Chapter 5:

"Ian , you are my hero," Rachel said, dramatically on the other end of the phone on Sunday afternoon. "Honestly, I can't thank you enough for this."

"It's okay," Ian told her falling back against the pillows on his bed.

It wasn't okay. He was as nervous as hell. He had spent the entire morning fidgeting and trying to concentrate on homework and housework, but he could not get his mind off the party.

"Ian , are you sure you want to do this?" Mercedes, who was over at Rachel's house, asked.

"Of course," Ian told her. "It's terrible that they would read someone's personal diary aloud for all to hear."

"But, why would they ask you?" Mercedes asked, sceptically. "And Mickey Milkovich, of all people. You don't think it's some kind of.. trap?"

Ian had already contemplated that, but every time someone was friendly to him, he automatically assumed they were setting him up. Sometimes, you just had to take that chance.

"It's nothing I can't handle," Ian said, hoping he sounded convincing.

Ian had never gone to a real party. The last party he had been at had been when he was 9 and some kid invited the entire class to his birthday party. There had been a clown and bouncy castle. This was going to be very different, he imagined, though with Iggy erman, who knew?

"Are you sure?" Mercedes said.

Ian took a deep breath and shut his eyes tight, that feeling of dread still swimming around in the pit of his stomach. He opened his eyes and exhaled, his shoulders dropping, then spoke.

"I'm sure."

"What's the heck is Gallagher doing here?" Karofsky growled next to Mickey.

Iggy erman's house was dark and filled with people. Loud music thumped in Mickey's ears, the room was warm and stuffy, people shouting and laughing and talking loudly. He turned to look in the direction that Karofsky was scowling and saw Ian lingering by the door. He was wearing a greyish vest, with a long sleeved, white shirt underneath. His pants were dark and tightly-fitted, but beyond that Mickey couldn't see much more.

"I invited him," he said, out loud.

Karofsky, Iggy and Azimio turned their shell-shocked gazes on him. Mickey shrugged, trying to play unhinged.

"I thought we could have a little fun with him later."

The guys nodded and laughed and Iggy high-fived him. He hoped they would forget about Ian later. Mickey planned on getting far too drunk to remind them, anyway. If he was sober, he felt as if he would have to remind them, because they would bring it up the following day. Mickey didn't care that it was a school night, he just needed to stop being aware of everything around him just for a little while.

He sipped a can of beer for the first hour or so, as he listened to his friends chatting away. His eyes kept searching through the crowds, past the colliding bodies and through the darkness, searching out that coiffed hair and pale, pale skin. Ian had disappeared out of Mickey's view for a long time. He wondered if he had gone home. Then he saw him.

Mickey extended his neck a little to see where Ian was heading and it turned out he was walking upstairs. Mickey watched a moment, then waved his half-full can at his friends, signalling that he was going to get another. He stood up, a little dizzy and crossed the room, people moving out of his way. He laid the can down on a small table and began climbing the stairs, taking small, cautious steps, because even Mickey Milkovich would get laughed at if he fell.

When he reached the top, he looked around. It was fairly empty, apart from a guy passed out by the bathroom door. Mickey turned the small corner and looked down the long hallway. Ian stood there, tugging on a door handle.

"It's locked," he told him.

Ian looked up quickly, blue eyes widening. His face relaxed when he saw it was just Mickey. Mickey walked towards him.

"That's Iggy 's parents' room. He locks it during parties," Mickey confirmed. Ian gave him a small nod. "What are you doing, anyway?"

"Iggy stole Rachel's diary," he explained. "I'm only here to get it back."

Mickey stared at him for a long time. He felt sort of hurt and he couldn't make out why.

"Is that the only reason you came?"

Ian paused, then nodded his head, quickly.

"Yes," he affirmed. "Do you know where it is? Rachel's diary?"

He was about to shrug, tell him it had nothing to do with him, ask him why he should help him, but he didn't. He sighed and turned around, gesturing for Ian to follow him. He lead him to Iggy erman's bedroom. He kept the key on top of the door frame. Mickey reached up onto his tippy toes and pulled the key down, before opening the door. He walked in, Ian following and closed the door behind them. Iggy 's dark, little room was a mess. Clothes were everywhere, shoes covering the floor, his bed unmade. Mickey saw Ian twist his face in disgust as he kicked a pair of boxers with the toe of his combat boot.

