out an exasperated sigh through the phone.
"A date huh?"
"I don't even know. She went out at 8 am on a Sunday last week in hooker heels and a mini skirt. It was like 10 degrees outside."
"Hmm."
"I'm glad you're doing well Ian. James sounds like a tool. Tell Mandy about Christmas."
"Love you too, Fi."
"Same time tomorrow?"
"Same time."
He walks back into the kitchen to see James and Mandy in some awkward staring contest that reminds Ian more of Wild West showdown than an awkward morning after encounter– one with coffee cups and a lot less clothing.
James is first to break the silence, "So, Ian, babe, I don't have to work today and was thinking we could get some breakfast and spend the day together before you go to work tonight?"
Ian is overwhelmingly grateful for Mandy and her promotion, "I'm sorry man, I have plans with Mandy tonight, and so I took the earlier shift instead."
And that's all that he should have said, but his tongue is still moving, and it's though he's on the puppet end of some incredibly sadistic ventriloquist, "But you should come out tonight, I could use the company. I'll text you the address."
He can feel Mandy's eyes on him, and he feels bad for her; anymore surprises today and her eyes will surely not have sockets to fit into anymore.
"Sure Ian, count me in,"
It's only when James finally leaves their apartment, that Mandy recites the dialogue that partially explains her bug-eyed state.
"What the actual fuck Ian? I invited you. I did not invite James." The atmosphere no longer reminds Ian of the Wild West, but instead of the nightmare that is Mandy before coffee.
"Mands, I'm sorry. But, he's my guest, and I'll entertain him. I don't really understand why you dislike him so much."
"REALLY?! Really? Come on Ian, he couldn't be further from your type."
"And what exactly is my type Mands."
"You – just forget it Ian."
"No really. Enlighten me, what is so terribly wrong with James?" Ian doesn't really understand why he's defending the guy, it's not like he doesn't agree with Mandy.
But, it's this silent game of tug of war that they've been having for the last week that Ian wants to end. Neither of them has spoken the name since that night nearly eight months ago, as if releasing it from their mouths could poison the air.
"Are you actually serious? What's wrong with him? Where should I start?" Her eyes have officially outgrown their sockets, and Ian feels only slightly guilty about going through this amount of trouble to hear someone other than himself mutter the name his ears yearn to hear," He thinks he's better than you Ian, he wants you out of this neighbourhood, you're not good enough for him the way that you are."
"At least he holds my hands in public Mandy! Fuck, last night he invited me to meet his parents- at their 65TH FUCKING ANNIVERSERY!? What's so wrong with that?"
"Grow the fuck up Ian; you and I both know you're his project that needs fixing. And when you're all shined up and new, he'll be expecting to be praised and thanked for being such a selfless person. He thinks you need to be fixed Ian."
"At least he cares enough about me to- "
"Shut up Ian, seriously, if you can't see it –"
"Can't see what Mandy? Tell me-"
"HE'S NOT MICK-"She doesn't finish the word, but Ian doesn't care, it's enough. The rattling in his brain has settled slightly from hearing just the single syllable.
All the air in the room has been removed with the sharp intake of Mandy's shocked breath.
"Ian, I-"
"It's fine Mandy."
"No, seriously, there are some things that you should know –"
"Not right now ok?"
"Ok." Mandy's eyes have returned to their normal size, but there is still a sadness behind them that frightens Ian, "I don't think you need fixing Ian."
"I know Mands. I know."
"Are you still coming tonight?"
"Mands, don't be stupid. Of course I am. Stop frowning. Seriously, we just haven't had an argument in ages – it's healthy. And I needed to hear you say his name. Come here."
She looks so guilty and worried, and for an instant she reminds Ian of the little girl that used to wait with him at school when Monica would forget to come and get him. But she's wrapped in his hug, and he's curious, "When did you know?"
"When did I know what?"
"About Mickey," the name on his tongue reminds Ian of velvet and sin. And he wonders what would happen if he were to ever see the owner of the name again.
"Two years ago."
"He told you?!"
"Um. Not really."
"You saw us?!"
"Do you really want to know the story Ian?"
"I don't know."
"Do you love him?"
"I'm trying not to."
"With James?"
"I guess." And Mandy is nodding, as if the answer is sufficient enough. But he knows, that she knows, that James is no Mickey, and Ian wonders if has committed himself to a lifetime of comparing his lovers to a tattooed boy with marked up skin.