"It should be in here," Mickey said, tugging Iggy 's closet door open. Clothes weren't hanging up inside, but thrown on the floor, more shoes under them. "It might take you a while to find it, but this is where he keeps, like, everything."

Ian moved forward, eyes darting around, making sure he wasn't about to stand on something disgusting. Mickey eyed him for a moment. His pants were super tight. Mickey couldn't take his eyes off of them. They left very little to the imagination and Mickey couldn't understand how Ian managed to go through life in pants so tight. Surely it was uncomfortable, painful even.

He tore his gaze away, realising he was staring at Ian 's ass.

"Well, I'm going back downstairs," he declared. "You go on inside and find Berry's stupid diary. I'll contact you if Iggy or anyone comes upstairs."

"Thanks," Ian muttered, kicking a shoe this time.

Mickey watched him for another couple of heartbeats, his eyes going to those incredibly tight pants again. He shook his head and chuckled.

"How ironic that I'm sending you inside a closet," he said, before leaving the room.

He stood outside the door, simply breathing for what felt like a long time, then went back downstairs, taking the kitchen route to visit the refrigerator before joining his friends again.

Mickey was going to pump himself full of alcohol, because he just didn't need to be thinking about Ian , or his parents, or anything any more. Maybe it was a bad idea, what with how sickly he was feeling lately, but he disregarded that. Right now, he just didn't want to care.

"You're such an asshole! I can't believe you would do this!" Ian walked closer to the back door, so that he could get a better listen to what Quinn Fabray was yelling at Mickey. "How much did you even drink? I can't take you home with me now, you know! I can't bring an alcoholic into my house, my dad will freak! You're such an asshole, Mickey!"

Mickey was sighing, sounding more tired than mad.

"I'm not an alcoholic," he said, words slurring.

"You know what else?" Quinn went on. "Your dad is going to kill you when you go home in this state and you deserve it! I hope it hurts, Mickey, when he's beating you up, because you deserve it! How could you do this to me?"

Ian widened his eyes. He wondered if that was Mickey's secret, that his dad was abusive. He pressed his back to the wall next to the door and listened carefully.

"You're no fun," Mickey told her.

"Maybe if you'd stayed fucking sober you would have seen just how fun I am when we got back to my house!"

Ian wrinkled his nose. That was an image he did not need.

"Quinn," Mickey said, tiredly. "Quinn, you suck!"

Ian felt the corners of his mouth tilting upwards as Quinn groaned in exasperation.

"You know what, Mickey?" she snapped. "You suck. I don't know what I'm doing with you. We've barely done a thing over the past few weeks and you've been acting really weird. Look at you! You're a mess!"

"Where are you going?" Ian heard Mickey sighing again.

"To find a real man, because clearly you're not capable of giving me what I deserve!"

Ian moved back into the corner and watched as Quinn stormed through the kitchen and walked back through the doorway to the living room. She was kind of scary when she was mad. She looked a bit psychotic. He waited a minute, then walked outside, to find Mickey sprawled on the grass with his back against the wall. The air was cool against his clammy skin and he felt relieved to be out of the crowds. He went closer and frowned at Mickey, who looked up and smiled, eyes half closed.

"Having fun?" he asked.

"A blast," Ian said, rolling his eyes. "She's right, you know. You sort of are a mess." Ian smiled slightly.

Mickey shrugged a bit. The top button of his shirt was undone and his hair was a mess. His curls were coming astray and the gel wasn't helping any more.

"She doesn't understand me," he stuttered, eyes closing.

Ian frowned again, before extending a hand. Mickey eyed it and looked up at him questioningly through half-lidded eyes.

"I'm getting you out of here before you do something dumb," Ian explained. He shouldn't be helping Mickey Milkovich, the guy that made him dread going to school every day, but he saw something in Mickey that he didn't see in the others and he figured everyone deserved a chance. Part of him wanted to hate him, but he couldn't do it.

A moment later, Mickey allowed Ian to pull him to his feet. He slung one of Mickey's arms over his shoulder and gripped his other arm in his hands. Ian lead him back into the house. Iggy was standing by the refrigerator with his arms folded when they walked inside.

"What are you doing, Gallagher?" he asked, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

"Taking him home," Ian told him. "He's out of his mind."

"Why are you taking him home?"

"Because it looks as if I'm the only sober one here?" Ian made it a question.

"Oh," Iggy nodded. "Oh, yeah."

"Iggy , this is the best party ev-ever!" Mickey yelled at Iggy .

Iggy , who wasn't as drunk as Mickey, but still drunk nevertheless, smiled goofily and gave Mickey a weak high five. Ian rolled his eyes and tugged Mickey through the crowds in the living room, then out the front door. He bundled Mickey into the passenger seat of his car, clipped his seatbelt into place, then got in his own side. Mickey was humming something that Ian couldn't quite make out.

"Are we going to Narnia?"

Ian turned and looked at Mickey as if he had just grown three heads and a beak and ignored that. He turned away, shaking his head and started to drive. Mickey continued to hum something that probably wasn't even a real song, while Ian tried to come up with a plan. He didn't know what to do with Mickey. He didn't want to take him home because of what Quinn had said about his dad, but he couldn't just leave him on the side of the street.

"Mickey, is there anywhere you can go?"

"I can go to the moon," Mickey said, gazing out the window and up at the opalescent moon high in the sky. His eyes were wide and filled with wonderment, the moon light reflected in them.

Ian raised an eyebrow and decided not to ask any more questions. Clearly, alcohol caused Mickey's mind to become occupied by a five year old girl. He wondered briefly what he had gotten himself into and questioned himself as to why he was helping him out. But Ian couldn't just leave him there, he just couldn't. He would feel guilty about it later. There was only one place Ian could think of that he could take Mickey.

Mickey was humming and Ian was driving and every now and then Mickey would say something senseless and Ian would agree, whilst stifling his laughter. Finally, Ian stopped the car.

"Wh-where are we?" Mickey asked, sounding a bit dazed.

"My house."

By the time Ian had dragged Mickey into his room, which was situated in the basement, Mickey was more in a state of passing out than giddy enthusiasm. Ian threw him down on his bed, feeling awkward, because he was not going to share a bed with another guy tonight, especially not Mickey Milkovich. Ian decided he would make a bed up on the small couch for himself, because Mickey had already curled himself into the pillows on his bed. He crossed the room and opened his closet, pulled a blanket and extra pillow out, then went towards the couch. He laid the blanket down and then the pillow, before pulling Rachel's small diary from the inside pocket of his vest and laying it down on his desk.

"Ian ."

Ian swung around to find Mickey sitting up on his bed, eyes opened and searching the room.

"Mickey, go to sleep."

"My head hurts," he groaned.

Ian sighed and went into the bathroom. He came back out, holding a glass of water and some paracetamol. He went and sat down next to Mickey. He handed him the glass and then the pills.

"Take these."

Mickey asked no questions, simply threw the pills into his open mouth, then swallowed them down with the water. Ian stood up and took the glass from him, because he looked as if he might drop it, then walked across the room and laid it down on his desk.

"How do you walk?"

"What?" Ian asked, as he walked back to sit down.

"In those pants," Mickey said, gaze dropping to Ian 's legs.

Ian blushed and quickly moved to take a seat on the edge of his bed.

"Used to it," he shrugged.

"But they're s-so tight," he said. "Your legs must be screaming!"

Ian smiled at that.

"Well, I bet your hair spends most of its time screaming," Ian teased. "You wear a lot of gel."

"I don't like my curls," Mickey pouted, sounding like a toddler.

"I like your curls better than the slick gel-do," Ian smiled, softly, counting his blessings that Mickey probably wouldn't remember this conversation come morning.

"When I pinch them," Mickey said, leaning across and attempting to pinch the material of Ian 's jeans near his knee. Ian jerked back a little bit at Mickey's touch. "It's like pinching air. They're so tight!"

"Right," Ian said, standing up. "I'll be right back, I'm gonna change."

"Out of the tight pants?"

"Out of the tight pants," he affirmed. "Do you want to change?"

"No," Mickey said, lying back and curling himself into a fetal position.

Ian rolled his eyes and went to his closet. He pulled out some pyjama pants and a t-shirt, then went into the bathroom. He changed, then went back into his room. When he walked out, Mickey was sitting with his legs crossed on Ian 's bed, reading something.

"Is that Rachel's diary?" Ian exclaimed, rushing forward to get a closer look.

"Rachel Berry's not a good girl," Mickey said, in a sing-song voice.

Ian resisted the urge to lean over Mickey's shoulder and read what apparently made her not a 'good girl'. Instead, he snatched the small book from Mickey's hands and closed it.

"Read it, read it, read it!" Mickey grinned, clapping his hands, like a trained seal.

Ian rolled his eyes and sighed.

"This," he held up the diary in the air. "Is Rachel's private property. It is completely wrong that either of us read this!"

"She's having sex with Finn Hudson, though," Mickey said, the bridge of his nose crinkling. Ian widened his eyes, then stopped himself, because he wasn't about to gossip with Mickey Milkovich about his friend. "Who would have sex with Finn Hudson?"

"He's her boyfriend," Ian provided, standing up and slipping the diary into his drawer, out of Mickey's reach.

"But Finn Hudson," Mickey wrinkled his nose. "Finn Hudson used to be on the football team, then he joined glee club and turned gay."

"He's dating Rachel, Mickey, he's not gay," Ian rolled his eyes. "And joining glee club doesn't turn you gay."

"You're gay," Mickey pointed out.

"I was gay before I joined glee club," Ian told him. He found himself asking what he'd gotten himself into not for the first time that day.

He walked to his dresser and sat down and began his daily skin care regimen.

"What are you doing?" Mickey asked, scooting over so that his legs hung over the edge of the bed. Ian eyed him through the mirror.

"Moisturising," he apprised him.

"Why?"

"Because I don't want pores," he explained. "And it makes your skin softer."

"It does?"

Ian nodded and wished Mickey would go to sleep, so that the night could just end and they could go back to their strained friendship, consisting of hating each other and then sort of liking each other, tomorrow.

Mickey stood up and fell over his own feet. He reached out and clutched Ian 's dresser to stop himself from falling flat on his face. Ian smiled and watched as Mickey pulled himself to his feet.

"What are you doing?" Ian asked Mickey, who was now staring down at him, smiling like an idiot.

"C-can you make my skin soft and not have pores?"

Ian raised a thin brow and studied Mickey, trying to make out just what this boy was all about. Didn't they say that drunkenness brought out the truth? Was this the true Mickey? A soppy, childish, adorable—

Adorable?

He shook his head and pretended he hadn't just thought that.

"Fine," Ian stood up and pushed Mickey down into the chair by the shoulders. Mickey was grinning, his eyes half-lidded.

Ian squeezed some of the cream into the palm of his hand and took some on his fingers. He used the side of his hand, the one that had the pool of cream in it, to push Mickey's curls back from his forehead. With the other hand, he placed small blobs of moisturiser onto various areas of Mickey's face. He then began to massage them in. Mickey's skin was already ridiculously smooth. Mickey had to have his own skin care regimen, there was no way that was natural.

Mickey's smile had faded. He was watching Ian with an almost intense gaze, his lips together, eyes narrowed slightly. Ian felt heat spreading up the back of his neck as he continued to smear the cream across Mickey's skin, those golden syrup eyes watching him intently. He felt his pulse speeding up when his fingers went closer to Mickey's lips. He felt Mickey's breath warm and slow against his skin, lingering there, then the cool air was sweeping back in and ridding it of the warmth.

When Ian had finished, he pulled away, slowly, then wiped his hands with a piece of tissue paper. Mickey's hazel eyes never left his face. Ian felt uneasy because this was Mickey Milkovich and he wasn't supposed to be feeling uneasy around Mickey Milkovich for those reasons.

"Um," Ian shook his head and turned away from Mickey. "It's late and a school night, we should go to bed."

Mickey stood up then and almost fell again. Ian moved forward and caught Mickey's arms before he could hit the floor. Mickey looked up at him and Ian could only stare back. Mickey's arms were well-built, Ian realised. He was a jock, after all, but Ian hadn't expected this, because Mickey was so small. But he could feel the flex of his bicep, the muscles tight and strong against his finger tips. This was not good.

He walked Mickey over to the bed and set him down on it, then began to turn away to go to the made-up bed on the couch, but Mickey reached out and caught his arm.

"Ian ," he said in an almost whisper.

Ian swallowed hard at the sound of his name coming from Mickey's lips in that hushed tone. He felt that familiar clenching and unclenching in the pit of his stomach, as he felt himself go semi-hard. Why in the name of all that was holy was he getting hard because of Mickey Milkovich? Sure, he was pretty cute, but Mickey was a jerk most of the time and Ian didn't like him, not like that, anyway. He gave Mickey a questioning look. Mickey simply pulled him down to sit next to him. Ian crossed his legs, hoping to conceal what had to be a very prominent bulge. He didn't dare look down.

"Ian , are you drunk?"

"No," he told him.

"Why not?"

"I don't like alcohol," he shrugged.

"But don't you like the feeling of getting away from everything? Just for a little while? Don't you just want everything to fuck off just for a little while?"

Ian smiled, sadly. Mickey was drinking to forget—or to escape, he guessed.

"It'll all still be there when you sober up," he said, matter-of-factly.

"But just for a little while, it's gone, all of it, just—gone," Mickey said, dreamily. "You just get to be whoever you want to be and you don't have to care!"

"That's nice, Mickey," Ian smiled and tried to stand up, but Mickey clutched his arm again and pushed him back into a seated position.

"Don't you think it would be nice not to care, Ian ?" he asked, a little breathlessly. "Even if it doesn't last forever, don't you want to just let loose for a bit? To just do whatever the fuck you want?"

Ian chuckled, because Mickey looked ecstatically happy at that moment, happier than he had ever seen him and it was still a nice thing to see a good-looking boy smiling. Mickey inched closer and grinned into Ian 's face, his golden brown eyes canopied by the thick sweep of his long, full lashes.

"Do you know what you should do, Ian ?" Mickey asked.

"What?" he asked, a little breathlessly, feeling heat climbing up the back of his neck. Mickey was far too close.

Mickey's breath was warm on his skin again and Ian really needed to stand up or he was going to end up coming in his pants, in front of and because of Mickey Milkovich, thus becoming completely humiliated. But he couldn't move, not while Mickey's bright eyes were looking at him like that and not while his rose-coloured lips were so pretty in the light of the moon slipping through the blinds.

"You should kiss me until you're drunk."

Ian froze. Had Mickey really just said that?

"I should do wha—"

"Come on, Ian ," Mickey breathed against Ian 's lips, his big eyes flicking back and forth between Ian 's lips and eyes. "Get drunk on my kisses. Take some of my drunk. Kiss me and get drunk and just—just forget the world and stuff."

Ian couldn't think. Everything was happening far too quickly. Mickey's hot gaze was not helping matters either. He tried to breathe, tried to think, but Mickey's lips were coming closer now and he shouldn't have wanted to do this, but he did.

"Kiss me until you're drunk," Mickey repeated, in the softest, slowest whisper Ian had ever encountered and then Mickey's lips were pressing down over his own and he lost all control and ability to think sensibly, because all that meant anything was Mickey kissing him like he needed him, like he wanted him and sometimes, all Ian craved was for someone to want him.

Mickey was hovering over him now, his kisses more hungry, not as cautious and controlled as the first had been. They were sloppy, too, because Mickey was so drunk. His lips and tongue tasted like alcohol, that strong, bitter, tangy taste that Ian disliked so much. But Mickey's mouth against his own wasn't unpleasant in the least. Nor were Mickey's fingers tracing lines along the hollows of his hip bones.

Ian gasped against Mickey's lips when cold fingers slipped beneath his shirt and touched his bare skin. He could feel Mickey's heart beat against his chest, thumping just as hard and as fast as his own. As if on instinct, Ian raised his hands to entwine his fingers in Mickey's damp curls, wanting more from him, wanting him to keep on kissing him, even though he knew it was something he most definitely should not want. Ian started to wonder if maybe his Coke had been spiked at the party. Mickey had told him to kiss him until he was drunk. He certainly felt drunk and his actions certainly complied with the idea of being spiked.

He felt Mickey shift above him and then his hips were lowering to meet Ian 's. Ian went still when he felt Mickey's hard on through his jeans, pressing against his thigh. He hoped to God Mickey couldn't feel his erection, though he probably could. He was so close and Ian was so hard and all he wanted to do was tear his pants away and relieve himself.

Ian told himself to push Mickey away, to tell him that they shouldn't—couldn't— do it and he almost did tell him that, but then Mickey's fingers skirted lower and his other hand was toying with the waistband of Ian 's pants and he lost it, lost the ability to think properly, his mind clouded, his body full of need and want and so many other things he couldn't put a name to with Mickey's mouth trailing along his jaw and then lingering by his ear like that.

"Want you," he hissed and Ian shivered.

He couldn't deny the fact that he wanted Mickey, too, because Mickey was doing things to him, things that he couldn't explain, things he had never felt before. He gave in, then. He couldn't fight, he wanted this and it seemed as if Mickey did, too. Mickey was incredibly drunk and straight and had a girlfriend, but Ian didn't care, he would deal with all that tomorrow. Right now, Mickey's hands were pushing his pants lower and his lips were trailing along his neck and he was making small humming sounds and beyond that, Ian didn't know anything else, nor did he care about anything else.

He opened his eyes and the cool air hit his legs and suddenly his pants were gone. He glanced down and saw that Mickey's shirt was gone. How had he done that without him having noticed? Ian pondered this for a short time, then Mickey was pushing his t-shirt up along his stomach and baring his chest and Ian forgot about that. Ian raised his arms and Mickey tugged the t-shirt off and threw it to the side. Ian groaned as Mickey dropped down and pressed his mouth to his chest, his lips travelling aimlessly along his rib cage and up over his nipples, sending small thrills along Ian 's skin and shivers down his spine.

Ian 's fingers found their way back into Mickey's curls, tugging them gently. He threw his head back when Mickey began to move lower, his fingers hooking themselves into the waistband of Ian 's boxers. Ian 's heart was beating manically in his chest, his head dizzy. He raised his hips to give Mickey room to tug them down. In one swift movement, Ian was entirely naked, the cool air caressing his skin.

Ian had only ever been with one other guy like this and even at that, no one had ever seen him completely naked until now. He felt a little embarrassed when Mickey sat back on his knees to look down at him. He only stared for a couple of seconds, before moving to kneel between Ian 's knees. He placed a hand on either side of Ian 's legs. He pushed them up, bending his knees, then pushed them apart.

Mickey took his cock in his hand, carefully, fingers brushing over the head and then almost painfully, slowly along the shaft. And then his mouth had replaced his hand and Ian lost it. His fingers clasped onto the sheets beneath him, his legs twisted and Mickey had to grab onto his ankles to keep him still. Loud moans escaped his throat, his chest rising and falling quickly, his lungs gasping for air. He remembered that his dad was home, then and would not be happy if he walked in and saw what was going down. He reached around and grabbed a pillow and pressed it to his mouth, stifling a groan. It didn't help that Mickey was humming a little as he sucked up and down on his cock.

Ian felt himself nearing the edge, his stomach tightening a bit. He bucked his hips a little and Mickey moved back slightly. Ian groaned at the loss of Mickey's heat, but then he moved forward again, taking him back inside his mouth and Ian flung his head back as the orgasm hit. He screamed into the pillow as he came, shooting come into Mickey's mouth. Mickey didn't flinch, simply continued to suck as Ian pushed his hips forward to meet Mickey's mouth, riding out the orgasm, until he couldn't move any longer.

He collapsed down on the bed and Mickey pulled his mouth off of Ian 's softening cock. He fell down, cheek resting against Ian 's abdomen, breathing hard, his breath warm on Ian 's stomach.

They stayed like that for far too long, Ian trying to process what had just happened and failing, because Mickey had possibly fallen asleep like that. Ian forced himself up and eased himself out from beneath Mickey. He was too tired to get up and he didn't think his legs would carry him anyway, so he pushed back the covers of his bed and climbed in. Minutes later, just as he was dozing off to sleep, he felt a weight lifting from the bed and then the sound of a zipper. He forced his eyes open just as Mickey pushed his own jeans off. Mickey wasn't hard any more, but he hadn't remembered him coming. Except, apparently, he had. Ian stared at Mickey's cock for a moment. It was hard to see it properly in the dim light of his lamp. Ian watched as Mickey peeled his underwear off and then wiped himself with them, before throwing them to the ground. He then walked across the room and flicked the switch on the lamp, leaving them in darkness, only the light of the moon slipping through the blinds providing any light.

Ian closed his eyes when Mickey crossed the room and climbed into the bed next to him. He opened them again when he felt Mickey's arms snaking around his waist, his head resting on his shoulder. He closed them again when he felt Mickey's heart beating evenly against his back, small snoring sounds escaping his lips, giving him comfort. Then he fell asleep.